TravelStream™ news feed for member ashleythomas on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/ashleythomas en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 24 Jan 2009 17:50:30 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1231798260/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1231798260/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1231798260/tpod.html Sat, 24 Jan 2009 17:50:30 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Kolkata, West Bengal, India

(We are going back in time now to revisit my last week in Kolkata...I realise I'm a bit late with this entry, but to my joyous satisfaction it is all going to be written on an actual working computer in a nice comfy room - all spelling and lexical mistakes can only be blamed on me now)
After returning from Darjeeling early on a Sunday morning I hired a private driver to take me to a few of the places in Kolkata that I didn't want to miss before I left. It was a frustrating experience for most of the day as he didn't want to take me to the places I wanted to go, and didn't seem to know the names of any of the streets in town (but he could drive, so I guess I got what I asked for). Like everything in Kolkata, it all worked out, eventually, and I saw what I wanted over the course of seven or so hours.
My first stop was the Marble Palace. The Marble Palace is an incredible historical site. Before the capital of India moved to Delhi, Kolkata was the centre of everything. Known as 'the London of the East' the city was built by families made wealthy by the East India company. As time went by and money was squandered away or property split between numerous sons the great sprawling mansions were divided, sold off or left to crumble away into monsoon-drenched, fading edifices.  The owners of the Marble Palace are not allowed to sell or divide any of the land or property and must live within the palace itself. They have opened it up to the public instead and I'm so glad they did. It's a stunning building - a huge palace situated right in the heart of Kolkata. You can see from the link that it's absolutely European in style, and the inside is overflowing with priceless statues, paintings and objects-d'-art (the Palace's apt description). It is impossible to tell that you are in India once you are inside - everything is about fawning European worship and stunning displays of wealth and culture. It's a real taste of what Kolkata was when the British ruled with an iron fist. It was supposed to be free to enter if you had a pass, which I didn't. The guard was very nice and decided to let me provided I gave him a bribe of rs100, and the guide inside rs50. He had a spear and I wanted to go in - we all won in the end I guess! The guide was very polite and very serious about his work. He would stop occasionally and point at a small marble statue in he corner. 'Spring.' He would tell me gravely. 'Sophocles', he would say - pointing to a marble bust with SOPHOCLES written large across the base. 'Painting of Napolean', he would state indicating a large painting next to a large sign reading 'Painting of Napolean.' 
Leaving the Marble Palace we went around the corner to Tagore's house. Rabindranath Tagore, winner of the 1913 Nobel Prize for Literature, is the most famous poet and literary figure to come out of Kolkata. People in the city are very proud of him, and they should be as his work is brilliant. His family house is very well set up as a museum and is another example of some of the stunning architectural work of Kolkata that has ben happily preserved. 
My day concluded with shopping trips to South City Mall and Fab India and a delicious lunch at Teej. My driver encouraged me to give him a rs250 tip at the end of the day but I sadly declined and gave him rs20 instead.
It was a sad week at Ankur Kala. All the girls asked me when I was leaving, and if I would come back. It was hard just getting to know everybody and then having to leave so suddenly. It was a short week for all of us as we had a public holiday on Thursday. I decided to go and have a taste of home by watching the movie Australia. It was to nice to be surrounded by the Australian accent again and see the beautiful landscape. I went back to Fab India (that and mishti - two of my biggest Indian indulgences) and spent the rest of the day on the internet, repacking my bag after buying a whole lot more stuff and excitedly reading the papers - they weren't the excited part, I was just looking forward to seeing family and friends again. 
The weekend bought the promise of a day out at a luxury spa in the city. That's right, I could afford to go to one of the most exclusive places in town, and go to town I did. I'd been collecting dirt like the rag-pickers were collecting yesterday's newspapers only I couldn't sell my lot on. I've never been into beautician treatments, but it was so good to have all the dirt and grime of the last eight weeks scrubbed and pummeled off. I emerged fresh and clean as a whistle and managed to make it to the CIMA art gallery largely unaffected by the latest strike and ban on autorickshaws. I spent some time wandering around the small exhibition and some more time in the art gallery shop. Saturday night was a wild one for me, I spent it reading Marie Claire and being frightened by larger and larger geckos creeping through my wardrobe. 
Sunday dawned with men yelling 'AHHHHHHH' outside my window and me excited by the prospect of one more day spent exploring India. After wrangling with the internet to book my plane ticket and the fax machine to fax a very important document back to Canberra my excitement subsided a little although I had a major event to look forward to that evening - a cooking class! More of a cooking demonstration actually, but it was still so much fun. Vananda our lovely host showed us how to make some typically Bengali vegetarian dishes and then we all ate everything. No, that's not true - it would have been impossible to eat everything. Vananda piled up our plates again and again despite our protests but there was still plenty of food left over. It was nice to be with other travellers again, and we all teased John who had unknowingly booked a small trip to the state of Bihar - the incredibly unsafe state with a terrible reputation that even seasoned Indians will go all out to avoid. 
Monday saw me rise early to go to Ankur Kala for the morning prayer session. I said my very sad good-bye's to all the women, who stroked me and blessed me as I walked out the door. Travelling up to the Park St Post Office I sent off my last package home and bought a book from Sunil - a former street kid who had produced his very own book of the street food of Kolkata. A quick stop at Big Bazaar at Hiland Park ended up my trip home (yes alright I went to Fab India again!) and I settled back in my accommodation for a final check of my pack and some stress about how much everything weighed. Sabatri made me a delicious and MASSIVE dinner that I could barely dent, and I gave her a present and a tip of rs100. She packed up all my leftover dinner for me to take to the airport and I said a sad good-bye to her and Sucharita as we all struggled out the door with my overloaded luggage. Luckily my bags were not weighed at the airport and I managed to exchange my rupees for American dollars with little trouble - although handing over rs1400 and getting $20US in exchange was a hard hard end to my trip. Back to the real world...Sadly I had picked up a few more exotic India illnesses in my last few days so the trip back was not exactly comfortable for me (no, it's alright it was just a simple throat infection!) but soon I was with Amy in Coogee eating her delicious and well-timed rice pudding.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230796980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230796980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230796980/tpod.html Sun, 11 Jan 2009 03:52:28 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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kalimpong, West Bengal, India

before i start this blog properly i will just note down here - as i'm sure you have all noted already - that this computer doesn't do capital letters. it also doesn't do exclamation marks, so except a 1 as all of that. i have also spent the last hour trying to print out my e-ticket for my flight tomorrow, and look up the ipod prooblems website as this computer had a very bad effect on it when i plugged it in. so this blog is only going to be brief as i was already in a rush...i'm not even going to bother going back through trying to fix up the spelling mistakes from these stickey keys, howabout that1
i am in kolkata at the moment, but just getting in some last back-tracking blogging while i can. kolkata is having an unseasonably hot winter this year 9echoing news the world over i'm sure0 so the temperature today is 28 celcius, with humidity through the roof. i'm not in a terrible good mood1

leaving darjeeling on the 1st of january was so problem for me as I didn't have a hangover at all1 what a novelty. i decided to get a share jeep to kalimpong as i had heard that the roads there weren't too scary. kalimpong is about 1240m high, so it's still a drop of about 1000m, but it is quite a while east as well so it turned out that the roads were not half as bad as the ones to darjeeling. it would have been a little less scary if our driver hadn't spent the hwole time sending text messages and gossiping on his phone, spinning the wheel with the heel of his remaining hand.

i paid for two seats in the front of the vehicle, which gave me approximately 3/4 of a seat. i'm not sure where the other person was supposed to sit, but it proved to be a complete waste of my money. as soon as i reached kalimpong i wished i had never left darjeeling. many of the streets in darjeeling were one way, or pretty much vertical, so cars didn't often venture up them and the big share jeeps couldn't even get around the first bends. not so in kalimpong. it was probably a good re-introduction to india - it was noisy, smelly and it looked like i was the only tourist in town 9which meant a lot...as in, a real lot, of curious staring0. my hotel was lovely and as i was the only guest the family who worked there were very attentive and keen to help me out. the manager kept three dogs, all very cute pekinese, but after my dog-experience in kolkata i was very paranoid and sidled around the corner whenever they appeared. have i mentioned the kolkata dog experience? no? that's probably a good thing.
kalimpong also fell down completely in the food stakes. oh darjeeling how i miss you...but there was nothing left for me to do there, save eat food and buytea, and i'd probably reached my limits for both of those things.
i hired a driver in kalimpong and did a 7 point tour - 3 of which interested mem the other 4 of which may have interested me if...if....no, no, would never have interested me at all - one of them included a cactus farm for goodness sake 9any suggestions that i may or may not have had a small cactus garden myself while very young will not be entertained at this point0

the next day i wandered around town by myself, cringing at the memory of those awful car horns, avoiding the crap littered all over the streets, and eventually managing to find the beautiful buddhist ghompas hidden away in the alleys. they truly do make all the stress worthwhile. the most beautiful one - could have been the durpin monastery - is situated in acres of hillside land that the indian army decided would do quite nicely for an army base. the monastery itself is just beautiful, with lovely views across the hills, an oval for the young monks to play cricket on and all types of other buildings that monks live and work in. a young monk took me for a tour of the older rooms that are being repainted and kindly posed for a photo.

what else can i say about kalimpong? i had a nice lunch and a nice chat to some older men in gompu's restaurant. they were knocking back hot whiskey and i asked them if they were hindi. they were buddhist, and when i asked about the alcohol drinking they said 'naaaaaahhhh it's fine1 doesn't matter at all1' we had a nice chat about darjeeling anyway, as they squickly got very merry. i bought a nice bell from one of the numerous bell shops, and got ripped off by a lovely lovely salesman to the tune of 3000rs.

i just had to turn away from the computer for a second then and calm myself down...it's only money...he's probably got starving children tucked away...lesson learned etc etc.

i also discovered kalimpong lollipops11 actually, these may have made the trip a little worthwhile. it is basically caramel fudge wrapped around a stick and sold for 5rs - they are very good indeed.

so i left kalimpong a happy girl - happy to get out of there. no, it wasn't as bad as i make out. one of the greatest things about it was that everybody - man, woman, screaming child, barking dog, roaring car-buffoons and all - went to bed at 9pm sharp, so i had some peace and quiet after then.

i gave up on the idea of hiring two seats in the share jeep to siliguri and just let the driver choose me a seat. i got a very back window seat, and i stuffed myself in alongside three other squeezed in people. one of us had to be popping out of the bench seat at any one time so that we could fit, and we all obliged in half an hour intervals. i wasn't taking any chances with the roads this time, so i put my sunglasses on, drew my shawl down over my face, turned my ipod up and shut my eyes. the only time i opened them and peeked out from under my shawl i either screamed with terror or screamed with awe, the roads, although treacherous, afford you a view of some truly stunning lanscapes. we only stopped once on this breakneck trip, at a roadside fruit stall so everybody 9except me0 could buy some spinach.

siliguri, back to the real india...i could barely clamber out the back of the jeep so many taxi, rickshaw and autorickshaw drivers were crowding around me. 'taxi sister...' 'rickshaw sister...' my decision to walk baffled them all. i walked until i found an internet cafe and quickly researched a suitable place to eat befroe leaving siliguri for njp station. the staff at the internet cafe were incensed that i planned to walk to the restaurant i had chosen.
'oh no no no ma'am1 you should catch a rickshaw.' 'for us it would take 5-7 minutes, for you it will take 12-15 minutes.' 'you will get lost, you cannot do it.' 'you are by yourself? where are you going by yourself? njp station?1 oh no no no ma'am you cannot.' 'here, ride on my motorbike - it is the only way.'
finally they agreed to draw me a small map, and i left under threats of getting lost, getting mugged, or just everything dastardly happening to me. i was not surprised in the slightest to find the restaurant just around the corner, barely 5 minutes walk straight down the road and to the right. i can't figure out if they thought i was incapable because i was a foreigner or because i was a woman, but i think that it was probably a combination of the two.

siliguri was horrible but this restaurant was pretty good. It was obviously one of the swankiest pots in town, all done up in gold and mirror work, waiters wearing waistcoats and shiny shoes. i had a delicious meal of dahl makani and kulcha (kulcha is stuffed bread - way better than naan - but wherever i went in india, no matter what typ eof bread i ordered, the waiter would always say 'oh garlic naan, yes ma'am' and i would have to plead and beg them to listen to me and look past the tourist tag. i do believe 90 percent of tourists in india order garlic naan0 with hot gulab jamon for dessert plus a bottle of mineral water all for around 170rs. the same meal in kolkata would cost me about 320 rs, it being a big city and all.
i caught a shared autorickshaw to njp 9the people in the internet cafe had told me it wold take me at least 45 minutes, but obviously i looked like a local as it only took ten minutes0 where i attached myself to a group of people and drank chai.

i sat next to an niR from sydney on the way back to kolkata, which was very nice as we could chat in english about things that we were familiar with. the trip was over too soon for me, i just love the night trains1

and then it was back to kolkata1 a cit of 14 million people, all of whom stopped on their way to work in the morning for a good look at me and my bedhair.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1231413360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1231413360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1231413360/tpod.html Thu, 08 Jan 2009 07:07:48 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Kolkata, West Bengal, India

6.20am. I am woken up early each morning by a whole variety of different activities happening outside my window. The paper boy begins his rounds early (I have already described his call!), and Sabatri begins talking (read shrieking) to the neighbours early on. The most constant and interesting sound coming in my window though is one that still, even after all these early mornings, still amuses me. A whole collection of men gather outside our house every morning and do vocal excercises. I think it must be some way of getting the energy flowing, but I'm not sure. Every morning it goes; 'AhhHHHHHHHHHHH', 'aaaHHHHHHHHHHHHaaaa. 'AHHHHhhhhhhh'. I am staying near a small lake, so the constant ahhhhhhhhhhHHHHHing rings out across the water and probably wakes up the whole neighbourhood. I think these men are part of an excercise club as there is always three or four men doing stretches in our front yard when I leave for work. I don't understand what they do, or why they do it, but the AAHHHhhhhh goes on and on for at least half an hour.

6.30am. Turn on the hot water system and have THE most delicious breakfast while it heats up (apart from the Tibetan bread and curd) - rotis smothered in Ankur Kala's own jam and squashed banana. I used to read the paper, but that system has gone awry so now I just read any of the trashy magazines I have sorted (actually in my defense Indian magazines are not so trashy! There is a whole lot less celebrity gossip and more fashion, which is not really much more interesting but at least a lot less nasty). I also listen to Miaow! 104.8fm, the only radio station JUST for women! It plays English lanaguage songs at night-time so I stay constant.
I pick out a salwar kameeze set and look, a little depressed, in front of the mirror at how my poor (former-) fringe is just a big old mess.

7.40am. Time to go. I head out of our gate (past the stretching men, who always look at me as if I have just emerged from a space-ship) and down the streets, over the bridge, along the road, through the railway crossing and to the autorickshaw stand. On my way I see men washing or brushing their teeth in the lake, learner drivers practising their driving (WHAT could they possibly be learning? How to speed up on approaching women and children?), men with briefcases on their way to work and young boys riding bicycles. The railway crossing is always closed so I wait until the train - people hanging out all over the doors and windows and roof - passes, unlike many of the other impatient people who simply walk around the bars and cross in front of the oncoming train. I read a report in the paper that stated a man had recently died at a crossing, and the people of the town were so upset they all squatted on the tracks for half the day in protest...I couldn't help but think that if he wasn't on the tracks...he probably wouldn't have died. I also pass the chicken butcher. I am shuddering and retching here, I don't want to think about the way he skins, slices and de-gizzards those chickens every morning ever again.

First rickshaw drops me off at Ruby Hospital, where I don't have to cross any roads (oh joy), I just walk down to the next one. Here I pass men selling chai, breakfast and newspapers.
Second rickshaw drops me off at Gariahat market - which is always crazy busy, even at 8.10am when most stalls are closed. I pass men building new stalls, taking down old stalls, or setting up current stalls, men selling mishti and chai, and the security guards for the jewellery stores who start work early. There are always plenty of neat and clean school children on their way to school here, usually accompanied by their parents.
Third rickshaw drops me off at Park Circus where I have to cross four main roads. If I am lucky I can get the driver to stop n the other side of the road so I only have to cross two roads, but if not it's time to send a quick prayer to the roadside gods, try to join a group and just grit my teeth and go.

This is all pretending that the autos are running. Kolkata has constant strikes (bandhs) and protests due to political unrest. The communist party of kolkata is in control of the city, but they are challenged by the Kolkata communist party...and the communist people's front...and the front of communism in Kolkata, and the popular communist's party, and the communist popular people's front, and...you get my drift. I have been told to stay away from these protests, but they are usually pretty boring. Mostly just loudspeakers strung up and hitched to a tape recording of a man screamning into the microphone, going crazy and being all distorted because everything EVERYTHING is listened to at decibel shaking levels. I thought the protests in Darjeeling would be more lively, but it was the same thing - I could hear it from my hotel room 20 mins walk away. I walked down to have a good look and just saw a whole lotf of men (and women!) standing around idly holding flags and smoking. It went on for a few hours, so they must have been taking it in shifts.

From here it's a 5 minute walk to 72b Park St. There are plenty of beggars on my way, some lying on the ground banging their begging bowls, legs and feet disfigured and on display across your path, other beggars walking around approaching or following you. Some beggars that have hand or arm deformities bang on the windows of the cars while they are stopped at the intersection - banging and banging and yelling into the car for money, it's so horrible. I hate this part of the walk. This enbd of Park St has a large muslim population, so I pass a mosque and many women in all encompassing black body and head scarves (but no burqa's in this area).
Soon I come to Park St Sweets, a little haven of goodness and joy. The men here know me well by now as I stop in every morning to buy a bottle of water, and some afternoons to buy mishti. They always ask me 'mithai, mithai?' (sweets, sweets) and speak to me in rapid Bengali as I choose.

8.55am I'm at Ankur Kala, signing in, saying hello to all the girls and taking my place for the 15min yoga session that starts our day (it's really fun, and all very light-hearted). After that we have a multi-faith hymn and prayer session. All the songs are in either Bengali or Hindi, but I have the script and a translation in front of me so I can happily sing along. Women here are muslim, hindu, christian or catholic (or me, but everybody assumes that I am catholic) so the prayer session is all-encompassing. One of the best things about living in a multi-faith country such as India is all the public holidays people get - everybody gets a day off regardless of their faith, what fun!

10am We have tea and a bread roll and a chat about things.

10.15am USually I help in the kitchen in the mornings. I love helping out in the kitchen so much! Who knew that my love of cooking even extended to being ecxited about the prospect of peeling potatoes for hours on end (Dad do you remember that joke...?). I peel and chop aloo, sag, cabbage and beans, plus do the washing up under the constantly running tap out in the courtyard, help clean up and just do whatever needs to be done. Sometimes we pick rice or lentils (everything has to be checked over before cooking - rice and lentils come with large amounts of stones in them that have to be sifted out) I would really love to make rotis but I am not allowed near them since the great 'roti-rolling' incident. I thought I was doing pretty well, considering I had had 5 minutes practice and Muserrah di had had 20 years, but the look of horror on the faces of everybody around when they spotted me assured that I was never allowed near the rolling pin again.
Sometimes I also help out in the JSP department, doing much the same thing. Cutting, chopping, peeling, scraping oranges, pineapple, lemons, apple, jailpal, all types of fruit. Squuezing lemons and oranges in a hard physical task but it's very satisfying. The women all use the Indian knife, a vertical blade stuck into a block of wood that you place on the floor and hold down with your foot. You saquat in front of it and cut vegetables and fruit in front of you. It looks incredibly dangerous and takes some getting used to - I prefer to use a good old knife and a chopping board and not risk losing a digit!

1pm Time for lunch! We all line up with our plates and dhal cups (I with a spoon) and have rice, curried shobji (vegetables) and dhal. The vegetables are all fairly spicy, and everyone giggles as I blow my nose after eating. We all sit on the floor upstairs and chat about the day. Ha, not really. Everybody else chats and I sit and try to finish off the massive meal that I am always served. The dhal is always so good, and the vegetables are always so tasty.

1.30pm I've finished in the kitchen and now I either do tracing work (I can't stand doing tracing work) or help Sazda in the tailoring department - which is always fun. Sazda, Azmati di and Nasreen sit and sew and talk without taking a breath as I sit on the floor and either hand stitch hems or cut fabrics to make bags. I feel like I am really doing something here, as I can see the eventual outocme when we are finished (not like stupid tracing)

3.30pm Cup of tea time! It's always special tea now, with a secret added ingrediant - salt! Sounds awful doesn't it, but actually it's so delicious. Saza always makes sure I have two cups because I told her how much I love it.


4pm Home time for me, but not for the girls who will stay back until 5.30pm. I pack up and walk back down Park St (maybe a little stop at Park St sweets on the way...) and cross four major roads to find the first autorickshaw. Gariathat market is extremely busy by now, thousands of people all hustling and bustling their way down the narrow streets, pushing, elbowing, haggling loudly...There is no 'excuse me can I get past here' except the use of your legs and elbows, so it can be a bit of a punch-up trying to get through the streets.

5pm Finally at home. Walking past Big Bazaar and up the streets to my home is always more interesting by now. It's getting very dark very quickly but the city only comes alive in the afternoon, so by now everybody is out on the streets. The shops are going, music is blaring out, taxi drivers are yelling at you for a fare, rickshaw wallahs follow you hoping to givew you a ride, goats are chewing on the grass in the middle of the road, men are wandering around or grouped together playing card games, school children are coming home with their parents, vegetables sellers have found a patch of ground and are squatted together gossiping about the day.
This is also the time that the shops send out their megaphone scouts. A single wooden cart sits on the side of the road with a megaphone on it, and advertisements are yelled out at deafening volumes as the caretaker sits looking bored by it's side. I can hear these ads from my house, and they go on for hours. The only threat to their volume levels is the political treatises that jostle for top position. These political megaphones usually drive around in their carts though, just to spread the message.

First thing I do when I get home is wash my poor feet and hands, that have turned an interesting shade of grey.

I can usually find something to do until dinner. This week I have been packing and repacking my pack after folding and refolding and considering and reconsidering. I'm all excited about going home now that the date is getting closer. Usually I write in my diary for about 45 mins, listen to the radio and read anything I can get my hands on.

7pm Dinner! Dinner is eaten very late here in India, and it was tought to get Sabatri to serve me so unfashionably early. I devour all the good she has eaten - aloo and other vegetables in a delicious spicy mix, (always always potato, I can't tell you how much potato I have eaten since I've been here), delicious dhal, and rotis. Sometimes pakora, sometimes parathas. I save some roti's for my breakfast the next morning.

Once dinner is done I get a little sad..It's better now that Sabatri is cooking dinner in the kitchen on my level, at least we can smile at each other and have some companionship, but once she is done cooking she disappears and I do some more reading, eat my mishti, and get ready for bed.

9pm Once in my bed I read a few chapters of whichever book I am on now (Kim, by Rudyard Kipling and no it's not good at all it's boring), and plug in my earplugs and strap on my face mask so I can survive the night relatively unscathed. I say goodnight to my little gecko friend and attempt to sleep through Sabatris chatting (very LOUDLY) to her friends, the construction work happening across the lake, the nmight watchmen blowing his whistle and riding his squeaky bike and the general sounds of life of the local neighbourhood.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230781440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230781440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230781440/tpod.html Wed, 31 Dec 2008 23:16:45 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Darjeeling, West Bengal, India

I surprised myself by being social last night... I had made the decision to ditch the group and make up a phony excuse before going to Lunar for dinner and eating a brownie from Glenary's on the way back to my warm and cosy bed. I was all justified with it too, I'd made up some great reasons. But when I emerged from the intenet cafe I found two of the lovely travellers I had met earlier in the week had returned from Kalimpong to celebrate NYE here, plus another Australian girl Emma (who has just finished doing a grad program in Canberra) had decided to join us as well. We picked up another Australian couple on the way to dinner and ended up having a great time.

I had dressed up as much as circumstances allowed, and even took off my beanie for the night.
We ate at Glenary's (previous site of my cold malai kofta) and I ordered dhal makhani which, after Lunar's incredible effort, was very poor. We plied it with salt and ate it with some delicious pilau and delicous aloo ghobi and I was satisfied with my last meal for 2008. Well, it's not quite true that that was my last meal of 2008 as I had my heart set on having a hot brownie with ice-cream and chocolate sauce - but they had run out of brownies. I had to settle for ice-cream instead, which apparently was chocolate-flavoured by just tasted cold to me! Note for next time, order dessert before dinner.
Anyway, enough of food for the moment.

We had some great conversation, everybody except for me got stuck into the Kingfisher's and proceeded to get much happier. I stuck to fresh lime soda and water, and managed to survive a NYE without having one drink at all. I was lovly to wake up this morning fresh and clear (although the Nepalese music booming from the hotel next door tried it's best to give me a morning headache)
The two Swedes in our group were surrounded by Australians and they asked us to teach them some Australian slang - we gave them 'fair dinkum' and discussed the knife scene in Crocodile Dundee at length. Christian (a banker who lives in Bangalore and plays classical guitar in a heavy metal band when back in Sweden) had asked me earlier if I was originally from Australia as I didn't sound anything like the Australians he had heard (namely Steve Irwin). I gave him an example of some fine ockerisms and he was confused, 'You don't all sound like that?' Thank you Steve Irwin, Paul Hogan, for the reputation you've given us!
But we got them to teach us some Swedish slang as well - 'Sh-uhr-rrrrr h-oarrrr-t' means 'go for it' or literally 'drive hard', and 'sha-pu-lan' means 'hello friend'.

Christian and Eva had already arranged for us to go to the Windemere after dinner for their big party. We wandered up and marvelled at how glamourous the hotel was - and how it was hardly travelling to stay somewhere like that. But the people in the Windermere were shocked to see us arrive and sent us straight back out the door, despite the assurances earlier that all of town was welcome. We walked past the oldies getting down to the Rolling Stones, eagerly watched on by the bemused hotel staff, and walked back to Chowrasta Square. The whole town closes down at 8.30 and as it was 9.30 by now we were resigning ourselves to sitting on the concrete composing tunes of our own when we ran into a couple from Birmingham, London, who had run into a couple from Dublin who had it on god knowledge that the Gymkhana club was having a do. So up up up we went to the Gymkhana Club which was aboslutely pumping with music and people. We thought we'd hit gold but were told 'No foreigners' at the door. This was slightly modified within minutes to 'Alright, just pay 600 rupees' before they finally grinned and let us all in the door for free.

Having been in India for a short while I've become pretty familiar with some of the big Indian hits - 'Singh is King', 'Hare Ram, Hare Krishna', 'Om Shanti Om' (it's old but it's still HUGE) and various others. As we are in the Mountains with a lot of Nepalese people there were also hits from Nepal, old and new. Before long we were all carving up the dancefloor, eagerly joined by a team of teenage boys, one of who - Sabar - adopted me as his own and spun me dangerously around the dancefloor. Sabar was very sauve indeed and I was pretty impressed with all of their friendliness. The British couple concurred that if this were an English or Australian party it was likely that the teenage boys would have stolen a bottle of run and would be out the front throwing rocks at people right about now. I happily posed for about 6 dozen photos with each and every one of the teenage boys and was taught various Punjabi and Nepali dances, although I was bad at all of them. I never realised how incredible unco-ordinated I am when I try to dance in joggers. It shouldn't be done, it just wasn't pretty. One of our group won a prize for his dancing efforts (he was hilarious) and we watched the teenage boys edge gently away from Eva, who was wearing an orange silk salwar kameeze with sneakers and a blanket, holding a long neck of Kingfisher beer and busting out some jumping Egyptian moves. A beautiful Nepalese couple came up and did some wonderful belly/bollywood dancing with us and we all danced and shouted and joined in the words when we knew them, sometimes when we didn't.

Twelve o'clock came and I become the flavour of the month as I hugged and pecked a string of boys. I do hope that that's not some indication of how my year will end up.

Emma and I staggered home in the below 0 degree cold and I was home and very happy in bed by 1am. It was a good fun night!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230708060/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230708060/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230708060/tpod.html Wed, 31 Dec 2008 04:38:38 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Darjeeling, West Bengal, India

Alright, what have I been up to in Darjeeling?

Well let me start by saying that I am continuing my 'dag-fest' across the sub-continent. Imagine my horror when I arrived here and discovered the hordes of trendy tourists sauntering across Chowrasta square before me. Dressed in their skinny jeans, with Kathmandu zip-up jackets and black skivvies, hiking boots beneath black woollen socks, wearing slimline leather gloves and aerodynamic ice-caps perched on faces blessed with wind-resistant complexions, they carry trendy day-packs and sip from drinkbottle/hotwaterbottles found only in the trendiest trekking stores.
And me?
I'm wearing a purple and mustard coloured yaks wool beanie, baggy Big W pants, men's gloves (did I mention I was a bad shopper), terribly daggy bulky jacket that I bought despite the fact it smelled like moth balls, maroon-coloured socks under sneakers and rosy-red cheeks. I'm trudging around town with an old silk bag that is falling apart, tissues falling out of every pocket whenever I dive for my chapstick, and mishti wrappers billowing around my feet. I am quite possibly the daggiest foreigner in town...that may be a feat in itself however, and maybe I should feel a little proud of this accomplishment.
I am slightly comforted when I met Eva, a Swedish backpacker at my hotel who actually emerges for dinner in town one night dressed in an outfit that includes what can only be described as an old blue blanket.

I've been on the joyride to Ghum and back in the famous Darjeeling toytrain, a trip that can only be described as simply marvellous. I've been to the zoo, where I yelled at some man who was yelling at the animals. (I tried to keep it in, but he wasn't the first and I was at breaking point). I went to the Tenzing Norgay Himalayan Mountaineering Institute and viewed the clothes and items that Tenzin brought up Everest on the historic climb in 1953. I went to the Observatory and the Bhutia Busty Ghompa and admired the prayer flags there, noting the extreme proximity of both the Hindi sacred spots and St Andrews Church. I have been to three colourful and interesting Buddhist Ghompas in Ghum, watching the monks in their flowing red robes and marvelling at the intricate paintings decorating the walls. I travelled over to the Japanese Peace Pagoda and temple, skipping around the outside and surprising a young couple who were crouched in the sacred spot scoffing crisps. I've been to the botanical gardens (just...a big garden really) and checked out the Dirdham Temple near the train station. I've spent more money than was to be advised on jewellery and lemon tarts, and shivered my way up and back the steep hill between my hotel and town at least twice a day. I walked the 25 minutes down to the Shrubbery only to find that I was an hour early for their cultural show; walked back up 15 minutes to have a cup of tea for half an hour and then walked back down for 15 minutes only to find that there was a power cut and there would be no show that night. I've talked to some nice travellers and done my best to avoid the not so nice ones and spent lovely evenings drowsing in my bed with a hot water bottle after eating hot custard in the restaurant.

So daggy as I may be, I'm having a lovely time here. In fact, on every other day bar this one something rather strange has happened to me. It may be the extreme altitude, but I've been deliriously happy. Every so often I catch myself sitting there thinking quite intently about how happy I am.
'I'm so happy. Look at me, sitting here, thinking about how happy I am! Just look - look, right now! I'm just sitting thinking about how happy I am! Huh. How about that.'
It's like a holiday from my neuroses, how brilliant! Kolkata is a great place, but it's excaberating my usual anxieties to somewhat alarming levels. I have to confess to indulging in a few ridiculous and catastrophic mind tangles (the less said about the three fatal diseases I'm sure I have developed the better) and the constant stress about being in a sixteen-pile autorickshaw accident is actually a reality I'm afraid of daily. Hopefully I will be able to bring some of the serenity of the Hills back with me to the city, and be able to close my eyes and remember the joy of having nothing to worry about except whether I will have jam or banana pancakes for breakfast.

Today I'm afraid I have been a bit down. I took a trip down to the Happy Valley Tea Estate after my breakfast of Tibetan bread and curd and couldn't help but let the stresses of my real life wash over me. The road down is one of the few in town that cars are allowed to drive on, which meant that the whole trip down the numerous large jeeps that semi-populate this town roared past me and blurted their deafening horns in my ears as I stumbled off the road, breathing in their toxic fumes and being jostled and bumped by the crowds. The tea estate was not allowing visitors as processing season has finished, but I had heard that there was a little house where you could try a cup of their tea.
When I sat down the rather prophetic woman in the house made me a cup of first-flush tea and asked me directly about my significant other. I nearly sobbed into my super fine tippy golden flowery orange pekoe 1. But she simply shook her head and proceeded to give me what sounded like very sage advice - in very broken English. How typical, I thought. A clairvoyant wise woman on a tea estate in Darjeeling gives me relationship advice and I don't understand a word. All I pick up is 'Such is life', 'woman want caring and loving', 'god is looking after you' and 'have no worries. This will be a happy new year.' As I walk back up the long and lonely road to town I infuse these words with all the wisdom that her demeanour exuded and decide that this chance encounter should set the town for the last of 2008 for me.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230625320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230625320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230625320/tpod.html Tue, 30 Dec 2008 04:06:25 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Darjeeling, West Bengal, India

I would like to claim that I haven't enough time to post a long, witty and legible blog but that's just not true today - I just can't really be bothered because lunch beckons. Oh alright...we'll talk about the food, I guess I can manage to fill in a little bit of space with that...

I've got just two words for you - MOMO-MAKING.
Momo's are delicious little parcels of joy, filled with either veg, meat or fish. They aren't much different to Chinese dumplings to tell the truth, and seem to be a Nepalese and Tibetan speciality as well. Darjeeling is known for it's many hole-in-the-wall momo kitchens, and they are also served at most of the travellers stops too. I enjoy the dumplings here, but I have to say that I feel that after working so close to Chinatown I've experienced some damn fine dumplings, so I'm venturing into other food styles as well - unlike some other travellers who seem to spend all their downtime raving about the momos in Nepal. But while here I wandered on down to the Hot Stimulating Cafe (you try asking an Indian male tourist for directions to THAT) and had a momo-making class with Lily, the owner's wife. The class went for a couple of hours and was punctuated by glasses of chai and mammoth momo-eating breaks. Lily was well-impressed with my pleating style and insisted I continue on and roll up all the momo's for her while she sat back and had a couple of tea. I think I have found my calling here! The cooking class has to be rated as one of the top 5 things I have done here in India (and yes, second third fourth and fifth may possibly be eating as well. Please don't listen to those people who say that travellers lose weight in India - send them to me and I will give them a list of restaurants where they can very decisively learn how easy it is to gain weight while here).

I've had a couple of meals at the delightful Tibetan restaurant Kunga. Here they do all sorts of Tibetan soups - Thungka, and either fried or steamed momo's. I went there for breakfast this morning and had the most incredible Tibetan bread (either a crispy puffed bread made with flour and oil or - like at Kunga's - the most divine sweet damper-like round of just-cooked dough) dipped in curd. I had the Tibetan noodle soup there a couple of nights back and couldn't believe noodles could taste so good. A group of travellers from my hotel and mysefl also ate there for dinner one night and we were all agreed it rated as one of the best restaurants around.

Oh but I can't say Kunga has the best food! I just remembered my divine meal of dahl makhani and aloo paratha at Lunar yesterday...This meal was the best Indian food I have had throughout my time here. The dhal was...I'm not going to say it was better than Sabatri's (okay, maybe this wasn't the best meal I've had in India, I'd forgotten about Sabatri's dinners), but it was ridiculously delicious. Lunar also had a great atmosphere, and excellent friendy service - I even had friends to eat with (it's a novelty at the moment, that's all!)

Aliment Hotel does decent food too - no wait! They do better than decent pancakes! They are more like thin crepes, and are served rolled up with jam and butter. But one is never enough. How many pancakes does everyone think constitutes a meal? I think two is decent, three makes you very happy indeed but one is just not satisfying enough. You can get lovely banana pancakes here too, or tibetan breaf (the greasy type) with jam and butter. There's an extensive chinese and japanese-style menu, and good Nepalese thali (dhal bhat). Thali is a full meal that consists of rice, dhal, veg curry, curd, pickle and papad. But no dessert? Last night I had 'chocolate pudding on fire', which was just sloppy pudding with lit alcohol. I think I'll stick to the mishti from now on.

Yes, mishti. I can't believe how unhealthily obssessed I am becoming with mishti. It's all made with tons of ghee, cream and sugar and I just throw it down like it ain't no thang. Here in Darjeeling they have a little store called 'Unique Sweets' where they do wild experiments with the usual fare. My favourite is pineapple barfi (say borfi or people will laugh at you), saffron and coconut borfi, carrot mishti, and a whole heap of others that I only know by sight. The men in this shop know me well now (I've only been here 5 days - it's a little embarrassing) and I think I've tried most of their products. They give it to you in a little box and I take it all back to my room and have a little mishti ceremony as I watch TV. It's so good...

Darjeeling also does tea well, surprise surprise! But there are surprisingly few tea shops - cafe's dedicated only to the pursuit of tea - but it's a growth area and I think people are clueing on to it. You can have a cup of Darjeeling tea in most eateries, but only Goodricke's and Nathmull's seem to do the specialised thing (there may be others that I haven't found). I've become very attached to Nathmull's I go there mid-morning or mid-afternoon and try a cup of whatever they recommend. Tea here is always served with biscuits (and when they are not looking I dip my biscuits into my tea).
So just for the tea tragics out there -
First flush (Spring) is the first picking of tea leaves and it is light coloured and flavoured, with mild astringency. It should not be stewed for too long.
Second flush has coppery tones and is stronger and more flavoury (their term).
Autumn teas are even more full bodied and coppery, with full liquor flavours.

I love second flush, but Autumn teas I also find very nice. I splash out a little (story of my trip really) and send some tea back home. Ha...I mean, I send a whole lot of tea back home. Tea here retails for anything from r95 for 100g to rs1000 for 100g. In the cafe's you can pay from rs20 to rs150 a cup (but that includes two biscuits, don't forget!) You will also get tea advice for free!

It's hard to keep up your water intake here in Darjeeling. It's so so cold. Drinking tea is then a noble pursuit and not a waste of stomach-space at all. I have picked up a thick jacket and a huge shawl from a very tourist shop which helps me a little, but not really. I need a balaclava.

I have so much more to say, but it's 2.30pm which means that it's very necessary to go down to Devekas and see what is on their menu. I'm considering wating some fried momo's, or more Tibetan noodle soup, or even more bread if it looks good, or anything spicy and hot so that my blood starts warming up again. If it isn't raining I'm planning on walking to the shrubbery and watching the cultural show there, before coming back to the hotel and hopefully going some of the travellers in the restaurant here for dinner. The spring roll here at Aliment is supposed to be delicious!
More tomorrow!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230287520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230287520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230287520/tpod.html Fri, 26 Dec 2008 06:18:22 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Darjeeling, West Bengal, India

Alright - some responses!

A tout is a very annoying man who's job is to get you into a store, often belonging to his uncle, brother, father or friend. They hang around the front of the store and either call, scream or harrass you more inappropriately as you walk past. Touts may begin the process of driving you into their stores from outside your hotel, or as you are walking up the street. They follow you, wait for you outside restaurants, tell you wild stories and are generally really annoying. Some towns are worse than others. Agra had vicious touts. Leaving the hotel compound was awful because they would all just run over to you and surround you. You had to literally fight your way down the street, it was so exhausting. In Jaipur the touts would jump out in front of you, stopping you from passing by shoving their wares at you and yelling in your face.
'Buymypants!' They would scream, 'YouneedshawlbuymyshawlTHATskirt5rupees! Or just BUYMYPANTS!'
If you hesitated and waited for even a second they would have their friends out throwing shawls all over you and herding you into the store. It was so crowded so pushing past them was a real difficulty. If you looked a little upset they would whine 'Why so angry sister?'
And they lie...they don't really have what they claim they do, it's all just a rort to get you in and spend money.
I really really don't like touts.

It's the vendors who throw around fabric, quite dramatically too. As soon as you enter a shop they rip open every packet (there are no hangers in shops, everything is frustratingly packed up on shelves) and throw things around. Within minutes you can have 20 shawls draped all over you and you've only asked the direction to the internet cafe. I always feel really guilty because the poor little shop boys seem to spend all day folding and refolding every item in store.

It doesn't make a difference what time of day or night it is, vendors will just tell you any rubbish to try to get more money out of you. Ridiculous!
I also really really don't like haggling! How do you ever know the worth of anything that you buy? It may all just be rubbish, you just don't know. I'm not very good at haggling either, which doesn't help.

A ghat is just a series of steps leading down to the water. People live out their lives on these ghats, it's very interesting to watch! Every river has ghats, and often the ghats are 'owned' by groups or different towns.

A salwar kameeze is a delightful outfit worn by women here in India. Truly, the most comfortable and flattering outfit any woman can wear.
Ah ha ha ha.
Actually it's designed to hide the body and be cool to wear at the same time, so it's stunningly uncomfortable and makes everyone look bad. If you've got the money you can get nice ones that fit, but I've mostly gone for the el cheapo 'free size' sets. These are inevitably gaudy, loud and ridiculous. I'm planning on turning them into cushions when I get home.

The kurta (long top) is alright actually. You can get really lovely ones, even some very trendy ones, and some women wear them with jeans which looks quite nice. You have to pay extra for ones that actually fit properly though. I've found a nice shop that sells lovely ones, so I'm planning on bringing a few back with me. They'd be perfect with leggings or my blue jeans.

The salwar pants are not fun at all. There is enough material to fit out a quilt, so I've had to roll up the bottoms and still constantly trip up on them. The top is quite literally free of all size altogether, and bunches up in a highly unattractive manner just under my armpits. When I have to undo them they puddle all over the floor - which of course means getting soaking wet everytime I go to a bathroom (Indian bathrooms always remind me of small creeks - the floor is a constant river of flowing water). I'm sure people laugh at my attempts to walk up stairs whilst wearing the equivalent of an entire room's worth of curtains hanging from my waist, cinched in at the ankle. The alternative to salwar pants are churider pants, which I much prefer and splashed out on in a fit of vanity. They are still ridiculously shaped at the top (female bodies must be hidden), but taper down to a very fitted leg, and then bunch at the ankle. They are much more comfortable and are worn by many of the younger women.

The last piece of the set is your dupatta, or scarf. I'm constantly fighting with my dupatta. The girls at Ankur Kala have shown me a variety of ways to wear it but its presence is enough to make me sob with frustration. It is never removed, not even whilst cooking over the cooking fires - a little dangerous but the alternative is showing a bit of shape, and that's even worse than setting yourself on fire.

But a scarf is a multi-functional piece of equipment in India. You can use your dupatta;
As a hair-net whilst preparing food
To keep your head, face and neck warm
To cover your head in temples
To protect your nose and mouth from the deadly sewerage smells
Or save your throat and nose from the toxic traffic fumes
To wipe your mouth
As a privacy screen when using a beside-the-highway toilet
To wipe the sweat from your face
As a pillow on public transport
As a blanket on public transport
As a bag protector and hider on public transport
To put over your dirty pillow
Plus many other fun uses!

Were there any other questions? Let me know and I will endeavour to impart my knowledge.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1229419620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1229419620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1229419620/tpod.html Fri, 26 Dec 2008 05:31:28 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Kolkata (Calcutta), West Bengal, India

There are supposed to be over three million gods or goddesses in the Hindu pantheon. Add these to the Muslim, Jain, Sikh, Buddhist and Christian spiritual beings and you've got a lot of scope for prayers. One of the venerable beings must have read my last blog because I had a nice surprise last Friday night.

Just as I was sitting down with The Telegraph before dinner (we've got the paper thing sorted now) Sabatri came running up the stairs and gestured excitedly. I followed her downstairs and what should I find on my doorstep but a devestatingly handsome traveller! Hallelujah, and even delivered straight to my door! The gorgeous Simon gives me a winning smile and says in German-accented English, 'I hope you don't mind that I'm here...'
No no no, not at all...
Sabatri talks a million miles an hour to him and me as we stand and ask each other in whispers; 'Do you speak Hindi?' 'Nup. You?' 'Nup. Bengali?' 'Nup. You?' Nup. Just nod and smile.' Nod, nod, smile, smile.

Simon is an ex-volunteer who has called back in to the city to say hello to Sucharita, the in country co-ordinator. He stays for dinner with me and we have a really good chat about volunteering and Indianism's. Simon has the worst sickness story I've ever heard and we spend a good half an hour hashing out all the details (travelling in India seems to give everyone licence to discuss intimate details almost at once - 'Hello, how are you, where are you from, how long have you been hear, how are your bowel movements?' The group of Aussies I met in Darjeeling tell me all about worms, and we realise we will all have to curb our free-speaking habits when we return to Aus). He also teaches me a couple of strong Hindi terms (less strong is 'jao' - go away). It becomes abundantly clear as we eat that Simon is very young and very wrapped up in himself, but he's very good-looking and he's English speaking company so I have a very nice dinner and send up a little prayer of thanks to any Goddess that is listening.

The next night my new Irish friend Maeve (sister of Catriona, another ex-volunteer who is also visiting Sucharita) and I go out to I Bar, the club in Big Bazaar - the local shopping centre. It's a nice restaurant that has a small dancefloor and lounge area. We drink cosmopolitan's, mojito's and capriosca's as we listen to terrible 80's disco music and gorge on the free cheese crisps. We're only slightly disappointed no sleazy men try to give us lame pick-up liners (men use them in all seriousness) but Maeve perks up when she sees other people smoking inside. She asks the waiter for an ashtray but is told curtly that; 'This is a non-smoking restaurant ma'am!...You'll just have to ash on the floor.'
Ahhh, India!

The next day Maeve, Catriona and I head into the city in search of some tourist activities. We can't get into the zoo or the aquarium as it's too busy, and our driver doesn't know where Tagore's house is so we settle for the Kalighat temple and a boat trip. Boat trip is a little bit dull, but it fills in time. Kalighat temple is well worth it - although I'm unable to see Kali as so many people are pushing and shoving in front of her. But I get a blessing and am encouraged to make a hefty donation (I don't, but he insists I write down a massive figure in the book anyway). He wishes me a happy marriage and happy life, and insists that I am beautiful like I am only 23, so will surely find a marriage soon.
We are also almost swindled on our way in, which is always the funniest part of any trip. I'm not sure what the point of this particular swindle is. A Brahmin insists on taking us to a shop which is the only place on the road that we can leave our shoes - which he tells us is necessary - and informs us that we must stay there for an hour as the temple is closed. We didn't fly in yesterday though, so we keep our shoes on and tell him we will just stroll for a minute. Turns out that the temple is not closed and we don't have to take our shoes off at all. Was he planning on selling our dirty old shoes? Insisting that we try his aloo paratha and chai? I don't know, but I just love that he tried.

We're swamped by little children who all want to kiss and hug Catriona's 18 month old daughter Evie on the way out, and have to literally run to the car and lock the doors to prevent them carrying her away. Children are revered here in India, and a gorgeous little blue-eyed blonde-haired girl is no exception. Everywhere we go Evie creates havoc, and we are constantly surrounded by groups of fawning men. The toughest, dourest men dressed in their traditional lungis, dhotis and gamchhas turn into doting bundling uncles as they approach her with arms out-stretched, saying 'koochy koochy koo!' and squeezing her little cheeks. They pat her arms, ruffle her hair, smile indulgently at Catriona Maeve and I or just stand around and watch us with big smiles on their faces. We have license to do anything and go anywhere with this little babe in arms. I've struggled with the hostility of the Indian women and the sleaziness of many of the Indian men but suddenly people love us. The women all ask how old and want to walk beside us to talk about her, and even children follow us happily down the street. Evie copes with it so well, I'm very impressed by her calmness.

We continue the day by stopping for a coffee at Barista, where I order an 'amazingly almond' hot drink. There's confusion all around until it's established that what I really want is an 'umma-ZING-ly almond' drink and all is well. Next we go to South City Mall - a true beacon of commercialism and a sign of the rising riches in Kolkata. I've never seen anything like South City Mall, it's the most stunningly clean centre I've ever entered. As usual, security guards vet the entrance and keep the riff-raff out, and the place is full of very well-dressed upper-class Indians (and us, the only tourists around.) The shops here are very expensive, even for Australian dollars standards, and there's stores like Levi's, Pepi Jeans and The Body Shop. We buy some bloody beautiful cakes from Kookie Jar and listen to the lame Christmas carols being piped around before leaving the centre and stumbling over at the street people dying right outside the door. Before I leave for Darjeeling on Tuesday I find Catriona and Maeve crying as they wait for me outside a Vodafone store. A street family has just had a little baby. The child is only one month old and is being hefted around by a child no older than five. She carries her loosely in her arms as the baby's head lolls around on the end of her weak neck. We have to turn away as the child bounces the baby and swings and shakes her around wildly in a gross copy of a mother rocking her baby.
Oh, India.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230261540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230261540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1230261540/tpod.html Thu, 25 Dec 2008 23:11:23 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Darjeeling, West Bengal, India

I'm going to skip ahead a week and write about Darjeeling, before talking about my previous week in Kolkata. This is because Darjeeling is so exciting and different and I'm on proper holidays!

I'm so so glad I made the decision to come up here. Ankur Kala gave me a few days off over Christmas and I braved the Indian transport system and booked a ticket to Darjeeling. I splashed out a little and made the decision to travel two tier AC, themost expensive class on the Darjeeling Mail. Cost me a massive $30. I was very patient and forgiving whilst getting my ticket, which saved me from going into fits of anger as the ticket vendors variously ignored me, talked over the top of me, refused to look me in the eyes, discussed ticketing options with the various groups of men who came up behind me and argued that they should really be ahead of me despite the fact my ticket number came first, stole my pen and generally struggled to acknowledge me altogether.

But I made it in the end, and arrived at Sealdah Station late on Tuesday night, clutching my sleeping bag, day pack, packet of tim-tams and box of mishti. It's tough to do as the guidebooks suggest and look confident and knowledgable when you arrive somewhere like Sealdah Station. I walked the length of the platform and finally decided to approach two women who looked like they knew what they were doing. Turns out that this was a good idea! Sneeha and Kantria were two of the friendliest people I have met here, and insisted (as a lot of Indians do) that I come and stay with them in Sikkim if I ever came up that way. They were MBA students from Bangalore and in a short space of time they had established my age, marital status, salary and what I think of India. (My typical answers to these questions are 27, not yet hopefully soon, $20,000 and 'I love it here' - it's best to lie lie lie when it comes to salary and marital aspirations). They buy me a pastry and fend off the leprosy beggars who take control of the station, and tell me that I am a guest in their country so I do not need to thank them - it is their pleasure to do this for me (one of my favourite Indianisms, and one of the reasons that 'please' and 'thank you' are not commonly heard). Soon enough I breezed off to my first class carriage and was befriended by a shoe-shine boy who INSISTED that my shoes needed polishing. Seeing as they have hardly any polishable bits I decided to give him some mishti and a free DVD I had got from a Vodafone store. This hardly made him happy and he started bartering for some business. '100 rupees for shoe shine? 50 rupees for shoe shine? 25 rupees for shoe shine?' He had to be content with his sweets and DVD though, as I was intent on starting my new book - 'The Inscructable Americans - Now A Major Bollywood Film!'

After three seat movements to co-ordinate family groups and travelling companions I settled down in my bunk, surrounded by a Professor of Bengali literature at Shantiniketan College, an Engineering lecturer and a high school English teacher (I always seem to be surrounded by teachers!) They ask me hat I am reading and I blush as I show them by tragic novel. I feel entirely embarrassed and assure them that I have just read Amitav Ghosh's 'The Hungry Tide'. This mollifies them a little and we get back to the important stuff - discussing my age, marital status, salary and what I think of India. We all giggle over my ability to speak tora tora (a little) Hindi and soon enough we alight from the train - only an hour a half late.
At NJP station I am the flavour of the month amongst the private taxi drivers. I choose the one who is most insistent and off we go.

What follows is the scariest two hours of my life.

As we drove I thought about what I would say in this blog entry if I made it to Darjeeling, but I don't think I have the creative capacity to put my fear into words. Needless to say that any other time in my life I have said that I am frightened or terrified it was a lie. A total lie. The road is vertical, winding, slippery and travels along the edge of a sheer drop. When we reach Kurseong I cry in relief. I cna't believe I am still alive. It is now that I make the decision that I am not coming back from Darjeeling, not if this is the only way back.

I meet a dazed Englishman (from Dorset) named Alistair on Christmas night who tops all my travelling tales. He's just come over from Kathmandu - a trip that involved a 12 hour bus trip through similar roads to the Darjeeling trail, a boat across a river where flooding has caused the road to collapse and a river to appear, another 10 hour bus trip, and a 5 hour trip up the mountain in a share jeep - built to hold about 8 - that jammed in 14, including the father of the learner driver. The stop was interrupted by a tyre blow-out and a brief spell of rain. Alistair's eyes glaze over as he drinks his Kingfisher beer and giggles intermittently. We soon are agreed that Darjeeling is a nice town and we could easily live there forever. But Alistair has his hiking boots, and I'm convinced he's going to steal off in the night and hike his way down, leaving me to tackle the plight alone. The thought of leaving keeps me up at night, it truly does.

Christmas day was great fun. Apart from meeting Alistair that night I have a leisurely breakfast of tibetan bread with jamand a hot chocolate before viewing the mountain ranges from the roof. I amble through town, spend an hour walking down down down to the Tibetan Refugee Centre where they have closed for lunch, and trek back up up up to Glenary's restaurant for lunch. I order malai kofta and am delighted to see that plum pudding and brandy sauce is on the dessert menu. Sadly my malai kofta comes out cold in the middle. I stop a friendly waiter and ask if they are supposed to be cold.
'Oh yes ma'am, they come straight out of the freezer.'
'They're not freshly made?'
'No, not possible ma'am.'
'But you don't even heat them up?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Okay, but they are cold.'
'......'
'And the sauce is hot.'
'Yes ma'am?'
'Can I please have them hot in the middle?'
'Certainly ma'am.'
Five minutes later a fresh plate of malai kofta is bought to me. These ones are even colder in the middle.
'Excuse me...these are still cold.'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Are they supposed to be cold in the middle?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'I don't think they are. I think they haven't been heated up properly.'
'....'
'Maybe I could get some that are cooked in the middle?'
'Not possible to cook them on the same day ma'am.'
'I understand, but shouldn't they be hot?'
'They are not hot?'
'Are they supposed to be cold or hot?'
'Yes ma'am.'
'Don't worry about it...'

I push the kofta around idly and curse my luck. Soon a senior waiter comes over and trys to figure out the problem. Eventually he takes away the kofta and ten minutes later proudly delivers a steaming plate to me - kofta and sauce bitingly hot. Soon I am eating hot plum pudding and hot brandy sauce for dessert and chatting to a group of Australians at the next table. I admit to them that the pudding isn't quite up to Grandma's standard, but it's worth it all the same. Another group of 5 Australian girls about my age invite me to come to high tea at Elgin's heritage hotel (5500 rupees a night, compared to my 600 a night) and we troop off and have delicious fruit cake, biscuits and tea, with only brief and comical ordering issues. we spy on the very rich guests and discuss Indianisms and Indian men. But it's night too soon and we sadly part ways, exchanging email addresses and realisations that one of the girls spent a lot of time at the Berkeley Vale chicken shop when she was younger (she says she can't remember the name but it has the best chips with chicken salt she has ever tasted and I know instantly where she's talking about!)

I can't stomach dinner (don't eat cold malai kofta in India, no matter what the waiters tell you) so I have some hot banana custard, some hot chocolate and more Darjeeling tea as I chat to Alistair in our hotel restaurant.
It's been a really great Christmas day! It was great to speak to people back at home (who I miss very much today), I find a great cooking show on TV and eat delicious chocolate (Amy, it was as I suspected - the chocolate was the best I've tried yet) as I lie in bed with my four blankets, one sleeping bag, tibetan yaks wool socks, pyamas, jumper, yaks wool beanie, gloves, scarf and hot water bottle. If it wasn't dark I could see the beautiful town of Darjeeling spread below my hotel window, with the mountains being delightfully picturesque in the background. It's quiet and calm and my tourist guide promises me lots of sights to fill my days. I promise myself I will have pancakes for breakfast and go to sleep believing that coming to Darjeeling was a very very good decision.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1229254500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1229254500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ashleythomas/1/1229254500/tpod.html Sun, 14 Dec 2008 06:56:58 -0500 Incredible India - Rajasthan to Kolkata.

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Kolkata (Calcutta), West Bengal, India

Did I mention that my taxi into the city on Saturday hit two people? Yes. Hit two people.
It's been pointed out that my blog is very positive, and I think that's because I'm having such a good time, but there is plenty to not like in India. The traffic is one thing. Being in a car is scary, being in an autorickshaw - basically six-seater three-wheeled ride-on mowers with a canopy - is fearful, but being a pedestrian is actually terrifying. I'm sorry Mum, Dad but I am telling you straight up - never ever have I been so scared as when I have crossed the road here in Kolkata. Cars are king, and if you are in their way they will simply go faster until you are a hairs-breadth away from becoming their hood-ornament. You have no horn either, you see, and what use are you - and how can they possibly acknowledge you - with a horn?
We didn't mow down the poor pedestrians, mind, just a little tap or two. They rounded on the driver and abused him soundly, but he didn't care. Another day another ding, you know?

All that I have said about India is true, but I haven't mentioned a lot about the dirt and the poverty. Kolkata is the first city I've been in that has so many paved streets - most streets seem to be just packed dirt (and rubbish). The cities are veritable tips. Kolkata is better - the streets are relatively free from rubbish, and there does seem to be the occasional rubbish bin around. Other places, like Agra or Udaipur were just covered in rubbish, where ever you looked, where ever you went. Piled against walls, strewn across the streets and store-fronts, choking any gutters or water systems around. Open sewers run alongside paths, and blithely crawling goblets of water run under your feet on every street. Because most of the cities are a comical mixture of farm, city and toilet, waste is strewn across every pathway. You're torn between looking up to avoid being hit and looking down to avoid stepping in. It's true that all buildings, everywhere, are in a permanent state of 'ruined granduer'. I thought the term was so lame until I came to India and saw it for myself. The old colonial buildings in Kolkata are an incredible site. Beautiful soaring things, the likes of which I've never seen in Australia, all corroded and dirtied by the ubiquitous pollution and dirt. Everything, including the trees, are covered in a thick smear of grime.

I don't know what the local councils do - they don't seem to collect rubbish or keep the parks and waterways clean. One of the saddest things I have seen is a historical pool in Jodhpur, gifted to the city by a princess many years ago - 'for the beautification and pleasure of every citizen of the city'. What once was a beautiful water system with fountains and gardens was literally just a grey-green swamp, with islands of rubbish and open sewers running into it.

I've spent a lot of time being filthy too. Really really filthy. It's the hottest winter in over 50 years, and there is enough dust around to fashion a small mountain. It's humid so I'm sweaty and my hair is a crazy matted mess. Every day I come home and shower the grime off me, revealing fresh layers of dirt beneath. I need a high-pressure hose and one of those car-wash scrubbers when I get home, as I'm encased in a protective layer of high-level muck. Might keep the mossies off though. It's lovely to think that I'm immortalised myself in front of such beautiful monuments such as the Taj Mahal whilst in this state!

But dirt is just dirt, smelly water can be stepped over, and a horrific toilet is forgotten when you walk away. To become fixated on all of this is to cut yourself off from the nuances of the culture, and the real city that walks under and around the mess. There is no room for preciousness here, as anyone who has been here will know, truly there isn't because you can't avoid a 1 billion lives lived out so publicly. India is pretty bloody dirty, and after being here for 4 weeks I too am a filthbag, but what a country to be a filthbag in!
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