Delhi, 20.12.97

First Impressions

Arrival at Indira Gandhi International Airport at 6am. We were greeted by a crowd of porters waiting to collect our bags, draped in scarves with sleep still in their eyes - there were so many of them, at first we mistook them for passengers trying to board the next flight!

In the arrival's hall and baggage claim area things didn’t seem as bad as they’d been described. Our rucksacks turned up, still in one piece. My first experience of baksheesh (tipping) was to be had in the airport toilet: "English?" she asked me. "Yes" I replied, thinking naively that she wanted to chat. When I left the cubicle she was there again to wait on me with soap and towel."Now you pay!"There was no trace of the former smile on her face. "English pounds" she added, pulling an ancient pound note from the folds of her sari. "I haven’t got any pounds, only lire" I replied. "OK, OK, yes, yes". My first L2,000 tip joined the pound note in a flash.

 

IGI Airport at Dawn

After changing our money at the Thomas Cook office and trying to store the thick wad of 13,000 rupees in 100 rupee notes in our money belts, we headed outside. Spotting the pre-paid taxi-booth we remembered the advice in the guidebook about taxis and got a receipt. However, on leaving the hall and venturing out we were surrounded by taxi drivers eager to take us and we hurried off upstairs to the Royal Jordanian office to confirm our return flight. Outside the office was a taxi boy who tried to persuade us that he was official and wouldn’t charge us more. Not convinced, we returned to the taxi area downstairs where we were approached by another boy perhaps 14 years old who started arguing with the first in Hindi. When we saw the second boy’s taxi parked outside and after a quick consultation at another pre-paid counter we hadn’t spotted earlier, we hastily boarded. The 14 year old boy jumped to the wheel and an old man wrapped in a scarf got in the passenger seat. The moment of fear of abduction had passed!

Our first view of Delhi was to be had on the trip to Connaught Place. The shanty villages on the outskirts with men squatted on corners, staring darkly from under wraps of rags and people sleeping under fetid blankets on the curb were still a shock, even though I’d been prepared for it. A chat with the taxi boy informed us of rioting in Jaipur and the unusual cold spell (9°C). After about 20 mins we arrived at our destination: Hotel 55.

 

The Beautiful Department Store

We had our first lunch at the Imperial Hotel, an oasis in the centre of New Delhi, complete with porters with sideburns in hairnets, extra-springy carpets, exquisite garden, cliques of ex-pats and cucumber sandwiches on the menu. This gave us time to recover from the hordes of people that westerners continually attract as well as a chance to gently introduce our stomachs to real Indian cuisine.

We learnt to our dismay that we couldn’t make an international phone call anywhere apart from the STD booths and so we set off in the direction of the nearest one. We were approached every 5 m by "helpful" men who wanted to show us the way. One of these included an Italian speaking Sikh!

A particularly insistent autorickshaw driver waited for us outside the booth and persuaded us to let him take us to India Gate and back for 10 Rps. As we climbed into what looked like a Piaggio moped with an oversized pram perched on top, he asked us where we were from and was delighted to tell us that his rickshaw was Italian with "very good motor". He chatted away and at each proposal for an extension of the tour he mentioned the government Emporium and the beautiful department store that we insisted on not going to.

Finally we agreed to go but just to look. The department store certainly was beautiful with a pretty commission for the drivers too. Of course we returned empty handed to the rickshaw with a no longer smiley driver.

"Did you buy anything?"

"No"

"Well it’s 196 Rps to go back then"

"What! we’re getting out!"

"OK get out, give me 20Rps and find another rickshaw"

"OK we’re going"

"No one will take you for less than 120 Rps and I can’t take less because you didn’t buy anything and there’s no commission for me!"

"We'll give you 50 Rps"

"OK"

He didn’t say another word even when we said goodbye as we got out.

 

Every time like the first

On our way to the Imperial Hotel for lunchtime splurge Nicola noticed a greenish brown splodge from a holy cow on his shoe and a keen shoeshiner at his heel. Nicola was furious when I suggested that the boy was probably responsible for the splodge and refused to let him clean it off.

We approached the Imperial amidst cries of "Sir, you’ve got shit on your shoe" from the shoeshine wallahs, and one look at the hotel, with it’s Sikh guards with sideburns in hairnets and immaculate uniforms, told us that the shoes might cause us some embarassment. We noticed a more serious wallah with his tools set out on the roadside and approached him. He started by removing the shoes and scraping off the offending excrement. He then commented on how beautiful the shoes were and seemed to consider acceptable the 5Rs offered. As he proceeded, he found more and more things which needed repairing.

"Shall I mend the torn off buckles?"

"Yes, but for 5 Rs"

"5 Rs. Is it 5 Rs for everything?" and commented to his friend beside him in Hindi. They both looked disgusted and we felt ashamed.

He went on

"I’ve been in this same spot for 15 years and each time I clean a pair of shoes, it’s like the first time for me."

It was true. The loving way he touched the leather, and the energy he put into the job.

"You’re too lazy even to have them mended. Look at my shoes, I’ve had them 5 years and I’ll get another 5 years out of them yet. I’m not a rich man, I can’t throw them away and buy another pair while the leather’s still good. I can do the same with your shoes. I can give them another five years."

When he’d finished, the shoes looked better than they had new, we’d learnt a valuable lesson, and our wallet was 175 Rs lighter...!

 

U P

The Children

The children affected me the most. The raggedy toddlers in filthy clothes and no shoes who followed you a mile in silence for a rupee.

A little boy followed us up the road to our hotel the first night in India and kept tapping me ever so gently on the arm and rubbing his tummy with a black hand. Each time I thought he’d given up I’d be tapped again and I’d have to face the pleading eyes. I tried not to turn but in the end it got the better of me and I parted with another 2 rupees.

The little balloon sellers were equally insistent. They could speak English and their politeness was their selling point.

"Balloon madam, beautiful balloon madam, flowers madam, beautiful madam, you buy madam, balloon madam..."

 

First night in New Delhi

We had slept a little during the day as we were exhausted and shocked on arrival. That night we were still tired but I awoke in the early hours to the sound of someone moaning outside. A heart rending moan full of suffering, solitude, helplessness, hopelessness. It was unbearable and it terrified me. My heart was beating in my throat. What were we doing here? I’d looked forward to it for so long but we hadn’t come on holiday to be terrified. What if something happened to us? could I bear 20 days in India?

After a very bad moment the fear and pain of the suffering passed. It’s probably something that all westerners experience at some time in India, together with a strong sense of guilt at their own great fortune in having been born elsewhere. I occasionally feel this fear now I’m back home, but never with the same intensity as that first night in New Delhi.

 

Sunday 21.12.97

More Delhi

After a disastrous attempt at booking a train the day before for Varanasi (the tourist’s booking office was closed from Saturday afternoon until Monday), we decided to try our luck with the buses and set off up Chelmsford Road into the heart of Old Delhi.

The chaos was unbelievable. Old 50's Ambassadors, autorickshaws, cyclerickshaws, barefoot pedestrians (including a Sadhu), holy cows and the occasional tourist (v. occasional) in the midst.

Smoke billowed out of the exhausts and from streetside fires leaving the air unbreathable and the din was incredible. The smell of the street toilets (a wall with an open sewer behind it) was acrid and mixed with the smell of food frying in the ranshackled shops. Here we were bothered much less by beggars and sellers although they were clearly more needy.

The shops were unbelievable - tailors sewing on the pavement, sweet makers, flower sellers, rag pickers, ironmongers and at the end the market sellers and the spectacular spice and pulse market. We walked for miles and eventually got an honest Sikh to take us to the bus station which was completely unfathomable. Men followed us around trying to get us to enter their agencies. The men at the counters sent us from one to the other and then couldn’t understand where we wanted to go.

A little discouraged, we got into our first cycle rickshaw to go to the Red Fort. What a hair-raising experience that was, weaving between the fumy old buses, almost knocking down pedestrians. We emerged from the traffic eventually and headed into the haven of the fort.

The sound of birds tweeting and the sight of our first banyan tree seemed too incredible to be experienced so close to that other world of traffic and mayhem. The rest of the day was spent hopping on and off rickshaws, stopping off in Old Delhi for a Thali which cost 25 rps!!

The pollution was so bad at one point that our eyes were streaming over our scarves and we were having serious difficulty breathing.

The day was rounded off by a trip to the muslim temple (stocking foot) and a chat with the kids (such a cute little boy who got 5 rps for a photo and the little girls a polo each because he wouldn’t share the money!). Our second day in Delhi had come to an end and we were still raring to go!!

 

U P

 

Monday 22.12.97

Leaving Delhi

We set the alarm at 7 am with good intentions of going to the tourist booking office at New Delhi station, but once we’d packed and got our coats on it seemed a better idea to have a pot of tea and the head towards Nizamuddin station where we could get a luxury coach to Agra. We said goodbye at hotel 55 and a Sikh took us in an Ambassador to the station telling us that we could leave in 5 mins. On entering, we were given instructions by many different people how to get to the bus station, which seemed, from how they described it, to be positioned somewhere in the middle of the railway tracks!

"Rickshaw, where you go?"

"Sir, sir, rickshaw..."

We were surrounded as usual with our rucksacks on our backs and the bus station nowhere to be seen. We headed back to the train station for a couple of further fruitless attempts at finding the whereabouts of the bus station and decided to get the train (which was still "leaving in five minutes"). We hurried onto the footbridge and jumped onto the train.

"Agra, Agra?!!" I asked amidst a sea of blank faces.

We could have been heading for Calcutta for all we knew. But as we moved out of the station, someone nodded and smiled

"Yes, Agra"

 

A Gift from God

The train journey from Delhi to Agra was surprisingly quick. After a chat to a man going to Mangalore (4 days journey from Punjab) and a catholic nun and receiving a fine because we hadn’t reserved seats (74 rps!) we arrived in Agra.

We were besieged as usual. I was almost beginning to enjoy it in a perverse sort of way. A "tour guide" rickshaw wallah offered to take us to a good hotel, so we chose another wallah who seemed less insistent and there was a slight squabble before we set off towards our chosen hotel.

It was closed but the rickshaw waited and after a feeble attempt to take us to another "good hotel" we were off toward Hotel Agra, our second choice. We paid the rickshaw driver and went to our room, but when we emerged after ten minutes he was still there waiting for us. As we were hungry he took us to a "good restaurant" named only restaurant with a beautiful garden with a papaya tree in one corner. We sat out and had the best Indian meal I have ever tasted for a mere £ 3.50 a head!

When we got back into the rickshaw we wanted to bargain a price.

"How much across the river ?"

"What you like..."

"But how much do you want?"

"I don’t know. I’m not a rich man, I don’t fly in planes and ride in cars, you give me what you want. If you happy, I’m happy. I good servant and you pay what you want."

As we set off, Nicola commented on his eyes which were a startling shade of green which seemed very rare in India.

He laughed "They’re my gift from God!"

He waited patiently for us as we did our sightseeing (including quite a while in the red fort). At first we were uncomfortable about it, not only for the cost but also we were quite unused to having a "servant". At the end of the day we gave him 200 rps and he said he’d see us tomorrow.

"Erm, well...., we don’t know what time we’ll be getting up"

"I come anyway, 9 o’clock, 10 o’clock, I wait.."

"No, maybe we’ll be out...!"

"I come anyway"

"..but you might come for nothing.."

"I come anyway, tomorrow I take you Taj Mahal and after I give you address and you give me address....!"

 

U P

 

Cold night in Agra

After a clean (!) and tasty dinner at the Osho restaurant we hopped into another rickshaw to go to see the Taj at night.

"You not see much. Something, not much" said the rickshaw wallah. By now we’d got used to this and it was usually a ploy to take you elsewhere where they’d get commission, so we insisted on going anyway. However, as we approached, we realised that it was true. The gates were closed at night.

"Tomorrow morning open!" cried a by-passer on a bicycle seeing our disappointed faces.

Our rickshaw man had lit a fire beside the vehicle to warm his hands as it was freezing, especially after the open-air ride. We all huddled round to warm our hands and then we were off again to the hotel.

In the hotel hall, we sat around watching TV as the light had broken in our room and it was also pretty cold and damp in there. There was some movement in the background and then "Sir. you want sit there?" pointing to a sofa by the door. It was strange as we’d been there 20 mins and no one had said anything until then. As we sat down we noticed the charpoys (rope beds) that had been pulled out and people preparing to sleep in the makeshift dormitory. The man was too polite to ask us to go and had just asked us to make ourselves more comfortable so that he could draw our attention to their preparations for sleep and leave the rest to our discretion...!

 

Tuesday 23.12.97

Agra

A restless night at the Hotel Agra. We fixed up the mosquito net precariously on a coat hanger when I’d already been bitten 4 times. I eyed the bites and shot a malarious look at Nicola. It was rather claustrophobic and we huddled together in the cold under the clammy quilts. We were woken constantly during the night by a man coughing up phlegm (or worse?) in the next room and then by the whole family who chatted in unison at the tops of their voices from dawn onwards. Anything was better than that coughing...

We decided, for obvious reasons, to move to another hotel as Hotel Agra was just that little too crumbly (as "Lonely Planet" described it) and the fact that the water trickled cold out of the hot tap (little did we know there was worse to come) and the toilet seat was too filthy to touch with a pole, let alone your backside, didn’t endear us much to the place.

Our rickshaw wallah was eager to oblige and took us to Hotel Basera which seemed a much better option. We booked in, filling in one of the huge antiquated registers used in all Indian hotels. The man on the reception didn’t ask my occupation but copied "teacher" from Nicola’s details - a woman is probably known here by her husband’s occupation!

 

Photos at the Taj Mahal

The Taj Mahal was as breathtaking as we’d imagined (although we’d imagined the weather a bit warmer - it was freezing!) and we wandered around stocking foot taking loads of photos.

"Excuse me" giggled a woman beside me in front of the Taj "Can we take a photo with you?"

"Yes of course"

We also snapped me with the woman, then with her little boy in a bow tie and suit. They were from Bangladesh and obviously found an English woman in a filthy ski jacket, black woolly hat, scarf and sun glasses quite a novelty. As they moved away, a group of girls in beautiful saris also wanted photos with Nicola and I. We then hurried off before a queue formed!

 

U P

 

The Emporium

After a rest at the hotel we got back into our rickshaw for a trip to the bazaar. We were surprised to stop at an emporium as our wallah had been very honest until then and had not tried to forcibly take us to Emporiums or department stores. He said it was a government emporium which we didn’t believe, but we went in for a look anyway.

"Beautiful pyjamas, lovely Christmas presents"

They were truly beautiful and didn’t seem extortionate in price but I was keen on a wrap in bright colours to keep me warm in the rickshaw on cold nights. I found the perfect one - ochre with small mirrors set in sun-shaped embroidery. I took it for 800 rps which was surely double what I would have paid at the market but I was happy with my buy and put it to use immediately.

 

Wednesday 24.12.97

On the road to Jaipur

We slept in a bit at Basera Hotel as we’d decided to leave for Jaipur at about 10.30. After breakfast out of greasy utensils (banana porridge which seemed like watery rice pudding) we realised with disappointment that our green-eyed wallah wasn’t coming (we’d paid him the night before). We caught another rickshaw, asking to be taken to Hotel Sheetal where the government buses to Jaipur departed. We ended up, of course, at a tourist agency where he would be guaranteed commission. At 90 rps for the five and a half hour journey, we didn’t hang around to argue and jumped straight onto the "luxury" bus. The seats were squashy, carpeted with cracked plastic headrests in this 1950’s relic and it was jam-packed with chattering Indians. Even the driver’s compartment was busting and they pulled out wicker stools for the people who were left standing in the aisle.

I was a bit apprehensive about our luggage as we had refused to pay the 5 rps per piece, having already paid our fare, and we hadn’t had time to check it’s safety because the bus started moving off.

We moved out of Agra and onto the road to Ajmer from which, with any luck, we would be dropped off at Jaipur. The bus went incredibly fast, swerving around stray goats in the road, braking abruptly behind cycle rickshaws. "Horn please" written on the back of the vehicles was certainly the order of the day and our driver sounded his non-stop. As soon as we were out of Agra the radio was switched on and indian music at full blast accompanied us for the next 5 hours. It really seemed as though we were part of a film, speeding along through fields and villages, spotting villagers in their bright yellow and deep red saris bent in the fields with our Indian pop blaring out in the background, with the odd whiff of manure from the draughty windows - a treat in every sense. After a couple of hours I was well in need of a toilet stop. Travel on the rickety, bumpy bus was not pleasant with a full bladder. Finally we pulled into a "service station" which comprised a couple of shacks with cooking facilities, pans bubbling away full of dhal, and chapatis baking on the hot plate beside. A giant pot of chai (milk and sugar already added) was boiling over a flame in the next shack and a few wallahs with carts full of bananas and nuts peddled their wares out front. We leapt down to use the toilet. As I’d half imagined, there was none in sight and I had to squat at the back of the shacks in an area which was obviously designated for the purpose from the evidence of past use. Greatly relieved, we headed towards the smell of food, a strong perfume of fresh coriander immediately hit the nostrils and we sat down on the makeshift benches to wait for our chapatis and dhal. The Indians were already tucking in, pouring water out of plastic jugs into their mouths from a height. sangria fashion. Most tourists sat around sipping mineral water they’d brought with them or gingerly eating biscuits bought at the stall. Some dug straight in. A well-travelled looking German in his 50’s scooped dhal up on his chapati at an alarming rate. We followed suit - delicious and one of our most enjoyable meals yet, due to the hunger and the setting, costing a mere 31 rps!

We were soon back on the bus after the bell sounded, and heading out into the fields. Here people slept out on their charpoys but they seemed much more tranquil and less desperate than the city dwellers. There were also villages of neat mud huts with straw roofs and brightly coloured garments hung out to dry on piles of hay. I noticed that some of the other tourists had lost patience with the music and had put on their Walkmans. It probably did start to grate after a few trips, but I found it the perfect accompaniment to our first bus journey.

Around 4.30 p.m. we arrived in Jaipur and collected our rucksacks gratefully. We had been recommended a hotel by Ermanno Cozzi, Nicola’s Tai Chi teacher and we soon realised that there was no commission for the wallahs at Arya Niwas (nobleman’s house) as they all refused to take us and tried every excuse to get us to go elsewhere.

"There’s a curfew in that area madam"

"Arya Niwas, no, long time far - 8kms! I take you good place, cheap"

"No we want to go to Arya Niwas!!"

Eventually someone agreed to take us at an inflated price (£1!) and God was it worth it. Arya Niwas was heaven compared to the places we’d stayed at so far: spotless rooms, a lawn out the front with wicker chairs and tables, a roof top area and huge bathrooms with utility rooms and even a bathtub! Nicola smirked "On Cozzi’s advice...!" and we hurriedly checked into a deluxe room for (at least) three nights.

 

U P

 

Evening in the Pink City

We decided to head off to the emporium straight away to check out some prices. It was reputedly one of the worst in rajasthan but to us everything seemed fantastic. The rickshaw wallah had had some difficulty finding it and hence we had had our first glimpse of the pink walls and the bazaars inside. Later, after another foiled attempt to call Kerry, we set off to LMB vegetarian restaurant where we had a wonderful candlelit meal surrounded by gaudy Christmas decorations and a huge "Merry Xmas" over the counter. Even the waiter wished us a happy Christmas. We were exhausted after a long day and went back to the hotel. The garden was decked out with Christmas lights and tourists milled around in the reception - we hadn’t seen so many white faces in the whole four days we’d been in India.

 

Jaipur Gypsy

As we stepped out of our hotel that first afternoon in Jaipur, we were approached by several rickshaw wallahs and then by a well spoken young bloke who professed to be a musician living in a gypsy tent not far away.

"Could I ask you a favour? Could you write something in Italian for me?"

As we were going into the town he said he’d wait for us.

Sure enough, when we passed some time later in front of the shop where we’d met him, he appeared. He suggested that we went to his "office" to write. Nicola started getting annoyed but we followed him through into the back into a gem showroom. He started garbling what we were supposed to write: The letter was to a man from Rome who had apparently sent 37,000 rps to buy precious stones but hadn’t yet placed his order! I translated into Italian what he dictated to me, not believing a word of it but enjoying his imaginative story.

Then he started with "You can do good business buying stones here and selling them in London."

He offered me a bidi and lit it for me.

"Two cups of chai for them" He said to his friend, the shop owner.

"No thanks, I’ve just had one" I replied

"Please please, take it" he insisted.

We had to and were presently given a lecture on precious and semi-precious stones. Before the conversation turned to money, despite the promises of "I won’t persuade you to buy anything, just look" we decided to go. There were no hard feelings, we all shook hands and off we went!

 

Thursday 25th December

Christmas Day in Jaipur

We got up in time for hot water (8-10am!). A bath at last..! We took our laundry down to the reception and even managed to speak to Kerry and Johnny.

After breakfast we went out to sit on the lawn in the hot sun - paradise !

We went to make some purchases at the hotel shop - an amethyst ring and bracelet, a book and a tape of Rajasthani desert music.

Then for some more sunbathing and a lovely thali out in the hotel garden.

 

U P

 

Puppet show

We ventured out of the hotel fairly late, heading towards the Hawa Mahal (wind palace). We had hardly walked 200 yds down the main road when a hand was held out to us and we were greeted by Bangali, the musician of the day before.

"You want to come and hear my music? 10 mins, 30 mins, as you like.."

"Well, we were going to see the city..."

"Come, come to my tent!"

We followed him round the corner to where there were two or three large tents made of sacking and plastic draped over sticks. We entered the first where an old man was bent over a fire.

"Namaste!"

An old woman was crouched in a corner sewing rags. There was a charpoy at the entrance with a pile of dirty quilts heaped on top.

"Come, come, welcome. This is my mother!"

"Namaste!"

Another young bloke entered.

"This is my brother"

The brother started to take out several sculptured puppet-heads from the bag he had with him.

"He carved those, then he paints them. Our caste make puppets, rajasthani puppets"

He then proceeded to take out his photos of a festival he had been to in Sweden and another in Japan. We hadn’t believed him the day before when he said he’d been to Sweden. He also showed us his passport with a thumbprint instead of a signature as he was illiterate.

"Now we do puppet show for you!"

They brought us tea in the meantime and offered us bidis. Their little niece and nephew were brought in - they were really sweet, especially the nephew who apparently was "very naughty" and certainly looked it with his big lively brown eyes and chubby cheeks.

After quite a while the harmonium and tabla were got out and they started to dress up to play, winding a long piece of brightly coloured cloth around their heads to make a rajasthani turban and putting on a brightly coloured tunic over filthy clothes. A cloth was spread out for the show and we were made more comfortable sat on the carpet on the floor. Then they got a big bag of puppets out of a pile of suitcases in the corner and the show began. The old father worked the puppets while the two sons played. Tears came to my eyes as we watched the belly-dancer puppet, the elephant, the camel, the fire-eater on horseback and finally the snake charmer. How we clapped after each performance. The children loved it.

"Now can we ask you something? Can you offer us a beer each? 60 rps each"

"Of course"

We had beer while they drank the local "rose water" liquor which smelt like surgical spirit and made you blind according to our guide book. We took a tiny sip to try it - it tasted a bit like grappa, but we stuck to our beers. After the beer and a few more bidis they played again and we danced. The father clapped his hands in glee to see us dancing, and by-passers peeped through the gaps in the tent, laughing.

"Happy Christmas, happy Christmas!" we all cried.

 

Rajasthani dancing

That evening we went back to the gypsies’ tent as they’d invited us to go dancing and they were going to provide food and beer. We arrived at the tent but only the father and mother were in. The father was cooking chapatis over the fire and offered us some with a very hot mixture on it. We ate some and left the rest. Banagli and his brother then arrived to take us to where we were going to dance. As we were leaving the tent, the father asked us for 2 rps which I gave him. Bangali made a terrible scene about it saying that his father should never have asked us for money. It was only 2 rps we had given him compared to the 600rps he and his brother had had (his brother had sold us a statue as well as having the money for the rose water) and also Nicola’s swatch ("a present from Italy"). It all seemed such a show but we were willing to pay to enter their world for a moment. The evening turned out to be very enjoyable as we danced round making fools of ourselves and joking with two old women, one of whom wanted to "swap husband" with me! Even the young girls who had huddled giggling in a doorway when we had first arrived, came into the yard to watch us. It certainly made everyone’s night to see the two white idiots prancing round. Even though we had been slightly conned over the drinks and statue it was certainly in one of the most enjoyable ways!

 

U P

 

The Art Student

We wandered through the streets beyond our hotel on the way into the old town. No one bothered us. There were many cries of "hello!" from by-passers and children on the roof tops but no rickshaws or people eager to speak english.

After a while we spotted the pink walls and were greeted by a young well-dressed indian who asked us where we were from and started chatting. He said he ws an artist studying in Calcutta and he was back in Jaipur for christmas. He seemed quite genuine. Meanwhile his friend, from Nepal, got chatting to Nicola. I spotted some lovely saris hanging outside a shop. The Indian came in and helped me get "a bargain" and even started arguing with the shop assistants because he said the underskirt was too expensive.

"They're just trying to rip off tourists. Be careful! Lots of Indians try to cheat you. They think you're rich because you're white. They don't realise that you're not rich in your country."

This sounded like one of Bangali's speeches.

We were taken down some side streets afterwards and then the "artist" mentioned that we were near his studio if we wanted to look at his work.

"Why not!" We were given the usual tea, sat down and looked at lots of paper and silk paintings. In the end we were persuaded to part with money for a very nice silk painting that was probably worth a third of the price, we discovered later. "No tourist prices" they promised.

After, the brother of the "artist" arrived and started chatting. He said he was married to a Dutch woman and was very westernised. He invited us for dinner at his place and said there would also be something to smoke. As we were paying, they mentioned a credit card and asked which one I had. We had read that many businessmen tried either to sell precious stones or other goods at inflated prices for resale abroad or get you to act as a "courier" against a credit card guarantee from which they would then withdraw thousands of dollars!

We arranged to meet up later at our hotel to be taken to dinner and they gave us a lift on their motorbikes to the Hawa Mahal (wind palace).

"Be careful!" they warned again. Of them more than anyone!

 

More Puppets

We went back to Bangali's tent as he had promised us puppets made by his brother in exchange for the watch. His brother was busy working on two lovely puppets (there was no sign of the watch - had he sold it?).

Bangali came at about 6pm which was when we were supposed to meet our new "friends".

"Who are these friends? Are they Indians?" He asked suspiciously. We told him and he said that they were some of the "biggest cheaters in Jaipur" telling us many tales of how they had ripped off tourists. In the next breath Bangali was trying to arrange to take us to a friend of his who was a cutter and polisher and would give us a good price. There was no way we were going to go but we stayed longer in their tent for some more music and dancing.

Bangali repeatedly asked us if we would help him get a puppet show in Italy, constantly warned us against "cheaters" and lectured us on good karma. The charming small time "cheater" even managed to get himself another present from Italy - a pair of pumps. No doubt they'd be on sale down a backstreet the next day. In exchange we got the puppets.

"Don't sell them!" he said....

 

Jaipur, Saturday 27th Dec 1997

Monkeys at the Amber Fort

The guidebook said that you could get a bus to the Amber Fort from outside the Hawa Mahal but as we approached there seemed little sign of anything going to Amber. We wandered round a bit and then made out that a bloke on a very overcrowded bus was shouting "Amber!".

We jumped on and there was standing room only for the 5Rp 20-min trip to Amber via Maota Lake with the beautiful palace in the middle.

The sun was shining again and the fort looked incredible as we approached. Elephants ambled up behind the low walls with groups of tourists on their backs. Monkeys frolicked on the grass in front and scraped banana off discarded skins.

After a quick bite in the tranquil restaurant garden in the fort we set off to look around. It was magnificent inside, especially the hall of mirrors which was a tiny room which they closed you inside, lit a match and you watched the tiny mirrors sparkle around you "like being inside a diamond" as the guidebook said.

As we were about to go out, a massive group of boy scouts flocked in and soon made a beeline for us.

"What's your name..?"

"Where are you from...?"

"Can I see your book..?" They looked at our guidebooks and maps, commenting in Hindi. About twenty boys surrounded us. Later it was the turn of the girls.

"Beautiful!" when I said my name and they all giggled.

 

U P

 

Tika in the Temple

Just behind the fort there were some spectacular temples. We followed the path down amidst the usual "Hello! Hello!" A woman in a courtyard pointed the way and we took off our shoes to go inside. It was difficult to see the altar as it was a little dark inside and I heard a squeaking sound that sounded like mice. There were piles of bedding at the side and a hammock bed hung in an alcove. As I walked forward someone beckoned me to the altar and i made out a woman sat in font with some flower petals and a pot. She switched on the altar lights to illuminate the brightly coloured idol. Then she indicated in the little pot. It was tika (sandalwood paste) to mark our brows, which she dotted on both of us and made a rapid 5Rps. Out in the sunlight it dried a deep yellow.

 

Sunday 28th Dec 1997

Love letter from Jaipur

As Nicola, Kerry, Johnny and I headed down the Tripolia Bazaar we were stopped by an Indian man who wanted to ask a favour. We expected the usual bombardment of questions and an offer to "show you my jewellery shop" and we followed a little reluctantly into a yard where he rapidly brushed a rusty metal table with his hands and indicated to us to sit down. Another man brought a piece of paper and a pen and he explained what the favour was to be. He needed to write a love letter to his girlfriend in England but he couldn't write so he wanted to dictate it to us. Johnny got the pen in his hand and waited for instructions.

"No. a lady's handwriting is nicer." So Kerry was to be the scribe.

He then went about dictating the most cheesy love letter I've ever heard with lines like "If I were a Maharaja I'd build a Taj Mahal for you in Cambridge. If I could I'd have the Taj Mahal sent to you in Cambridge". We tried not to smirk as he added more clichés to the epic, but he seemed oblivious to our amusement and entirely without shame at dictating these lines to four strangers.

When Kerry had finished he thanked her profusely and offered to do "anything I can for you while you're in India."

He even managed to slip us a card for an "art" shop in the city - as a favour to us in return for the one we'd done for him...!

 

Monday 29th Dec 1997

Tiger Fort

After a laze around on the lawn again at Arya Niwas, we decided to get an autorickshaw to the starting point of the trek up to the Tiger Fort. It was quite a drag up and the fort was quite different to the Amber Fort, more rugged and abandoned. We had a long lunch break in the café and then set off to explore. The palace was fantastic with 9 summer and winter apartments intricately painted in pastels for the King's wives, with a special central corridor, which granted the King access to the room of his choice.

The rooftop view of Jaipur was beautiful, the lilac of the buildings fading in the afternoon light.

 

U P

 

Bus to Udaipur

The bus station in Jaipur was crowded with chattering Indians and as usual we were given contradictory indications as to our departure bay. Eventually we seemed to find the right one. The bus was fairly comfortable and new but after about an hour's travelling we realised that there was a horrendous draft around our feet, which got worse as time went by. Eventually our feet and legs were freezing which didn't help my rapidly worsening cold and blocked nose. At 6.45 am we opened our eyes to hear one of the bus men crying "Udaipur" and we descended into a crowd of rickshaws in what seemed like the middle of nowhere.

We sat down for a couple of chais at a shack and after about 10 mins Kerry asked if we were in Udaipur - just to make sure. We were, but on the other side of town. After we'd revived a little we got rickshaws down to Lal Ghat where we found Lake Hill guesthouse pretty quickly. The rooms were a mere 80-Rps with no running hot water but 5Rps for a hot bucket - a snip! Then we went down to the edge of Lake Pichola to get our first glimpse of the Lake Palace - really beautiful at 8 am. The place was so quiet and very much a holiday resort which was a pleasant change.

Unfortunately we were all ill during our stay in Udaipur - mostly the runs. New Year's Eve was spent in Kerry and Johnny's room playing "Pass the Pigs" and drinking beer. We had planned to go out but we all felt steadily worse as the evening went on. We watched the midnight fireworks from the hotel roof and decided to celebrate properly the next day.

 

U P

 

Into the desert

We had all decided to leave Udaipur. Johnny and Kerry had booked the bus to Ahmedabad at 1pm and were heading towards the beaches around Bombay. We were sorely tempted to join them but Jaisalmer seemed a more comfortable option travelwise and it was likely to be hot in the desert.

Just after 10pm we boarded the bus to Jaisalmer. Towards 7.30 am we saw the sunrise over the desert which was an awesome sight.

We decided to pay a little more in Jaisalmer to get hot running water. We found the pleasant Anand Vilas with a spectacular view of the walled city of Jaisalmer and I got ready for the delight of a shower, as we were filthy. Luke-warm water was what I got but at least the sun was blazing outside on the terrace and I soon warned up.

Jaisalmer was a delightful little place. Tiny and very peaceful as no traffic was permitted inside the walls. We were still feeling a bit delicate but booked a one-night camel safari for the following day.

 

Jaisalmer Safari

We set the alarm at 7am, as the camels were to pick us up at 8. What a drag - we were knackered, as the hotel wasn't exactly peaceful. Nevertheless we were excited at the prospect of the safari. We left the hotel to find our camels, Kalu and Raja, waiting outside with Bhagwana our camel man. What an experience to ride through the Thar desert on a camel. After a short while we had left Jaisalmer far behind and were surrounded by nothing but sand, stones and scrub. Our first stop was at a cemetery in the middle of nowhere. A man arrived on a scooter selling drinks and his nephew followed us into the cemetery to collect our bottles.He chatted and asked us to take a photo of him and send it. He was at school and so not surprisingly he bade us farewell with the request of "one pen for student". It was better than the usual "Hello, pen", "Hello Rupee" and "Hello chocolate" we got from most kids but he still didn’t get one! I sent the photo some time after we got back.

We were starting to get a bit sore when the jeep turned up with our lunch. We visited a coolly refreshing temple with a lucky cobra (we weren’t lucky as we didn’t see it and paid 2 Rps!) and an uninvited guide.

The rest of the afternoon was spent visiting temples (one in a dried up basin of a lake) in the jeep. A couple with their kids asked for a photo and gave us their address to send it to them.

At about 4pm we arrived at the Sam dunes in the middle of the Thar desert where we were to spend the night. We ran up the dunes barefoot and lay on the hot sand sunbathing. Of course we weren’t left alone for long.

"One rupee!"

"One pepsi"

"No, nothing!"

They weren’t thwarted and sat down with us for about 20 mins, occasionally singing.

"Ten rupees I go away!"

"Buggar off!"

Eventually they left and a group of musicians arrived and played a couple of songs for us. At sunset hoards of tourists arrived and took camel rides in the dunes. We found a deserted dune (not easy) to watch the sun go down. Then we went back to our pink tent with flowers where our man was carefully preparing dinner, chopping huge quantities of garlic and crushing spices. We sat drinking beer watching the last rays die away. Dinner was ready and we still weren’t really ready for Indian food again yet after a few days of upset tums. It was delicious but we hardly touched it and even left some beer. We went to bed early after sitting around the camp fire for a while. Our man piled six duvets onto the mattress and we had our two blankets as well. It was so heavy we could hardly get underneath. We slept fully clothed (including ski jacket) and Nicola even kept his shoes on!

We slept v. little but we were glad of all the duvets as at least we were warm. During the night we heard a sniffing and scratching around the tent and then something walked over our feet - a wild desert dog in the tent! We shooed it out but were later awoken again by a howling chorus.

In the morning the camel ride was positively painful as we broke into a trot several times (usually when I had to blow my nose) and we were glad to see the jeep after an hour or so. Back at Anand Vilas at 10.30 am we had a shower and a rest and compared tans. We were exhausted and went into the square in Jaisalmer to have something to eat and soak up the hot sun writing the rest of our postcards.

At 3pm we were due to leave for Delhi, a 17hr overnight trip. We were indicated two different buses but eventually they all seemed to agree on the same one and we got on. We checked the windows, yes, they closed and it seemed fairly comfortable compared to the norm. The driver was even madder than those of the past journeys or maybe it was just because it was daylight. At about 7pm we had to change bus at Bikaner and it was impossible to tell which one we were supposed to get. We prepared for a half hour wait but were hastened towards a jam-packed bus. No room in the boot for our luggage so we slung it in the aisle. I could hardly move it as I’d had to contend with dawdlers on the steps and aisle. We sat down to discover that our head rests sloped down at an incredible uncomfortable angle and we had to store our "toy" bag under our feet so zero leg-room. Fellow passengers walked over our ruck sacks all night and when we arrived in Delhi at 6am (3 hrs earlier than expected!) everything was filthy. We were completely unrested and disorientated and were besieged by rickshaw wallahs. We dragged everything over a to chai stall and sat down to revive ourselves and choose a hotel from the guidebook.

 

Last night in Delhi

After 2hrs in pizza express we thought it was time to move on. Outside was pretty uninviting so we made a quick decision to go to the Plaza cinema to see a hindi film (which I can’t remember the title of!). It was amazing. The cinema was filthy with spit all over the floor. The seats were very old with little leg room and were adjustable into a reclining position which was as uncomfortable as the upright one. The film had started and although we’d missed the beginning and couldn’t understand a word of the dialogues, we understood the plot almost completely. It consisted mostly in a man with long flicked hair and terrible taste in clothes prancing round dancing and driving sports cars and a woman running round green hills in floaty saris. A love story. The plot was of course ridiculous but we were glued to it for 3hrs and came out onto the cold foggy street at almost 1am quite mesmerised. We were so charged by the colour and music that it seemed difficult to imagine that tomorrow we’d be home. We were so sad to leave but knew that it wouldn’t be our only trip to India.

 

U P