TravelStream™ news feed for member jcls on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/jcls en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 03 Aug 2008 08:05:26 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1217765040/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1217765040/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1217765040/tpod.html Sun, 03 Aug 2008 08:05:26 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Almora, Uttarakhand, India

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Nainital, India

We hopped off the bus and blessed the slight chill and smell of pine in the air.  Nanital deserved its reputation as a beautiful tourist town with its picture postcard scenery, lakeside eateries, clean fresh mountain air.  The blue dazzling lake surrounded by mountains and forests was a mix of Wanaka, Taupo and Queenstown.   We disembarked at one end of the town, the lake's head and took a cycle rickshaw along the narrow lakeside road to the other end of the town, Lake's foot.  Here the flat stretch of road climbs its way up to our hotel.  As we hop off the rickshaw we are greeted by one of the many porters that lug all manner of items up the steep hill.We must be sympathising with the cooler season back in NZ with the drop in temperature, a bit of thunder and lightning and deluges of rain reminiscent of Auckland's changeable weather.  Due to this we've regressed back into a few old NZ habits, cafe lounging, overindulging in chocolate and vegging out in front of the TV.  Oh the shame of it!! 
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Nainital, Uttarakhand, India

We had planned to go to the ashram at Herakhan for some time.  One of Jonathan's spiritual teachers in NZ is a devotee of Babaji, the guru who founded this picturesque and peaceful sanctuary in the Himalayan foothills.  The story of Babji has all the qualities of a fairytale, but the more time you spend in India, studying its spiritual foundations, the more open you become to the possibility that this story is a factual account. Babaji is supposedly an avatar - a direct manifestation of the divine.  He was not born of woman but is said to have materialised in the human form of a boy of 16 or so years of age.  In 1970, a local villager after being guided by a dream discovered him in a small cave in the bottom of Mount Kailash, alongside the Gautam Ganga river in Herakhan, a very scared spot in Hindu mythology.  Babaji is said to be a direct incarnation of the Hindu God Shiva.  His teachings are consistent with the essence of all religions - Truth, Love and Simplicity.  Along with this he taught karma yoga - hard work for the highest purpose and with full awareness.  He instructed that the continuous repetition of the mantra "Om Namah Shivay" was the fastest way to evolve one's own consciousness.  He 'left his body' in 1984. Though the documented teachings of Babaji are sparse and not exactly inspiring to the sceptical reader, stories of how he affected (and continues to affect) the lives of his devotees are often remarkable.   It is said that one can only make it to Herakhan if one has been cleansed of one's sins.  After two months of traversing India we felt pretty well punished and considered that to be equivalent.  From our small hotel room in Delhi we heard Herakhan's call loud and clear.   There was however one last hurdle to overcome before we could go there - to work out how to get to Haldwani, the nearest town to Herakhan.  For some bizarre reason, Lonely Planet has no description of the town.  Very strange, as Haldwani is the local transport hub for the Kuamon region, not exactly an insignificant place, and certainly worthy of a mention we would have thought.  Lonely Planet does however detail a place called Haridwar which seemed to match the description of Haldwani we found on the net.  This, combined with the common occurrence of Hindi place names having two or three alternative English translations, was enough to convince Jonathan that it was just a case of same place / different name.  So we booked our train tickets for Haridwar.  It wasn't until Louisa was flicking through Lonely Planet that evening that she spotted a single mention of Haldwani on one of its 1200 pages.  Not wanting to dismiss this possible sign from the divine, we did a bit more research and discovered they were two entirely different places.  Luckily we had noticed in time to change our tickets without too much embarrassment. Another mini-riot as we boarded the train the next day, complicated by the fact our allocated seats weren't together.  A ten-minute wait for the smoke to settle and we were on our way to Haldwani.  Like seasoned travellers we threw caution to the wind and rearranged ourselves to sit together, befriending the back half of the train.  15 mins into the journey a pair of large brown eyes peer over the seat in front of us and in a Hindi accented voice inquisitively asks, "How many buildings are there in the United States?" Bemused by the random question we took up the challenge and whittled away a few minutes working out an estimate for him.  Not another peep for about hour or so at which point he pops up and hands us a sweet with the cutest little head waggle in response to our thanks.  Another hour later he gets out of his chair and hands out more sweet treats to the travellers seated near us.  Fascinated by Jonathan's laptop we invited Jyotimar to sit with us and in between watching Jonathan work he practised his English with Louisa.  He taught us a little hindi and we exchanged songs and childhood games.  By the end of the trip he had orchestrated interactions between the various adult travellers through which we received some useful recommendations and helpful advice for our stay in the Kuamon Region.  Later we were invited to share in some delicious home cooking by a woman.  She somehow managed to feed six of us with the food she had brought with her.  It was the best Indian meal we'd eaten so far, tastier than the restaurants we had frequented, and she beamed when we told her so. Altogether our favourite train journey so far.  While checking in at our hotel in Haldwani we met an older German couple going to Herakhan the next day.  It would be their third visit so we organised to meet for breakfast the next morning, hoping to glean some information.  It was 11:30pm by the time we got to our room, but parched and peckish, we ventured out again.  Feeling free from the cushioning constraints of the guidebook we wandered the dark empty streets hoping to find a place still open to eat.  After a few twists and turns we saw a bit of life left in what we assumed was the town.  A vegetarian restaurant full of customers caught our eye, as we did theirs.  At that time of night it was well past the bedtime of travellers and the restaurant was full of locals.  With only 5mins before closing, we ordered some roti and dahl, and hurriedly feasted on our second delicious Indian meal of the evening. The next morning was a bit of a blur, with chores to complete we were still unsure of our plans, whether we'd be ready to head straight to Herakhan or have to spend another day in Haldwani.  Relinquishing the responsibility of making decisions we relaxed into the day and observed our path to Herakahn unfold.  Surprisingly the morning flowed effortlessly.  Somehow we managed to complete our chores, repack, eat, shop and checkout in time to share the taxi ride to Herakhan with our German friends. The German couple (wish we had caught their names) had organised a visit to the old Babaji temple a little out of town for puja.  This was our first real experience of a full puja ceremony.  After washing our mouth and hands we entered a little temple where a shrine to Babaji sat. (Figurine covered in flowers, incense, candles, photos laid out on a little altar)  A few prayers were given, an offering from our friends which the keeper received on behalf of Babaji and responded with Babaji's thanks.  We were then given a blessing accompanied with food, drink, and flowers and paste on our foreheads.  In between there were intricate performances of the hands and phrases we couldn't quite catch.  We exchanged a few hesitant looks as we fumbled our way through the ceremony taking the lead from our new found friends.  To conclude we knelt at the altar before exiting the temple.  It was an intimate prelude for what Herakhan had in store for us. After the brief interlude we proceeded to Herakhan.  Amazing scenery held our attention as we climbed over a range of foothills to the Himalayas.  It could have been a mountain pass in NZ or Switzerland except the earth and dust held a warm red tone.  Narrow winding, single lane roads snaked up one side of the hill and then down the other.  Drivers honked their horns with some caution before turning into each blind corner.  Terraced fields on the steep edges of the hills, pine forests, monkeys, birds, handmade stone retaining walls framing the road either side, solitary mud brick and stone houses rested in the middle of it all.  We caught a glimpse of the sacred Mount Kailash and then the Gautam Ganga river.  We could just make out the ashram from the river's edge and we felt a sense of peace settle as our eyes swept across the amazing scenery that would be our home for the next five days. An ashram is known as a 'place of striving' where most people go for spiritual and personal development.  A community centred on a set of beliefs or teachings of a particular guru with their own code of conduct and daily timetable.  Our only experience to date being strict meditation retreats, we were surprised at the relaxed atmosphere of the ashram.  Expecting to be separated and immediately thrown into a rigid timetable we were pleased when the manager showed us to our room and informed us that we had the next day free to get adjusted before officially starting the ashram's programme.   We spent the first part of the morning exploring the ashram which housed its own library, hospital, massage centre, Italian restaurant and chai shop.  Most of these are found at the front of the ashram within the two levels of concreted courtyards enclosed by brightly painted square plastered block buildings which were the living quarters of the devotees.  Our room was a generous size with good light and a view over the river.  The heart of the ashram was through a terracotta passage way.  As you emerged, a temple stood to the left and a cenotaph sat directly in front of the rectangular courtyard where we would gather for arti (chanting).  The speckled path separating the pale grey courtyard and a narrow cottage rose garden ended in a T junction.  To the right down a level, a corner of a building protruding into a tiny courtyard was Babaji's private room.  The pokey little room, now a memorial is where we would go each morning to receive our chandan. (sandalwood paste on the forehead)   The most talked about 108 steps were to the left of the path and carried you down to the river's edge, past the chai shop and Italian restaurant rivalling each other for the magnificent views of the valley and surrounding hills.  As you step off into the garden you could be mistaken for thinking you are in private grounds thanks to the careful maintenance of karma yoga duties.  The area was defined by rock retaining walls that segregated different flower genus including scores of spent and blooming poppies.  Riverstone paths rambled through the garden leading to the earthy toned dwellings of the ceremonial masters and the small terracotta temple for the dhuni (fire ceremony).  At the foot of the ashram is the holy river, Gautam Ganga, within an expansive riverbed of grey, white, pink and purple stones and boulders.  Clear, crisp, clean waters flow on either side of the river's edge leaving a long but narrow islet in the middle, where local villagers have set up chai shops, partially built from the surrounding boulders.  Further down river is the sacred tree said to have been planted by Sati, the wife of an ancient Hindu god.  The bottom of the tree is surrounded by heart shaped stones found in the riverbed and placed at the foot of the tree by wistful worshippers.  Surprised by the number of these distinctively shaped stones that had been placed in the vicinity of the tree; we wandered further afield and were taken back by how frequently we discovered similar stones resting alongside the river.   A well entrenched path leads across the river through the chai shops to where a temple has been constructed beside the cave from which Babji emerged.  We crawled into the cave and spontaneously sank into meditation.  Half an hour passed by unnoticed, as we bathed in the energy that was strongly present.  Uphill from the cave lay the six brightly coloured temples built by Babaji, and the much larger ceremonial dhuni (fire pit).  For the rest of the morning we wanted to prepare ourselves for the unknown ceremonies. e.g. arti, kirtan, dhuni and satsang.  Ceremonial practices can be quite intimidating when you're unfamiliar with proceedings.  The air is often thick with apprehension and there is the fear of doing something deemed "taboo".  Still that is also part of the fun, the unknown.  Most of those who stay at the ashram are well versed in these relatively common Hindu ceremonies, and as a result the management assumed we knew what we were doing and didn't offer any detailed instruction.  So, to help quell our mild unease, that evening we enlisted the help of our German friends to accompany us through the ceremonies.  We started with the fire ceremony.  Here fire is worshipped as the living divine consciousness and the dhuni (fire pit) as the temple.  It is believed that whoever meditates and gives puja here shall be relieved of all ailments, physical, mental or spiritual.  The ceremony was similar to the puja at the old temple with the removal of shoes and washing of face and hands, ringing bells before bowing and entering the small room which contained the fire pit.  We entered to sit around the dhuni as the crackling fire was tendered by the master of the ceremony.  Prayers were then given while devotees sat and meditated or at other times stood and chanted.  The fire was built up to a roar and offerings were placed.  During the ceremony we too were given offerings in the form of purified flowers and food.  Towards the end we were presented with a dish of flames waved in circular motions and we performed a gesture as if taking the essence of the flames and pouring it over our heads.  A couple of times the smoke of the fire was so overwhelming it caused our eyes to water and throats to constrict.  Although most of the times we had one eye on the others in order to mimic their actions, the elaborate ritual was an amazing experience. Next were the Kirtan and Arti.  We were ushered into the temple and each placed in a spot where a bell hung above our head.  Before we registered what was happening, people had reached up and with the slightest movement of their hand were ringing their bell.  With a shrug of the shoulders we followed suit.  We had no idea what we were doing as there didn't seem to be a set tune, but for the next 5 mins we enjoyed filling the air with our random clangs.  Out in the courtyard for the arti, we chanted mantras in Sanskrit aka devotional singing.  Not knowing the words we sat for the hour and an half and meditated, but we were keen to take part in the harmonious sounds once we possessed the lyrics.  It was an exhausting day and we considered the evening to be good practise for the official programme that would start the next day. The dong rang throughout the ashram at 4 am.  Fighting with the comfort of the warm bed, we dragged ourselves up, wiped sleep from our eyes and shuffled down the 108 steps to the Gautam Ganga to take a dip in its icy cold waters.  Once you got past the early hour, stumbling in the darkness and braving the howling dogs, the early morning dip was very refreshing.  At least eye opening.  We took our freshly washed faces to Babaji's room for the chandan ceremony.  Waiting in blackness in the courtyard, our eyes were drawn across the river to the orange luminous glows dotting the hillside.  Each day there seemed to be a new set of fires lit to clear patches of earth for farming.  We wait our turn to be called into the room and in a couple of minutes 3 bold lines of yellow sandalwood paste cool our minds, an orange dot, kumkum, open our third eye and a few grains of rice, symbolising the purity of the soul, adorn our foreheads.  On our way back to our room for an hour's meditation, the black sky was beginning to show the symptoms of morning.  By the time we met for arti an hour later the sun rays were stretching behind the mountains.  It would be another hour before it peered over the hill and flooded the valley for the rest of the day with its scorching heat.   Our morning ceremonies end in a Satsang (meeting and discussion) where we listen to a reading of Babaji's teachings, mainly motivation for the day's karma yoga. There was little discussion and the main focus of these meetings was the day's karma yoga organisation.   By 8:00am, 4 hours into the day we were ready to have breakfast, usually tomato and cheese toast and piping cups of chai at the Italian restaurant (Named after the staff not the menu).  Sometimes we were lucky to get a day old newspaper so we could catch up with what had been happening in the outside world. Over breakfast on one particular day we glance through a copy and noted one article reporting the rates of child labour in India.  In the poorest parts it is stated that over 60% of young children are required to work 7 days a week, without pay, for people not in their own household.  Another article describes how the richest man in India is about to build a Rs2Billion home in Mumbai.  A 27 storey high-rise, every floor and each room different, with five levels of carparking.  Apparently the most expensive home in the world.  From the blissful perspective of Herakhan we ponder the stark contrast - India seems to be ever pushing the limits at both ends of the envelope. Lunch and dinner was a more social affair.  While seated cross legged on hessian mats, we were fed simple vegetarian meals from the kitchen.  The delicious nutritious meals were dished up from tin pails and onto our metal plates by the smiling kitchen staff. Our Karma yoga duties filled in the bulk of our day.  We were most fortunate to land the job of painting window frames, doors, sills and bars, grateful to be hidden from the mid morning and afternoon sun.  However by the third day we were glad to pass the job on to someone else as the paint fumes started to take their toll.  Louisa blames that for her terrible painting outfits and the amount of paint that landed on herself rather than the window frames.  While Jonathan used it as a good excuse for his frequent on the job lie downs and also to sneak off early one day for a massage.  However the workmanship couldn't be faulted and we both enjoyed working.   In the middle of the day, to break our 2 blocks of karma yoga, we had 3 hrs to ourselves.  During this time the sun would be flaunting its power so it was a great excuse for a siesta, a dip in the river, a wander in the gardens, or amble along the stone river bed.  Other days we would just sit and hang out in the beautiful surroundings while we read, sketched or strummed the guitar. At 5:30, another hour of meditation with the option of the Dhuni.  With the smoke inhalation a deterrent, we decided after our first fire ceremony to concentrate on our own meditation practice instead.  From 6:30 - 8:00pm the sounds of harmonies, chants and wailing filled the valley as darkness settled.  Our tongues rolled with Sanskrit pronunciations, our voices wailed with the best of them and our bodies rocked in time with the harmonium. Our minds frequently drifted back from emptiness to thoughts of roti and subji for dinner. Stuffed and exhausted the last hour disappeared and the 9:30 silence curfew descended upon the ashram.  However, the dogs were exempt and their heated howls could be heard throughout the night. On our last morning Jonathan organised one of the ceremonial masters to perform mundan.  This purifying ritual involves standing in the Ganga while having one's head shaved with a sharp razor.  The hair falls into the river and is carried away by the currents, symbolising the purification of the ego. It's easy to conceive how some devotees stay at Herakhan for months and in some cases years.  The self contained ashram offers peace, tranquillity and a remarkable setting immersed in spirituality.  We too were entertained by the idea and, though we would have liked to extend our stay, there wasn't enough free time in the day to pursue the things we really wanted to devote time to, like reading, writing, music etc.  We had hoped to learn more about the devotional path from other devotees as we felt at times without the full understanding and meaning of the practices we were outsiders looking in.  Unfortunately with so much going on we found little time left to meet and converse with the other devotees.  Apart from a few casuals like ourselves there were a core of about 10 foreign and a few local long timers who all seemed part of the furniture, well entrenched and focused on their duties.  For most of our stay the interactions didn't stray much further from the usual niceties. "Om Namah Shivay."  However on the last evening once we had finally come to grips with the programme, a few of the old timers engaged us in conversation.  We learnt a little about their backgrounds and their devotion and we knew if we were to stay longer we would gain better insight into the ceremonies.  Our experience of Herakhan gave us a good appreciation of the role of faith and devotion as a path to truth.  Clearly such a path is perfect for some people, but we both agreed it wasn't the path for us.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1211346300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1211346300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1211346300/tpod.html Wed, 21 May 2008 00:17:07 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Delhi, India

Though we'd been warned before, it wasn't until boarding the train at Jaipur that we had our first taste of the mini riots that can take place when its time to board the train.  There is no discrimination based on age or gender - its each man / woman / child / senior for themselves. Even before the train is visible, tension starts to build in the air, and people start fidgeting and pacing.  Smiling faces become determined scowls as people anticipate the moment of arrival.  As the train rolls into the platform, men launch themselves at it, luggage in one hand, aiming to grasp at the railings with the other so they can hurl themselves in and secure a seat.  Others thrust small children through open windows to secure theirs.   When the train finally comes to rest, a crowd of fifty or so people forms around each train door and people stand, jiggling with agitation, as the inbound passengers methodically disembark.  Then, as if a whistle has been blown signifying the start of the world-cup final, the mob thrusts itself at the door of the train, like they're trying to squeeze themselves through a mincer.   Not fully understanding what's going on, and caught up in the energy of the moment, we join the brawl, using the impersonal mass of our packs to our advantage.  We finally make it on the train amidst the suffocating trail of beaten and bruised passengers and head straight to our seats.  They're already taken!  But hang-on... we paid for confirmed tickets!  We furrow our brows at the passengers and bark "You're in our seats!"  They sheepishly evacuate.   An English couple comes in shortly after, looking for their seat.   Jonathan overhears that they are supposed to be sitting opposite us, and sensing their hesitance at claiming their rightful spots, he hurriedly evacuates the cagey squatters.  We find places for our packs and sit back, wondering what the hell that was all about!  After a few minutes the energy settles and the crowd disperses.  People now leisurely board the train, which is still docked at the platform.  It turns out the mad rush is for waitlisted passengers - hundreds of passengers hoping to claim one of the few seats that's become available due to cancellation.  We surmise that we could have waited a few minutes before we boarded the train, but hey, it was kind of fun, and we have heard stories of people missing trains entirely because they haven't been able to get through the crowds before it departs. It seems most of the waitlisters don't find a seat.  A few of them decide to stand in the aisles but most disembark the train and wait on the platform for the next.   A few very pushy individuals cling to spots they've claimed even as the rightful passengers turn up.  The result is that bench seats that are supposed to seat three people end up seating four, five or six.  The conductor turns a blind eye upon the offering of a small bribe.  And so we relax into the six hour journey with a couple of cling-ons cramping our space. Fortunately the whole debacle helped to spark a friendly conversation with Bob and Jo, the English couple sitting opposite.  The journey passed quickly as we shared stories of our Indian adventures so far and took comfort in the similarities of our impressions.  We learn some fantastic expressions from them - most notable was "we had our arses felt", meaning we got ripped-off.  We would all find many suitable opportunities to reel this one off in the coming days.  Louisa spent a good deal of the ride nursing a young Indian boy who, not having his own seat, fell asleep standing and leaning against the window.  His parents seemed relieved to have the assistance - their laps were providing their other son with a bed. Earlier in the day, in preparation for our late evening arrival in Delhi, we had booked a room for the night in the Paharganj area, only 5 mins walk from the New Delhi Train Station.  How wonderful, we thought, to not have to go through the rigmarole of bargaining with rickshaw drivers on our arrival.  As we pulled into the train station, our confidence of an easy departure was elevated further by a young American chap who had been to Delhi before.  "Yep, you just exit the train station, cross the street and you're at the Main Bazaar. Heaps of hotels there". The train rolled up and we pushed our way off through the crowd of people eager to take over our seats.  The platform was a sea of people but somehow the four of us all managed to register on our radars the movements of a pick-pocket, eagerly dancing around us.  He managed to brush his hand against both Bob's and Jonathan's waist in the hope of locating a money pouch he could steal, but all valuables were well protected.  He was probably actually quite stealthy at his vocation, and had we been fresh off the plane, senses retracting from overstimulation like a turtle in its shell, he might have had more luck.  But it seems the longer you spend in India, the more your awareness becomes attuned to your surroundings - making him stick out like a court jester in an office of accountants. We made our way past the countless destitute beggars claiming the floor of the train station as their bed.  Naked children lying next to barely-teenage mothers in the empathetic heat of the night.  When we make it to the street we decline all the touts and walk confidently across the busy road, dodging trucks and rickshaws, to the main bizarre.  But things don't quite seem right.  We stop and ask a policeman if this is the way to the Main Bazaar, and instead of answering directly he enters into a discussion with a couple of locals.  Together they offer advice to walk up the road a bit further, but they don't come across very convincing.  We follow their directions, walking past a bank of rickshaws who all vie for our custom.  We find another police stand and the policeman there proves equally unhelpful.  It isn't till a rickshaw driver approaches us and tells us that we're at Old Delhi station and that New Delhi station is about 6 km away that we begin to register what's happened.  However, we take what he says with a grain of salt - if there's one thing we've learnt so far in India it's that you should never trust a rickshaw driver!  We try and corroborate his word with the policeman and manage to make ourselves about 55% certain that he is telling the truth.  This, combined with his very reasonable offer to take us to where we want to go, and the fact our feet hurt, is enough for us to take the risk.   Now this must have been a sight - Bob, Jo, Louisa, Jonathan, four packs, three day bags and a guitar pile into one rickshaw along with the driver and his companion.  We take off in the surprisingly torquey machine at full throttle but abruptly come to a complete halt as we hit the main street which is completely congested with large heavily laden trucks.  We edge towards a side street and begin snaking through dark alley ways, past sleeping cows and barking dogs.  We merge onto another main road and travel at top speed on the wrong side of the road, narrowly missing a truck turning in front of us.  Through a red light and we're on the home stretch.  A little bit further and the rickshaw drops us of half way down the main bizarre.  We look around for our hotel but can't see it anywhere.  The rickshaw driver tries to offer us alternative accommodation but we decline.  It's now almost midnight and we're hoping the Namaskar hotel has kept our booking.  A quick study of the Lonely Planet and we locate a dark, narrow alley with the glowing name of our Hotel at the far end of it.  We sidle past a couple of feral dogs and hurry past an open air urinal reeking of stale, fermented piss.  We open the door to the Hotel lobby and are greeted by a big welcoming smile.  We've come to the right place.   We climb the four flights of stairs and drop our bags in our alarmingly pink room, noting that the bathroom appears to have been plumed into the closet.  Then we return to the front desk to complete the check-in process.  A young Korean man has approached the front desk, carrying a scuffed, unlabeled bottle of amber liquid he's recently purchased and is questioning the hotel manager in sheepish bewilderment...  "Is this... Real... Beer??" He says in a thick accent which only loosely disguised the depth of his concern.  His tongue apparently still numb from the mouthful he's just swallowed and which he is pondering vomiting up.  "Sorry, I don't understand" the hotel manager says and the man retreats back to his room.  We couldn't help but burst into fits of laughter, often we hear phrases like "Is this real silver? Pashmina? And so forth. So questioning the authenticity of beer was quite comical and on some level understandable.  We never did find out how that story ended.We head out with Bob and Jo for a quick pint and a bite to eat at a local pub, to celebrate our successful arrival in the big city.  Then we return to our rooms absolutely exhausted and ready to crash. Highest on the list of priorities in Delhi was to locate a chiropractor for Jonathan.  In the four month hiatus since his last workover, his vertebrae had been crushed beneath heavy packs, jerked in rickhaw rides, racked on budget mattresses and fused by disagreeable diets.  It was time to get the kind of relief that massage just couldn't affect.  Curiously, despite an earlier internet search giving us the impression that there was an abundance of chiropractors in Delhi, it now appeared that there were only a handful of chiropractors across the whole of India.  We manage to locate only one in Delhi and made an appointment for the next day. Keen to see some of the sights in Delhi, we decide to book a car and driver for the day, splitting costs with Bob and Jo.  First stop was Jama Masjid, a huge mosque capable of accommodating up to 25,000 Muslims for prayer.  The structure was impressive, but the antagonistic young man at the entrance and the repeated attempts of various other employees to rip us off soured the experience somewhat.  After a quick look around, including a hike to the top of the southern minaret to enjoy the sweeping city views, we left and made the short walk to the nearby Red Fort. It seems Emperor Shah Jahan (Taj Mahal) got around. He built this fort planning to move his capital from Agra to his new city Shahjahanabad.  Of course this never eventuated as Shah lived out his days imprisoned in the red fort of Agra which, incidentally, makes the red fort in Delhi look like a sandcastle after the tide has crept in.  After a quick wander around and for Bob a quick dash through the garden sprinkler, we were out of there. It was nice to drive around in the relative comfort of an airconditioned car.  Even having doors was a novelty for us - usually opting for the (theoretically) cheaper alternative of a rickshaw.  We rolled up to one set of traffic lights where six lanes of various modes of transport were awaiting the signal to move.  A group of young girls approached the car to beg for money, beginning with the usual hand-to-mouth motion.  After trying the doors they stood persistently at Jonathan's window, smiling shyly while knocking lightly and repeating the gesture.  Jonathan decided that instead of giving them money (we still don't feel comfortable doing this), he would offer some light entertainment instead.  He held up his hands and proceeded to perform the 'magic' trick whereby you appear to pull the end of your thumb off by joining the start of one thumb with the end of the other. The girls gasped with astonishment and looked at Jonathan with a mixture of horror and disbelief.  Two of the girls moved on in a hurry, but one stayed and stared questioningly.  For the next five minutes, Jonathan educated her with the secrets of the trick until her initial shock had faded and she was able to perform it effectively herself.  The traffic lights turned green and she waved us goodbye with a beaming smile then excitedly ran to her friends to show them.   She seemed genuinely grateful for the atypical transaction - it was nice to make such a simple human connection across so many superficial boundaries. The highlight of the day was the Bahai house of worship.  The temple form was tastefully derived from that of a giant, unfurling lotus flower and it was spectacular to experience from both inside and out.  It is in many ways reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House, but its design is much more regular.  The house of worship is open to people of all religions and many come to sit in its bright, peaceful hall in silent meditation.   Overall, our brief visit to this temple would have to be one of the highlights of our trip so far.  It was great to experience how both the philosophical and architectural aspects of the vision behind it have come together to create such a coherent beacon for the elusive Truth. After a spot of lunch, our driver drops us off at Connaught Place, the shopping hub of Delhi, where we spend an hour or so perusing the numerous shops before making the short walk home and retiring for the day, exhausted. Before visiting the lotus temple, we managed to squeeze in Jonathan's Chiropractic appointment, which we had organised the day before.  Eagerly anticipating a good crunching, and that liberating feeling of being able to twist and turn freely and without pain, we bounce up the stairs to the home clinic.  Dr Garg sits Jonathan down and asks a few questions about his history and travel plans before accepting him for treatment, noting that it is likely the treatment will release some blockages and symptoms may be temporarily aggravated while these clear.   He guides Jonathan into the treatment room and Louisa is asked to stay in the waiting room with the bags, reasoning that she may adversely affect the energy of the treatment room.  Jonathan is told to lay face down on the treatment table and begin breathing deeply.  Dr Garg takes a moment of silence then his hands lightly survey Jonathan's spine and he begins balancing his energies.  After 10 minutes of very subtle work, Jonathan is asked to roll onto his back and the treatment resumes.  Barely making contact, Dr Garg places his palms on Jonathan's cranium and fingertips at various vertebrae and points on the skull.  Healing energy flows tangibly from the Dr's fingertips and Jonathan begins to feel the gradual dissolution of tension along the length of the spine.  His neck begins releasing and correcting its alignment from the inside out, guided by the subtle energy flow. His stomach begins gurgling and popping, evidence of blockages dissolving.   At the end of the hour long treatment, Jonathan's body feels very light, coherent and liberated.  He questions Dr Garg as to the techniques he is using, noting it wasn't what he was expecting, but it seemed very effective.  Dr Garg alluded to it being a combination of techniques including ayurvedic and craniosacral work.  It wasn't till a follow up appointment, where Louisa also decided to give the treatment a go, that we found out the full story.  Dr Garg is a devotee of a fully-realised guru based in an ashram in Bangalore (The Art of Living).  The techniques he uses were taught to him and a handful of others by his Guru.  Before each treatment, Dr Garg invokes his Guru, who works through the good doctor, guiding his hands and sustaining the flow of healing energy.  During this process, Dr Garg remains in a meditative state and becomes witness to the subconscious realm of the patient, where emotional and karmic causes for the patient's complaints are revealed to him.  The treatment works on all levels - physical, mental, emotional and spiritual and direct benefits were yielded on each of these levels, after a period of release. Not exactly what we had expected, but the subtle nature of the treatment is much kinder on the body than regular chiropractic manipulation, and the effects seem to penetrate far deeper.   After two treatments, Jonathan's stomach problems, which had lingered for several weeks, cleared up completely.  Not without one last purge though!  The day after the first treatment, the symptoms intensified and Jonathan rapidly overtook Louisa's former record of eleven toilet visits in one day.  From deep within his gut, litres of rotten-egg gas started rising into long, sustained burps, sparking fears of giardia.  But these fears were put to rest when the burps evolved into a vomiting spree that didn't stop until there was absolutely nothing left in his system.  Feeling exhausted, but at the same time all nice and clean on the inside, Jonathan downed a bottle of electrolytes and put himself to bed.  A couple of days of eating mashed potatoes and veg soup and he was back to full strength and proud to be functioning properly again. It was also at this time that we finally broke our resolve to put budget ahead of comfort, and moved into a room with air conditioning.  The daytime temperature had begun to exceed body boiling point on frequent occasions.  The 40 degree heat was dry and this made it surprisingly bearable in short bursts, but without the ability to retire to the sanctity of an airconditioned room, it was beginning to take its toll on our energy levels.  Particularly when neither of us were in full health to begin with.  The health issues would also become justification for some additional minor indulgences.  Jonathan's waif like figure and the reliability of processed packaged food was good enough excuse for us to ensure regular intake of bounty bars and digestive biscuits.  Of course it didn't take much convincing that it was for the vitamins found in the coconut, the fibre in the chunky oaty biscuits and energy from the chocolate.  Not to mention all those saturated fats!  While Jonathan takes it easy for another day, Louisa ventures out on to get some culture and spends the afternoon at the national museum.  Encouraged by the cold grey corridors and exhibit halls with its muted lights and forceful AC, a direct contrast from the soaring temperatures and blinding light outside, she takes her time to wander through the halls, lapping up the richness of India's epic history.  The various civilisations, invasions and religions were clearly evident in the subtle differences in pottery, reliefs, tapestries, textiles, coinage, instruments and works of art.  Trying to get your head around India's history would take more than an afternoon visit though it was heartening to feel a few twangs of familiarity when reading about myths, gods, influential leaders, historical events and civilisations.  Reassured that we had absorbed a lot of India's history from the four states we had visited in the past six weeks, Louisa spends the rest of evening in retail therapy. After a couple of days spent taking it easy and avoiding the heat, making the most of the airconditioning, relaxing, writing, reading, we decided to take care of the last of the Must See Sights in Delhi. Top of our list was Ghandi Smitri, the spot where Mahatma Ghandi was assassinated.  Another communication breakdown meant we were taken to the Ghandi Museum instead.  As it turned out the museum was an excellent introduction to Ghandi's life.  We spent a good hour learning more about the saintly man's vision and broad reaching influence on India.  We then headed to Ghandi Smitri, where we saw his simple office and walked alongside his final footsteps. Despite our attempts to remain open minded, Delhi succeeded in further degrading our impression of rickshaw drivers.  The most notable experience occurred one afternoon when we asked to be taken to State Emporium shopping complex.  We showed the man a map pinpointing exactly where we wanted to be taken so as to avoid any chance of confusion.  Following his own agenda, he decided instead to try and trick us by taking us to dodgy substitute, where he can receive commission from any purchases we make.  All the slimy shop assistants attempt to corroborate his assertion that he has taken us to the State Emporium as we requested.  It didn't take us long to see through their blatant lies - particularly as the building was only about a tenth the size of what it should have been.  We make our exit, disregarding any niceties, and walk straight past our rickshaw driver who tries again to convince us that it is the right place.   He soon sees we're not that gullible.  In fact, he seems a bit apologetic.  He then offers to take us to where we actually wanted to go for no additional charge.  It's 40 degrees, we're out of water and we don't really know where we are, so we take him up on the offer.  He drops us outside "Cottage Industries", another place we did want to go, but not the one we had told him.  We get out, bid him adieu, head into the building and soon register that he's done it again - another fake emporium!  We leave and ask the man at the door which way to go to the State Emporium and he points the way.  Fortunately the rickshaw driver is no longer there waiting for us.  If he was he would have got an earful.  We console ourselves, humouring that we "got our arses felt" so bad by the guy that we'll likely shit out his wedding ring the next morning. We walk and are promptly joined by another man who asks where we want to go.  He flatly denies all direct questions as to whether he's a commission tout.  He doesn't look the part either but we take everything he says with a grain of salt.  He says he's on his lunch break and is walking this way anyway so doesn't mind showing us where to go.   He leads us to another 'Cottage Industries', but from another landmark and a quick glance at Lonely Planet we know we're nowhere near the real 'Cottage Industries'  we turn and walk away, refusing even to acknowledge him any further - another commission tout!  And then another tout approaches us, this time greasy, young and dodgy written all over him.  He says 'I like your hat'.  Jonathan (who's now getting close to losing it!) says 'I don't like your hair' and we walk off.  Then 50m down the road Jonathan decides to relieve the accumulated frustration and celebrate the ridiculousness of everything by letting out a mighty roar, much to the amusement (and sympathetic acknowledgement) from a couple of passersby.  Lo and behold, a few more paces and the actual place we were after enters our view - an hour after we got in the first rickshaw!   We head there with a bounce in our stride, but not without an attempted interception and redirection from one more even greasier, dodgier looking young lad!   We spend a few hours at the State Emporium, buy a few nice things at reasonable prices and with very little hassle - except for one lame attempt from a sole tout to lead us away, saying that we're not at the State Emporium. Idiot! Later that afternoon, after having a light meal and a bit of time-out, we make it to the Janpath markets where we are continuously assaulted by a barrage of touts and marketeers.  At one point we decide it's time to pause for a bit and we help ourselves to an ice cream.  Our pause is interpreted as an invitation to pounce, and all of a sudden the onslaught gains magnitudes of intensity.  We are practically mobbed, ice cream in one arm, beggar children tugging at the other, both ears and eyes being assaulted by a row of craftswoman yelling at the top of their lungs, fighting to get us to notice their wares, and offering us ridiculously cheap prices.  It escalated to a moment of complete sensory overload, and with that we both withdrew all involvement from the scene and, with detached and peaceful minds, just stood there and observed.  The assault carried on until we'd finished our ice creams, without further affect, other than to produce a smile on each of our faces.  The amount of energy that was being released by all involved was phenomenal and as it continued, everyone seemed to be slowly transforming, relieving themselves of tensions and frustrations from a hard, hot day on the sidewalk.  Smiles even started to shine forth from a few of the craftswoman - apart from one, who almost had a nervous breakdown trying to get us to buy her cushion covers at a quarter of the price of some of the other stalls... (The price of one ice cream).  Never a dull day in Delhi. After almost two weeks in the Paharganj area we grow quite fond of our frequent walks along the Main Bazaar to get a feed at one of the many restaurants.  The roughly paved lane is lined both sides by hundreds of shops selling clothes, shoes, textiles, groceries, metal crafts and souvenirs.  The shop keepers continually invent new ways to attract your attention.  "Remember me!?" they shout hoping you'll look back at which point they'll beckon you inside.  "Where you from?" is a common shout, usually followed by a confident guess at France, Brazil, Canada, South Africa, Switzerland Australia or any country other than New Zealand.  Mild mannered cycle rickshaw drivers offer their services as insistent beeps emanate from cars and autorickshaws trying to negotiate the narrow lanes and the bustling crowds.   Another common sight is young men holding hands, or walking with arms around each other's waists.  They're unlikely to be gay - from all accounts, public displays of homosexuality aren't tolerated in India - it seems that the act is merely a celebration of good old platonic friendship. The resident beggars rise early and work a long day, rattling their tins and demanding your spare change, with hardy smirks adorning their faces.  One seasoned veteran stands barely four feet tall, well past the age where shrinkage sets in.  She stands uncomfortably stooped, firmly clutching a bamboo staff with frayed ends.  Her hair wild, matted and grey.  Her sari is tatty, slightly faded and dusty, but it still offers up its attractive colours to passersby.   Her face is weathered and wrinkled from several scores under the Delhi sun.  Her thick, shrivelled skin masks all indication of the bone structure that would have defined her younger face.  But her keen eyes - they still twinkle, and when her wisdom alerts her to potentially charitable passersby, she moves with a surprisingly determined swiftness.Another resident beggar relies on a different approach.  Doing all he can to draw attention to his lame leg, he drags himself along the centre of the road, wailing and gasping like an infant expressing the compound suffering of hunger, tiredness and bloating.  As you approach, the wailing gets louder and desperate but unrecognisable pleas roll off his tongue.  The same painful routine is played out every night. On a daily walk, one young boy grabs Louisa's arm and with surprisingly cheerful eyes, signals us to examine his left arm.  Hand conspicuously absent, his arm terminates at a bloodied raw, infected stump.  We were unsure whether this was the result of accident, design or a disease such as leprosy.  A woman emerges every night after sundown, places a cotton sheet down on the side of the road and kneels down upon it.  She places her begging tin to one side then lays her young son beside her, resting his bandaged head on her lap.  For the rest of the evening, he will lie limp and lifeless and she will hang her head in sorrow and gently sway, without saying a word. Most evenings (and a number of times during the day) we are offered hashish and opium in a slightly strained whisper.  A number of men, African in appearance, roam the lanes after dark every night, stoned out of their trees, advertising the effectiveness of their products.  Only a few blocks from the main bazaar is a street corner harbouring a collection of heroin addicts, wrapping their arms in torniquades and squeezing the contents of their needles into their arms in the heat of the midday sun. Delhi's confronting reputation has been known to put fear into the hearts of India's first timers and many approach this famed city with trepidation, making their visits sweeping. We too braced ourselves for the pandemonium but hoped our past experience might soften the impact a little.  As it turned out, Delhi's brusque appearance is only skin deep.  At her heart, she is a convivial, welcoming city.For two weeks we stationed ourselves at the boundary of Delhi's two contrasting but complementary worlds and marvelled at how they came together.  The old Islamic capital of Old Delhi, with its frenzied lanes, crushing bazaars, historic sights and remarkably cheerful destitution, brims with charm and authenticity.  New Delhi, the British Imperial capital, boasts wide boulevards, peaceful parks, glamorous window displays and lounging cafes - offering a cushy but ultimately unfulfilling reminder of the long relinquished comforts of home.  The mingling of these two worlds is what makes Delhi come as close as any other city to offering a comprehensive experience of the truth of the human condition.  A collection of 13 million souls witnessing life through 13 million different pairs of eyes.  No two perspectives the same.  Many poles apart.  But each perspective equally real to the one witnessing.  The accumulation of so many vastly disparate lives in one place certainly makes you question the validity of your own precious perspectives and closely held beliefs.   
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1210502520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1210502520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1210502520/tpod.html Sun, 11 May 2008 06:46:33 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Jaipur, Rajasthan, India

We rolled up to Jaipur in the bus and were a little shocked to find that it is a large modern city, with  the compulsory big shiny malls and the parasitic golden arches of McD's.  The first time we've seen this side of India.  Impressed by the introduction to Jaipur in the Lonely Planet, we altered our original plans so that we could check out the Rajasthan capital.  We figured it was as close as we were keen to get to a desert at this time of the year. To celebrate our arrival at the Pearl Palace hotel, Jonathan lay down on the bed and took a few deep breaths.  He then leapt into the bathroom and threw-up his lunch in five impressive watery gushes, while simultaneously purging some earlier, less recognisable meals from the other end.  Who says men can't multi-task!  The toilet may flush in the opposite direction in India, but rest assured, there are still always carrots in your spew.  Nothing like those little familiarities to keep you smiling! Never one to be out-done, Louisa shortly joined the festivities with her own interpretive response to contamination.  We were both thrilled to find out that stomach bug symptoms are additive - those from one combine effortlessly with those from the next, yielding a wonderfully complex and expressive display. You know you've reached new levels of intimacy when you look expectantly at each other after each pit stop, waiting to hear the progress on each other's bowel movements.  Louisa won the toilet relay on our first day with a grand total of 11 visits.    After a mildly delirious and restless night in our broom-cupboard of a room we decided to upgrade to a room triple the size for a surprisingly low additional Rs100.  We suspect we were victims of a commission-inflated price for our first night - courtesy of the man at Sakura Hotel in Agra who found us the room (and who we can't help but suspect was responsible for our new stomach condition).   No hard feelings though - the Pearl Palace Hotel is highly suitable accommodation for the bed-ridden.  Mr Singh, the proprietor of the Hotel, enjoys as bit of interior design and the quirky decor kept us well entertained.  The entire hotel has been given the once over by Mr Singh's designer eye, and the attention to detail is impressive - everything from the ornate friezes on the ceilings to the corridors and stairwells, tastefully adorned with knick-knacks.  The common room with its regal furnishings was a nice respite from our room and proved conducive to making acquaintance with fellow travellers, including an Aussie girl with whom we swapped numerous travel stories.   However, after two days lying in bed studying the decorative friezes on the ceilings we did identify as many as five mistakes in the painting of the complex pattern.  And after countless bathroom visits we were awakened to numerous errors in the decorative, lime green tiling in the bathroom.  Perhaps it is for these reasons that the hotel only sports a two star rating.  We would have awarded it at least another star just for trying.   For the first few days, the few flights of stairs from our room to the roof-top restaurant were barely manageable, mainly due to the heat of the day zapping the little energy we had left.  However, upon making it to the top, you are richly rewarded with an oasis offering impressive views of the city.  The pink-walled terrace is scattered with eclectic, misshapen, iron furniture and lush greenery, potted in terracotta.   Colour and patterns splash the walls and smatterings of Rajasthan pottery and organic metal artwork occupy little nooks and crannies.  At night the restaurant's array of lighting effects, with its overhead coloured glass mosaic lanterns, fairy lights and bronze garden torches, flickers and dances to the delight of enchanted diners.  The kitchen and shaded seated area rests under the cover of a remarkable Peacock roof which can be viewed from an upper-level chill out area (where the heat makes it a little hard to actually chill out).  The menu at the restaurant was vast and probably quite delicious - judging by the quality of the mashed potato and vege soup that became our staple diet, easing us back into health.   The third days sees us break the shackles tying us to our room.  We walk through the main streets of the old city (Pink City) to the city palace.  Each block is dedicated to particular commodities and we seem to walk past a hundred bike and kitchen utensils shops, while on the sidewalks, villagers sit with their colourful arrays of vegetables.  Apparently Jaipur is known for shopping and with the many Indian customers keeping retailers busy we were able to enjoy the architecture and sights relatively unimpeded.  Or perhaps they guessed we weren't in the market for a wok.   However, we were apparently in the market for a drum.  An overly, overly, overly persistent hawker did is very best to ruin our newly restored vitality.  After the usual "no thank you"s fail to penetrate his determined mind, his escalating insistence that we purchase a drum leads to us try a few alternative methods to shake him off.  We first try the simple, rational approach, stating that "we won't be buying a drum because we don't want one".  This fails to even register.  In an attempt to clarify the point, Jonathan tries to help the man see things from our viewpoint by likening his request that we buy his drum to us requesting that he buy Jonathan's underwear.  So, the next few requests "You buy my drum" were retorted with "no, you buy my underwear".  So what do we have here... two fellows persisting in trying to sell each other something the other doesn't want.  Both reached a stalemate, neither making their sale.  This seemed to dent his resolve a little, but it wasn't long before his insistence picked up again.  We stepped into a brisk walk, and then a canter.  He followed us keenly, banging away on his drum, pointing out its high quality, repeating his request, which had now become more of a demand.  At this point Jonathan stopped the man, pointed down the road and said to him in a concerned voice "Excuse me, but I think you may have dropped your soul back there on the road - you'd better go and pick it up!"  The man turned back to look, paused for a moment, but not seeing his soul anywhere, turned back to us and resumed his assault.  At this point there was no option  - we had to break out the secret weapon.  Jonathan began dancing and singing a joyous jig and headed round the corner in the direction of the Palace.  The man, either too confused, or too embarrassed to follow us, finally left us in peace! We disappeared into the palace complex for a couple of hours.  We took in the sights, including a couple of impressive buildings and museums displaying numerous tapestries and textiles.  Most noteworthy was a display of the pyjamas worn by the 250 kg, 1.2 m wide Sawi Madho Singh I.  They honestly looked big enough to be worn by a small planet.  There certainly appeared to be enough of him to share fairly between his 108 wives.  There was also an armoury with vast arrays of swords and daggers, as well as a curious collection of 'nut-crackers'.  Ouch.  Ok, so they were probably for walnuts.  We perused the numerous specialist shops and took a step inside one of the silk shops.  Louisa had been considering purchasing a sari for some time, and a few of the ones they had on display caught JONATHAN's eye.  The shop assistants keenly suggested to Louisa that she try one on "No cost, just try". Louisa wasn't particularly enthused by the idea, so Jonathan jokingly offered to model one instead.  Not a moment later, the shop assistant had Jonathan standing with arms raised as he wrapped the silky length around his waist, gathering it at the front, wrapping twice around his chest and tossing the remainder over Jonathan's head.  He found a small red bindi and located it on Jonathan's forehead to complete the ensemble.  Jonathan stood demurely as the five shop assistants and a crowd of customers gathered round in amusement.Before he got too comfortable, Jonathan shed the sari and inspired by how damn good it made Jonathan look, Louisa began looking through the racks for one to try on herself.  After much deliberation and trying on several alternatives a suitable choice was located and a purchase made.  We had a quick drink at the palace cafe - that was all we could afford - the prices were astronomical compared to all other places we've eaten at.  And to add to the expense, we got stiffed by the waiter who deliberately gave us change from his pile of torn (invalid) notes.  We unfortunately didn't notice until it was too late to swap.  Actually, this wasn't the last time waiters, shopkeepers or rickshaw drivers in Jaipur would try to offload their dodgy money on us.  Fortunately, it was the only time we let them get away with it.  Each city seems to have its own pet way of trying to rip unsuspecting travellers off!  We eventually emerged from the palace and no sooner had we hit the main street than the pestilent drum merchant from earlier spotted us and pounced.  Weary from our afternoon wandering we were no longer in good enough spirits to fake any niceties.  Ignoring didn't do the trick either and after the harassment continued for another minute, Jonathan let slip the string of words to finally silence the man: "We don't want your f^%king drum so would you please just f*&k off!"  Lo and behold, the man was struck dumb and immobile.  We departed the scene feeling a curiously liberating mixture of surprise and relief. Drummer boy wasn't the only one who got on the receiving end of the verbal discharge of two liberated travel diarrhoea victims. The grand finale was rendering two rickshaw drivers speechless as they approached us like headless chickens vying for our patronage.  Before they had a chance to say anything Jonathan states where we want to go and then says, "You have one chance to offer us a fair price, that's it, only one chance." Of course they try to interrupt with the usual "how much you pay?", trying to instigate a bargaining process.  A pointless exercise on this occasion.  "No" Jonathan says, "You give us your best price, and you have only one chance.  If it is not a good price, we will ask someone else"  Struck speechless, the drivers turn to look at each other, then back at us, then at each other again.  One driver, knowing he has met his match and realising he has no chance of receiving an over-inflated fare, gives his friend a smile and withdraws .  His friend begins to ponder his options.  "Okay" he says slightly gingerly, "90 Rupees?" Good on him for trying to call our bluff, but we had predetermined that 40 Rupees, our original fare to the Palace, was the most we were going to pay.  We shook our head and said "No, thanks" and walked past him to the many other rickshaws.  He eagerly followed us, repeatedly calling out offers of reduced fares, by 10 Rupees at a time, like he was hosting a reverse auction.   We continued to walk on, sticking to our original principle of giving the man only one chance.  A passing rickshaw driver decided to capitalise on the situation, offered us the fare we were after, and we gave him our custom.  The original driver missed out on the fare, but he seemed to have a lot of fun and enjoyed being put on the spot.  A little disappointed he admitted defeat but gave us a cheerful wave and laughed it off.  In fact Jaipur did a lot to restore the balance in our love hate relationship of rickshaw drivers.  The next day, much to our surprise, we find out 1/2hr before check out time that our room at Pearl Palace is no longer available and there are no other free rooms at the hotel.  It seems the Pearl Palace is a little too popular and favours running at capacity above offering loyalty to existing guests when it comes to accepting bookings for rooms.  We contemplated leaving for Delhi that night but we hadn't seen the main attraction of Jaipur, which was Amber fort, so decide to stay another day and move to a nearby hotel.   During a short ride to the train station to organise tickets for the next day we were entertained and impressed with a hard-case larrikin rickshaw driver, "Honey".  Quite an appropriate nickname as he oozed sickly sweetness.  He seemed to empathise with the hassles that western tourists encounter and he had us in fits of laughter so we decided to hire him as our driver for the next day - with the understanding that he would not take us to any of his friend's shops and pressure us to buy goods so he could earn a commission. That evening we encountered his just as charming brother "Ali" who drove us to the Temple of the Sun God and the Monkey Temple in Galta. We arrived just before sunset and climbed the 200m ascent to the Sun temple which is perched high overlooking the surrounding plains.   The sun began to set in the distance behind layers of dust so it was a quick stop.  Next we made our way down the other side of the hill - a rocky gorge, in which the monkey temple is neatly nestled.  In dusk's pale glow we felt scrutinised by the eyes of the thousand monkeys who lined the path.  At the bottom lies a temple built around an impression found in the rock face resembling a monkey.  We stayed while a temple guardian gave us some background history and made us repeat the names of the important gods several times until he was satisfied that we remembered them.  Of course these were promptly forgotten as the last few minutes of light begin to disappear.  We didn't get to spend much time looking around the temple as it was a bit of a hike to the rickshaw and we didn't fancy doing that in the dark - the gathering of monkeys seemed to be silently threatening to advance and use us as a sacrificial offering for their god.  However, unscathed, we made it back to the safe haven of the rickshaw and enjoyed the quick tour of the pink city in the night lights on the way home. The next morning we met up with Honey and he took us to Amber Fort, the most impressive sight in the city.  Like an illustration in a fairytale book, Amber fort sits with majestic, commanding presence atop a stark rugged hill.  We chose to climb to the fort from the road rather than take the brightly painted elephants or contrasting overpriced grey jeeps.  On the way up we passed several sun-beaten, sari-wrapped women toiling the rough ground with their bare hands, collecting stones and rocks to be used in maintenance work being carried out on other parts of the fort.  They were eager to have us take their photo - presumably the tips they receive from tourists wanting to capture them on film often proves more lucrative than their meagre wage. The fort is of a grand scale, sprawling across the ridge, covering a vast expanse of land.  High stone walls frame its boundaries and snake off into neighbouring valleys, reminiscent of the Great Wall of China.  Upon entering the main courtyard of the fort, a grand staircase invites you to begin your exploration.  A maze of corridors, rooms and courtyards, all imbued with individual character and purpose, expands before you as you turn each new corner.  Public meeting spaces lead to private quarters and multi-level living spaces, including dining areas with curiously low ceilings.  Vast, vaulted, naturally air conditioned catacombs lead to underground water storage tanks big enough to supply a small city.  The fort offers stunning views across the valley and into the city of Jaipur.  After a couple of hours of repeatedly getting lost and finding ourselves again, we decide we'd better leave the other-worldly haven behind and make the most of Honey.  On the way back from the fort we pass a couple of camels on the side of the road and succumb to Honey's suggestion that we have a ride.  He negotiates a reasonable price for the ride (allowing for a small commission for himself) and the camel is asked to kneel down so we can mount it.  Once we're happily nestled atop its hump, it straightens its back legs and we sway forward, holding on tightly to avoid tumbling forward over its head.  Next it straightens its back front legs and we come to a sudden realisation of how far we have to fall.  We are led a few hundred metres up the road and then back again.  It's quite unnerving being so high up off the ground and the saddle certainly isn't designed for comfort.  Jonathan complained of a sore arse most of the way and his voice had raised a few octaves by the end of the ride. On close inspection, the camel is a little malnourished and evidently mistreated by its shady owners.  And the young lad who leads it while we ride appears to be working for free - judging by his desperate attempts to glean a tip from us at the end of the ride.  We jump back in the rickshaw and reflect on the experience while the two men who apparently own the camel scuffle over the money we've paid then like two stray dogs fighting over a bone. Final stop on the way back to the hotel to gather our bags is a textile factory run by some friends of Honey.  Apparently offering good prices, and with no-pressure sales people, we humour Honey and agree for him to take us there for a look.  We assure him we won't be buying anything, but he seems hopeful we may change our minds once we see what they have on offer.  We are greeted by a moderately uneasy man who shows us a small factory where metal powder is being applied to fabrics to create glittery patterns.  He proudly draws attention to the fact they don't use child labour in the factory, but seems oblivious to the fact that the men who work there must be having years trimmed from their lives by constantly breathing in the fine metallic dust.  None of them wear masks and the room is filled with a choking haze of glitter.  The man even jokes "Have you ever seen a gold man?" and then points to one of the workers arms, which is covered by a fine layer of golden particles. Next we are lead into the factory showroom where we are seated and their full range of products is presented.  Nothing takes our eye but it is good to see the range of bedding and clothing on offer.  We eventually tire and excuse ourselves.  Honey seems a bit disappointed that we didn't make a purchase but is quick to find his sense of humour again.  It seems that despite our clarity at the outset, he was hoping to offset the Rs300 we agreed to pay him for the day's service with a couple of commissions.  We had him take us back to the Pearl Palace where, for old-time's sake, we climbed to the roof top restaurant and partook in a bowl of vege soup and mashed potato.  Then we dropped by our hotel, picked up our bags and it was off to the train station.  We paid Honey the money for his services, and happily tipped him a bit extra for restoring our faith in rickshaw drivers, agreeing to recommend him to any of our friends who might come to Jaipur. 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1207718220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1207718220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1207718220/tpod.html Mon, 28 Apr 2008 01:19:56 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India

We've had a good run with India rail, however this time our pleasant 13hr overnight train to Agra ended in 16.  Fortunately we were in no hurry and while Jonathan took advantage of the extra lie in, Louisa watched the countryside come to life.  While marvelling at the discipline of so many people up at dawn praying in the fields, she sees one guy stand and pull up his pants.  Doh! They were all just taking their morning dump.  Trackside, an overexcited young man obviously turned on by the sight of the robust, blue, matronly figure cradling her passengers, waved enthusiastically with one hand while vigorously giving Ms Palmer and her four fingers a workout with the other.  Averting her eyes, Louisa decides her attention is best kept inside.  The train snaked nearer to Agra and a buzz of anticipation rippled through the carriage.  As the bulbous icon came into view, western and eastern tourists shared a moment of wonderment at the breathtaking vision that is the Taj Mahal. Due to pollution in Agra, the usual black buzzing blowfly rickshaws that plague the cities have been superseded by the gentle hum of well tuned, CNG powered wasps sporting unsightly Australian colours.  Nevertheless their drivers still swarm the packs of travellers stumbling bleary eyed from the train.  With the wide, paved, well maintained roads and a noticeable absence of rubbish we had the most pleasant, smoothest ride to our hotel, even managing a convivial discussion with our driver.   Most travellers make Agra a day trip but with time on our hands we had the luxury of staying a few nights in Agra, enabling us to catch the Taj at different times of the day.  Our guesthouse was a short walk from the south gate and with the excellent view of the Taj from its rooftop restaurant it was hard for it not to be the topic of conversation.  This just added to the build up for our visit to "the most extravagant monument ever built for love".   It's certainly a magnificent feat of architecture, but it's the Taj's beauty and tragic history that make it so poignant.  It is the vision of Emperor Shah Jahan, a mausoleum to immortalise the memory of his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their 14th child.  It is said that in his grief Shah's hair turned grey overnight.  Shortly after the monument was built, Shah was overthrow by his son and imprisoned.   As we enter through one of the three 30m red sandstone gateways and see the Taj symmetrically outlined between its arches we fully appreciate the accomplishment of its design.  Set against a backdrop of naked sky, the green cypress-lined pathway tenaciously tunnels your field of vision towards the focal point - the Taj.  We take our time to amble towards the steps that lead up to the marble foundation platform.  Wandering along the path of ornamental gardens we pause for photos at the central marble plinth and again enjoy the Taj in its full grandeur. Finally reaching the platform, we don our complimentary foreigners' shoe covers and ascend the noticeably hollowed steps, worn by the millions who've visited the monument before us.  We feel privileged to follow in their footsteps.  We take our time examining the intricate detail of the workmanship of over 20, 000 people from India and Central Asia.  The main structure of the Taj, topped by the large central dome and its four small surrounding domes, is made out of semi translucent marble.  Inside, our attention is drawn to the detail of the decoration; the delicate carved flowers, the intricate inlays with semiprecious stones and calligraphic quotations from the Quran.  The central room is tall and cool, and gently reverberates with myriad voices and the shuffle of feet.  In this room is the elaborate cenotaph of Mumtaz Mahal and beside it is that of Shah Jahan.  The real tombs are locked in the basement room out of view. Back out on the platform we measure our pintsize bodies (ok so one of us is more like a litre) against the decorative 40m minarets that adorn every corner.  We sit alongside one of the walls discussing the structural considerations and the necessary management for the 22 year project and are interrupted by some maintenance people chipping away at the Taj.  On closer inspection the damaged area appears to be plaster, a temporary fix, awaiting a marble replacement.  Due to Acid rain there has been discoloration of the marble and eroding of the inlays so maintenance must be pretty demanding. We spent the rest of the afternoon in the gardens where the view was most rewarding, waiting for the sun to set.  As we watched the evening colours mingle on the white marble we pondered Shah Jahan's vision.  The Taj is a monument to love and it embodies love in its completeness.  It glows with the purity of divine beauty while silently exhaling the sadness of an empty heart.  Untainted by romance, the Taj is a Shakespeare tragedy written in cold stone.  It speaks the truth of that quintessential human experience, uncensored.  Only when love's glory meets the depths of her own despair in the heart of one man can such unrivalled majesty become manifest.  We reflected on the Taj in today's terms.  Would such a feat be possible, or even given any serious consideration, given the way today's moguls seem to rank worldy wealth higher than love's grace.  Rumours have it that he was planning to construct an identical Taj in black marble as a tomb for himself opposite the river, creating a mirror image in negative.  This is a bit farfetched but makes for an interesting story and perhaps justifies the imprisonment on the grounds of waning sanity! The next morning we allowed ourselves to sleep through our intended rooftop expedition to view the Taj at sunrise.  We finally haul ourselves out of bed and take a rickshaw to visit the Red Fort, where Shah Jahan was imprisoned shortly after the Taj was finished.  Perhaps he had the foresight of being overthrown so he made the Taj Mahal so grandiose in order that it could be seen from his fortress.  The fort was first constructed by Shah's grandfather and additions were made long after his passing.  Those made by Shah himself are distinct in the use of his favoured material - white marble.  The sprawling fort would have to be every little boy's dream and we reminisce about our childhood forts made out of sheets, furniture and the linings of a para rubber pool.  We had great fun exploring with childlike enthusiasm and lost ourselves in the many rooms, hidden passageways, alcoves and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere logical.  The fort turned out to be an excellent backdrop for another MySpace photo shoot which meant we were able to appreciate the fort and its beauty from another perspective. After contemplating a 2nd visit to the Taj we decided to save the 1500R entry fee by viewing the Taj in the morning light from the rooftop of our guesthouse.  Not as spectacular as it might have been due to the dust in the horizon shrouding the sun, but still a view worth waking up for.  Later we went for a walk around the town and once we were out of the lanes of shops we were drawn to a wide quiet lane littered with buildings in varying shades of blue.  Many of the locals chilling outside welcome us with smiles.  A few children posed in front of their homes and asked to be photographed.  We hesitantly obliged, which lead to cries of, "One more, one more." Suddenly we were inundated with children and like we were the Pied Piper, the horde followed us down the lane while more and more popped out of the brickwork.  One individual had us in hysterics, with his hand outstretched he demands fervently, "Money, Chocolate!"  It was very difficult to take him seriously especially since the glint in his eye showed he knew it was all a game.  There was no pity or malicious undertone just an actor playing the role expected of him, nor did he walk away disappointed, just happy to have caused some visitors to his town some merriment. From our interactions with the locals it seems that while some may tire of the view of the Taj, they are very proud to be the hosts of this magnificent internationally renowned monument. Before our bus we ate at Hotel Sakura restaurant, where the buses to Jaipur leave.  The helpful manager gets us a room at the Pearl Palace Hotel in Jaipur,  despite the fact Louisa had earlier been told twice that it was fully booked.  The reviews of the Pearl Palace were too appealing to pass up so we cancelled our other reservations under the guidance of the manager. 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1208520960/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1208520960/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1208520960/tpod.html Fri, 18 Apr 2008 08:47:54 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Varanasi, India

The 3 ½ hr scenic train ride to Varanasi passed through spectacular countryside.  Golden fields were radiant in the late afternoon sun; an occasional flash of brilliance denoting a sari-clad woman tending the crops while children bask in the sun or cool off in the river, waving furiously as the train clacks by.  A parched river bed scorched by the increasing temperatures indicated we were in for some hot times.   For part of our journey we were engaged in discussion with a local GP from Allahabad with a clinic in Bodhgaya... at least that's what he said.  Eager to make our acquaintance, he moved from his berth to a seat closer to ours and greeted us with the usual pleasantries and a string of personal questions.  Hearing we come from NZ, he exuberantly rattles off NZ cricketers and gushes over Stephen Fleming.  Given our lack of knowledge of the Black Caps season we half heartedly tried to match his enthusiasm, alas, in vain.  The discussion was short lived. Keen to continue the exchange he adamantly declares Jonathan to be a business man, despite being told the contrary, and pleads that Jonathan be his friend.  Jonathan quips that everyday people ask to be his friend but inevitably just want money.  The guy says "No, no, nothing like that", so a harmless exchange of phone numbers takes place.  We decline offers to share his drink and for him to teach Louisa Hindi over the phone.  The banter helped whittle away the time and seemed genuine enough, but sufficient Lonely Planet "Be wary if..." signs were evident to cause mild suspicion.  It's a shame to find yourself always looking through this veil of mistrust, but with all the publicised safety warnings for tourists it is difficult not to.  Still, we are slowly becoming better at tuning into the truth of people and situations, which helps to reduce the somewhat ugly need for presumption. Varanasi (formerly Benares) is an ancient, very spiritual city, situated on the holy (but septic) Ganges River.  The most fascinating parts of the town are the old city and the ghats, which sprawl about 7km along the western bank of the Ganges.  The ghats, a series of steps which lead down to the river, are the focus of much of the cultural expression in the city.  People come here to bathe, pray, take part in festivities, play cricket, generally hang out, do the washing and cremate the dead. Unfortunately, Varanasi is also known for its endless scams and relentless harassment of tourists.  Enough for one woman Louisa spoke with to label it 'City of Darkness'!  Despite ample warning and due care, our first interaction in Varanasi managed to entangle us in one of the many scams designed to defraud tourists.  We carefully select an autorickshaw driver and ask to be taken to the Alka Hotel, where we have a reservation. The driver seems somewhat reluctant, but assures us he will take us as close to the hotel as possible.  We reiterate our request a number of times on the half hour journey to make sure there is no chance of a misunderstanding.    The welcome to each new city we visit seems to surpass the previous in intensity.  The ride into Varanasi was a bone-splitting, eye-watering, lung-charring traverse.   The sun had recently set and thick, toxic smoke, sustained by countless rubbish fires, reduced visibility to a few meters in all directions. This didn't discourage our driver's attempt to sustain top speed, overtaking and interweaving the continuously unfolding stream of buses, trucks, cyclists and pedestrians that flickered in front of us. The potholed streets and rickety pontoon bridge shake us senseless, and we both retire into inner sanctity - the only option when you realise you have left your life in the hands of a complete stranger.  A few moments inside and the scenario takes on a different flavour - less chaotic, more of a dance.  It becomes clear that the madness is orchestrated on some unseen level - a conscious inter-connection, life itself, upholding its own survival.  Only fear can interfere with the dance and cause calamity.  And with that insight we both relax into the remaining journey.  Not without the occasional flinch though.  At one point we motored past a young sari-clad girl on a bicycle, only millimetres to spare, almost wedging her into a parked rickshaw.  A glance back revealed she was still peddling on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  Apparently her life had not just flashed before her eyes.  Damned if I didn't see the spark in the corner of my eye! Our hotel is located alongside the Ganges river, in the Old City - a tangle of narrow lanes that can't be accessed by rickshaws.  As we near the old city, the driver predictably starts recommending numerous alternative hotels, hoping to earn himself a commission for depositing us at their door.  We are firm in our instructions and he eventually pulls up and says that this is as far as he can go.  We pay him the agreed fare and he walks us the short distance to the Ghats, motions us to turn left and says our hotel is a 5 min walk away.  We start walking in the dim evening light, parrying constant queries from men and children eager to be of assistance and earn themselves a few rupees.  On one occasion we reply to a young boy's question of, "Where you go?" telling him we are heading to Hotel Alka.  His reply, "Only a kilometre or so further"! We are both weary from the train and rickshaw ride, and each laden with a good 20kgs of luggage - we assume (hope) the friendly local must be mistaken.   Surprisingly, we pass a number of men who seem to display clairvoyance, predicting that we are looking for Hotel Alka, and offering us "very good price" boat rides to take us there.  I thought it was only 5mins away!  We decline and continue walking.  The determination not to be sucked into any scams gives us the vitality we need to keep moving.  It seems the young boy was correct.  After a good 45 mins we finally see the sign of our hotel.  It seems the rickshaw driver had deliberately dropped us off at the opposite end of the ghats and rung ahead to his boat-owner mates in the hope that we would take their offers of a ride, thus earning a commission.  Not sure who came out trumps here, but we felt invigorated from the walk and happy to have avoided the lure to pass more money onto the rickshaw driver.  Needless to say a few unpleasant thoughts went his way that evening. After a good night's rest, we spend the first day exploring our surrounds - the old city and the ghats.  A step outside of the hotel and we are amidst of network of narrow alleys that twist and turn their way from the ghats to the main streets.  Each bend revealing something new; a cow or two blocking the path, a procession of holy men heading to the ghats, hordes of women spending up large in the silk and accessories shops, children lined up waiting for school to start and military officers carelessly fondling their rifles.  The one reliable sight was a dusty old man in holy garb trying to lure you into receiving 'puja' with a resounding "Hello!" and a hand out awaiting a shake.  Everyday, no matter when, he was there.  On the last day we finally gave in to his insistence. Every lane has a different personality, framed either side by rambling rows of individually distinct buildings.  Each door is unique in style and colour.  Some brightly coloured, most well worn and faded.  Some closed, others ajar, offering glimpses of dim rooms and bright private courtyards, or abruptly introducing narrow, twisting stair cases that advance into darkness.  All invite a curiosity for the detail of the lives that unfold on the inside. The lanes, the buildings, the doors and stairs are undersized, jumbled and faded, almost as if a standard city block had been given a heavy duty wash and then left in the drier too long.  Men sit in 1m x 1m openings, nestled amongst the snacks and supplies they offer for sale.  Most of the buildings are two or three stories, sufficient to shade the narrow lanes from the midday heat, but the sunlight finds its own way in and the resulting patchwork contrast of vibrant hues tickled by the Indian sun is stunning. The Varanasi cuisine had us on our knees.  Literally! We both got very nasty arse and gut at Assi Ghat Varanasi! 'Scuse the pun but that's what you get after two days in bed with a fever and the shits.  Thankfully it wasn't too severe and for a couple of days we consoled ourselves with the usual rainy day activities in between dosing ourselves with paracetamol, oral rehydration salts and frequent visits to the loo.  So we could have used that doctor from the train after all.   Fortunately Hotel Alka had all the necessary facilities to keep us relatively comfortable.  We only had to stumble about two meters from the door to our usual dining table, so we didn't have any excuse for not keeping up regular intake of mashed potato.  Many of the staff at the hotel had tikka - the ubiquitous red mark placed on the forehead of Hindus.  We watched this process take place on a number of occasions, performed by the apparently resident holyman (who looked remarkably similar to Jonathan's father, only skinnier, and Indian).  Catching the eye of the holy man one morning we were soon initiated into this ritual.  Not sure if it helped with our recovery or not, but the Holy man did offer us a short prayer which may have sped up the healing process. After that brief interlude, it was once again time to face the music.  It was a day of two halves, full credit to us both but Varanasi was the winner on the day.  Not bearing to look at the walls or toilet floor any longer we set out to achieve two simple tasks - to get Jonathan a Reiki treatment and to buy train tickets.   The result was a scavenger hunt over the ghats where we were referred from one place to the next.  Halfway through our search we stumbled upon an energetic physiotherapist who gave us a break from the searing midday heat.  Jonathan came away with some exercises, a weight revelation of a few more kilos lost, 30 calcium tablets and a report of low blood pressure.  A bargain for only NZ$8.  The appointment itself only cost NZ$2! Continuing our search we reached what we hoped was the final destination only to find the Reiki Master out for lunch.  A few attempts to get train tickets were also in vain so, defeated in our pursuits, we slumped into Open Hand Cafe and quietly rejoiced in finding a wireless internet cafe, tastefully furnished in silks and designer furniture.  We head back into the field of traffic with a cycle rickshaw but halfway down the road the chain comes off.  A blessing in disguise, as the combination of hard seats, no suspension and cobbled streets was beginning to reverse any benefit from the physio appointment.  Figuring the driver had well and truly earned his 30 cent fare already, we pay him off and head to the ghats for the walk back, zapped of energy and enthusiasm.  This proved to be one of those days you shouldn't leave home - when we arrive back at the hotel the manager on reception gives us helpful information regarding the train and Jonathan organises a massage next door all in the space of 10 mins. The remaining days were generally more rewarding, fleshed out with numerous excursions to the ghats and deeper exploration of the labyrinth of lanes that make up the old city.  On one of our many walks, Jonathan was thrilled to see his first real live rectal prolapse!  The poor dog didn't seem particularly distressed by the fact his rosy pink rectum was dangling between his legs.  Come to mention it, out of the many animals we encountered sporting some form of unappealing disease, most seemed pretty happy. Negotiating the main streets can be a challenge if your spirits are a tad weathered.  Some days you can walk along relatively unscathed, but on others it seems everyone wants a piece of you (or your wallet).  On such occasions you inevitably slip into tunnel vision mode  - head down, blinkers on, pacing towards your destination, offering only short, sharp responses (or none at all) to even the most polite solicitation.  In this mode it is interesting to note how sensitive you become to the movement of would be fiscal predators.  Something of survival instinct kicks in and your vision becomes heightened with the ability to identify and track their movements at the exact moment their instinct to pounce is aroused, often resulting in a clean getaway.  On one such occasion we divert our path to avoid confronting a man who is making a bee line for us.  As we pass him by, the brightly dressed stoner sputters, "Do you wanna get high?" and then breaks into the best rendition of a Billy-T laugh we've heard in years.  Offers of drugs actually seemed to occur with remarkable frequency.  Perhaps the bait is the new 'heroin chic' appearance Jonathan is sporting courtesy of all those new found bacterial friends hanging out in his gut.  On one occasion Jonathan engages our friendly local (hangs out near our hotel) opium dealer in a conversation about consciousness.  The dealer insists that opium lets him talk to god.  Jonathan plays down his suggestion noting that it is only a low level god - the opium consciousness - that you can reach through opium and suggested that he should use meditation if he wants to reliably connect to higher consciousness.  A very entertaining discussion unfolded as we were escorted back to the steps of our hotel, where we bid him farewell. Such interesting encounters were frequent on the ghats.  The reflex affirmation of a handshake offered by one old man lead to Jonathan enjoying a very effective half hour massage for only Rs50.  A young girl strikes up a conversation with Louisa, asks if she can swap earrings and eventually invites her back to her uncle's house to witness a photo taken with Goldie Hawn many years ago.  Louisa politely declined all offers.  After we buy from a small girl, a lotus flower candle arrangement (for setting adrift on the Ganges), her smaller boy companion insists we buy one off him too.  When we decline, he becomes incredibly angry and points at us with distain saying, "You are a very bad person!" and then follows us down the path hurling abuse, shoving the flower into our hands.  When we made it very clear that we had no intention of buying anything from him he stalks off only to pass again later with more abuse.  Not sure how such a small boy could pack in so much anger.  Must be something in the water.  Probably the faecal coliforms. Such encounters gave us a welcome break from the monotonous chorus of, "Hello! Boat?" which intrudes on any attempt to enjoy the sights peacefully.  After trying out countless responses we found that a rapid interjection of "No Boat!" was the best way to stun the boat touts into offering up a brief interlude of silence.  It also served to produce a few giggles. Varanasi is a photographer's playground and we relished the opportunity to give the camera a good work out.  A particularly favourite subject is the water buffalo, who, despite not being officially holy, know they're just so much cooler than the cows.   They spend much of the day hanging out in the Ganges, expressive eyes relating great contentment, jaws surrendered in an unbroken elliptical motion, as they chew on their muck.  In combination with the very photogenic surroundings, Jonathan's heroin chic rock-star-esque appearance inspired us to start deliberately trying to get some suitable photos for a MySpace page to promote his music.  Hence the few "ee-that's- a-bit-posy-for-a-holiday-snap" photos.  Apologies if they offend. Probably the most spectacular sight on the ghats is the myriad women in their wonderful saris.  A thousand shades of vivid brilliance graciously framing an equal number of dark-skinned, bright-eyed faces.  On our way back after a particularly exhausting day exploring, we stumbled upon a festival where hundreds of women were arriving boat load upon boat load to pay respects to one of the many Hindu gods (we never did find out which one).  It was a very uplifting sight.  We set ourselves down on one of the ghat steps and let the slow flow of colours and festive energy revitalise our spirits.  New Zealand may possess natural beauty on par with that accessible in India.  But it is the mingling of her natural splendour with the beauty that overflows from her rich and vibrant culture that makes India such an amazing place to experience. Having watched the stunning sunrise from the ghats on a few mornings while declining persistent offers of boat rides, we hire a boat one morning to see the dawn activities on the ghats from a different perspective. Many people were out performing their rituals, bathing, washing dishes and clothes on the edge of the ghats.  A few out for a morning swim dodging the boat loads of tourists. 10km from Varanasi is a small town called Sarnath, where the Buddha came after enlightenment to preach his first message of the middle way.  Sarnath was home to many monasteries and tall stupas, however with the Muslim invasion the city buildings were destroyed.  The amazing ancient ruins we saw were rediscovered in 1835 by British archaeologists who excavated the site.  We paid a worthwhile visit to the archaeological museum and marvelled at the great reliefs and sculptures, all very well preserved and effective in creating a picture of what the early centuries must have been like in the area.   Unfortunately we let our enjoyment of the day become slightly tainted by our rickshaw driver's repeated attempts to inflate his fare using techniques he learned at Rickshaw Driving 101 class.  There is a simple little phrase bandied about by drivers: "as you like".  The literal meaning is something like this "you can pay that much if you want, but it's not a lot.  I'm very poor, you must be very rich.  At the end of the ride I'm going to try very hard to guilt trip you into paying at least twice that, maybe three times.  If you don't agree to this I will do my very best to make you feel like you're ripping me off. "  The alternative technique, which is sometimes used simultaneously, is for the driver to say "yes, yes" in agreement to a fare, but then rattle off a rapid string of half-pronounced English words, a deliberate exaggeration of the language barrier, especially designed to leave a grey area in interpretation.  Again, at the end of the ride, the driver will try and inflate the fare due to "unforeseen" conditions such as busy traffic, or again, just because of their perception that you can easily afford it.  It seems there is no escaping such preconceptions, which in turn makes it a constant challenge to keep any of your own dormant preconceptions from rising to the surface. Ahh, Varanasi!  We'll take away a mixed bag of memories from your sacred streets and bustling banks.  Though the name 'City of darkness' does not befit you in our eyes, you did bestow on us a few unfavourable gifts.  Unnatural bowel movements.  And other memories which, when recalled, will cause recoil for some time still to come.  Varinasi, you do have a Very Nasty side. But you also let us feast our eyes on your unique displays of beauty and life, striking a multitude of endearing poses as we happily snapped away.  You gave us an abundance of good memories, many of which were captured on digital film. These will remain safe from the weathering sands of time.  So, while we're not sad to be shaking your hand and bidding you adieu, I'm sure there will come a time when we'll look back and say, "Ahh Varanasi.  You were so Very Nicey!". Ahem.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1206942840/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1206942840/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1206942840/tpod.html Sun, 06 Apr 2008 01:56:15 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Bodh Gaya, India

Out of numerous alternatives, we select Bodhgaya as our next destination, the place where Buddha attained enlightenment some 2600 years ago.  The small has been built surrounding the temple that was constructed beside the Bodhi tree (or, at least a direct descendent) - the tree under which the Buddha sat when he attained Buddhahood.   We take the overnight train to Gaya with warnings of caution from the travel agent in Kolkata not to talk or make eye contact with anyone, not to eat anything as it could be drugged and to separate our cash.  Advice like this is abound especially in the guidebooks and it is difficult to know if you are being overly cautious or rude, missing an opportunity to experience some cultural exchange.  Fortunately, no unsavoury incidents transpired, apart from a few uncomfortable stares.  After a night of intermittent sleep, calls of 'Chai Chai' got us up in the morning as the train pulled into the station at 5:15am. As the first light of Jonathan's birthday spills onto the road, we catch glimpses of horses with straw laden carts, cattle, cycle rickshaws, cyclists and people walking along the roadside shrouded in cloth shielding them from the early morning dust all making their way on the 15km journey into Bodhgaya.  Shattered we were grateful to find a place who allowed us to check in at 6:30 that morning.  After a quick nap it wasn't long before the noise outside beckoned us from our room and we ventured out to see what the town had in store for us.  We were greeted with roadside carts of bags and clothing and Jonathan elatedly purchased his birthday present, a bag he has been after since spotting one on the shoulder of a fellow meditator in Thailand.  Not to mention every second monk as well.  A hidden store of silks catches our eye and Louisa manages to escape with only 3 silk scarves after having the shop's entire stock spread out on the floor in front of us.    We spend the afternoon at the Mahabodhi Temple.  The temple and surrounding gardens were a bustle with many monks, pilgrims, large tour groups and families.  The atmosphere was serene, calm and peaceful with everyone immersed in their own thought/reflection/contemplation. We sit undisturbed, watching monks and laypeople perform their rituals and prayers and we take time to meditate at this special place and bathe in the intense energy present.  The currents guiding us to drift in and out of heightened states of awareness.  The maya of space-time occasionally rippling before your very eyes. We put on some traditional clothes for a special birthday dinner at a local Indian restaurant, as fate would have it, one of 2 places in town that sells alcohol.  We try the local lager which would have been better left in its dusty bottle.  The lingering taste would discourage us from partaking in a nice cold beer for the remainder of our 2 week stay in Bodhgaya.  At dinner we were entertained by an unexpected and striking display of psychic connection.  For some reason, Louisa began asking a series of questions about people and events at tables out of Jonathan's view, and the answers spontaneously appeared in J's mind as rudimentary images.  After the brief interlude, presumably triggered by the remnant energies of the Buddha-field, or perhaps a glitch in the Matrix, we returned to the more traditional form of verbal communication. Our resolve to go with the flow leads us the following day to the local Dhamma Bodhi vipassana centre.  This wasn't part of the original plan, but out of all the places on earth to practice the meditation technique taught by the Buddha, this would have to be the most inspiring.  We sign ourselves up for the first five days of the ten day course - calling on our rights as old students to sit on a part time basis.  A bit of a communication breakdown and the teacher never becomes aware of our intention to leave early.  The following day we follow up with the teacher.  He is very disapproving and he does his best to dissuade us from leaving early, determined with a passion to see we make the most of the opportunity available.  We later learn of the foundation for the teacher's passion.  Some 5 years ago, he was facing the prognosis of a six month life expectancy due to advanced cancer.  He devoted two of those months to intense vipassana practice and follow-up tests revealed the cancer to be almost eliminated and curable with minor surgery. The centre is a tad run down but serves the purpose well the energy is very conducive to a focussed effort.  Unlike the centre in NZ, the Dhamma Bodhi centre sports an ornate pagoda containing several tiers of individual meditation cells.  The small concrete rooms, about 1m by 2m, serve to cut you off from any worldly stimulation and encourage you instead to remain focussed on exploring the vastness of the mind. Five days meditation passes in the blink of an eye, and despite encouragement to stay at the centre, we both feel satisfied that we have gained significant benefit from our short course and opt to face the outside world again with refreshed self-awareness. Unbeknownst to us, the day we emerge from vipassana is a public holiday and festival known as 'Holi'.  We have to wait a good half hour for one of the meditation centre local volunteers to cycle the 4km into town and locate a rickshaw as the town pretty much closes down for the festival.  Much to our surprise, a cycle rickshaw eventually pulls up, the sweaty, wiry driver covered in mud.  We load our packs onto the tray and offer to help the driver walk the rickshaw until we get to a sealed road.  He tries to explain to us why he is covered in mud, but he speaks little English.  Once we get to the road however, the reason becomes apparent.  Part of the day's festivities is for young local children to collect together supplies of mud and hurl them at passersby while yelling 'happy holi!'.  Fortunately, while devoting full energy to keeping the fully laden rickshaw moving in the blistering heat, the driver manages to dissuade the first group of attackers.  Further down the road he was less successful and we get hit numerous times.  Louisa was worst hit, with mud all over her front and left arm.  The driver happily offered his services to clean her up. When we make it into town, we see we've got off very lightly - instead of mud, the majority of children (and adult men) are squirting whoever they can with dye - blue and purple mainly.  Some standing on street corners, some stationed on top of buildings like snipers.  The majority of people are dressed in white, volunteering themselves as targets.  By the end of the day there are very few people not wrapped in blue and purple rags, and the following week many of the newly coloured ensembles make repeat appearances, a reminder of the fun everyone had.  We manage to avoid being doused in dye but we run into a number of tourists who took a more active part in the celebrations. Eager to find a place to stay, and realising that many of the guesthouse receptions aren't manned because of the holiday, we accept our first offer of a room - a small but adequate room in Happy Guest house.  At Rs150 ($5NZ) a night, there was no room for expectation of any sort.  However, the stray dogs howling and feasting on the pile of rubbish outside our door most of the night was enough to encourage us to look for something slightly higher budget the next day.   We eventually settle in at RS Anukul Guesthouse - a light, spacious room for only Rs250 per night.  Apart from the frequent blackouts (recovered quickly by the generator, an old truck engine) and a grimy bathroom (with overflowing cistern, constant leaks and pools of water), the guesthouse was perfect for chilling out, reading, writing and working on music when we were not hanging in town or checking out the numerous Buddhist temples. The guesthouse had the added advantage morning Yoga classes downstairs.  The classes are run by a Gopal Swami, and include asana, kriya, pranayama, mudra and a small amount of vipassana.  A lot less intensive than our usual ashtanga sessions, but a good introduction to some other aspects of yoga we haven't tried before.   We only take advantage of the classes a few times, partly out of laziness, and partly because the spacious room was ideal for practicing ashtanga.   Situated on a quiet street hosting a few temples, the neighbourhood cow and a few businesses, the beautiful view from our abode was of a lane that doubled as a rubbish tip.  One morning we watch from our window as a little boy as young as 5 wistfully wander downs the technicoloured lane of rubbish.  Avoiding the pigs feasting and a few wandering dogs he pauses every now and again to pick up bits of waste, turning them over in his hand to assess their worth.  Obviously seeing more value in a scruffy sheet of plastic than we do, he palms the hidden treasure and continues his morning walk. On our frequent walks to and from the town 5 mins away we would past makeshift homes of canvas and sticks.  One was the local laundry where the ladies would be bashing wet clothes with rocks along a slab of concrete.  We would often pass them at night, ironing the day's work by candlelight.  Other glimpses of the village life include the street-side skinning of a goat, afternoon cricket on the pavement, and numerous holy cows ambling their way down the street. Bodhgaya is home to a large number of temples representing many different nations.  Two of the more notable were the Thai and Japanese temples.  The Thai temple, strangely enough, was reminiscent of the many temples we visited in Thailand.  We took part in one of the evening sessions of Zen meditation at the Japanese temple.  Was quite an experience with all the gongs, drums and chanting. Keen to take a bit of time out from the constant travelling in Thailand, and finding the energy of the town fairly conducive to rest, we decide not to move on too quickly.  In fact we end up staying 8 nights at RS Anukul before cementing our plans to move on, making our total stay in Bodhgaya about 2 and a half weeks. During this time we become regulars at a couple of the local restaurants - OM and South Cafe.  OM does amazing spicy potatoes and has a good selection of desserts.  South cafe would still have to be our favourite though, dark and a tad dingy.  Located in a basement, but with a knack for turning even the most mundane dishes into something amazing.  Not sure how they did it, but the tomato and cheese toast and the coffee were just divine and kept us coming back  Not sure who the culprit was, but a minor stomach problem keeps J a bit quiet for a day but fortunately this time he doesn't need to be hospitalised!Though it is a small town, every day was different and you never knew what to expect before you walked out the front door.  Some days the village resembled a dusty shanty, hardly anyone around, and those who were seemed generally disinterested or offered a casual 'Namaste' without diverting from their path.  On others it was madness.  Busloads of international tourists, auto-rickshaws and 4 wheel drives hooting endlessly, touts persistently pestering, groups of youths stalking your every move as if tethered together by some zombie-mind with an odd fascination for the banal.  Altogether very eclectic setting for what is such an historically significant place.  Bodhgaya would have to be the friendliest place on earth.  Whether you're sitting at a cafe having a bite to eat, wandering the streets in the midday heat, or quietly contemplating the Bodhi tree, hardly a moment passes without the call of 'Friend!, Friend!'.  Offer any sign of acknowledgement and you're immediately thrust into a familiar string of questions.. "What is your country, friend?", "First time in Bodhgaya?".  On occasion the initiator is genuinely interested and is happy just to make your acquaintance.  Unfortunately, the majority of the time, there is a more selfish intent.  The state of Bihar is one of the poorest in the country, and a western face is synonymous with money.  The conversations all start happily enough, and can be a great way of learning a bit more about the area.  All too often however, you get to a point where the script turns and you find yourself facing forceful requests to buy silks, CDs and trinkets or persistent pleas for money, sponsorship, assistance to buy books, biscuits or even Horlicks!  It's a pity, because after it's happened a few times you become a bit suspicious of any attempt from a local to make conversation. One of the most entertaining exchanges was with a young chap of about 10 years old going by the name of Raul.  A very cute, personable and intelligent boy.  He initiated a conversation while J was out for a walk one evening.  He talked about his studies, all the subjects he was taking.  He demonstrated his abilities in speaking several languages, including Japanese, which sounded pretty fluent to J's rusty ears.  He talked of a few of his other foreign friends with whom he maintained email contact.  He offered to walk us around, show us his school and introduce us to his teacher.  Sensing a potential scam, but not feeling threatened in any way, we accompanied him back to his nearby village.   We are lead directly past a local school, into a collection of mud-brick houses of random architecture and varying degrees of completeness, set upon a network of narrow, dusty lanes.  An impoverished, but seemingly simple and happy existence flowed around us.  Woman in saris cooking on open fires, and sweeping the dusty floors.  Children happily at play in their grubby garments.  We felt a little like we were imposing but see a few other westerners being lead around by other children and nobody seems overly concerned about our presence.  We are lead to a rooftop terrace and then Raul disappears, apparently to find his teacher.   A couple of slightly older boys, a little uneasy in disposition, attempt to keep us settled by describing surrounding trees.  After a minute or two we sense a palatable tension in the air and excuse ourselves.  On the way out we bump into Raul and a man of early twenties exuberantly claiming to be the teacher.  We laugh unabashedly and all know the scam has fallen through before its had a chance to take hold.  We let Raul walk us back to the village, resuming the previous stream of conversation.  Then Raul describes how he is studying English and has wanted to buy an English dictionary, but can't afford one.  He asks if we would buy it for him.  Sensing another scam, but at the same time swallowing his seemingly genuine pleas for compassion, we say that we don't have any money on us, but he can look for us tomorrow and we might be able to help him out then.  We bid the boys adieu but the severing of company isn't instant as the other boy becomes insistent that we buy him some Horlicks.  We eventually manage to cut him loose and venture off to get some dinner.   We ignite a conversation with a couple next to us who tell us of a scam they've fallen victim to - buying a dictionary for a cute young boy.  As they since learned, the boy then takes the dictionary back to the bookstore and pockets 50% of the original purchase price!  The next morning Raul spots us and heads in our direction saying "Hello friend, will you buy me a dictionary today?"  J responds with a firm "No, I won't be buying you a dictionary" and Raul's charismatic facade shifts to one demanding pity . "Why not friend, you promised, you promised!".  J kneels down, looks Raul in the eye and says "Because I know it's a scam". "What scam! What scam!  You promised to buy me a dictionary!", his voice takes on an angry tone.  J then explains his understanding of the process that would unfold once the book is purchased.  Raul begins fuming and rattling off a series of Hindi curses and stomps away.  For the next few days, every time we cross paths with Raul, he voices his disapproval of us.  What a change! He was such a charming young boy.   We spend a couple of days pondering the many layers of the experience.  Later, talking to one of the waiters at OM, we learn the same scam works with all sorts of merchandise from packets of chips to cans of Horlicks.  He fills in many more details.  We learn that Raul and his friends, despite their apparent intelligence, don't frequent school and are most likely illiterate.  Instead they fill in their days wandering the streets looking for unsuspecting tourists.  Part of the proceeds of their scams, which numerous shop owners partake in, are often spent on alcohol and cigarettes.  The parents of the boys don't do anything to discourage them because of the extra money they bring in.  Such a shame to think that these boys are forgoing their education - probably the only chance they have of emerging from their impoverished existence - for a few extra dollars.  We meet many fellow travellers during our stay including a number from the vipassana centre.  While our original intention was to travel north to Darjeeling, in part to escape the rising temperature, we instead convince ourselves to make our next stop the holy city of Varanasi.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1205477520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1205477520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1205477520/tpod.html Wed, 02 Apr 2008 10:01:21 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Kolkata (Calcutta), India

A word of warning - inadvertently inspired by the literary heritage of Kolkata, we´ve accidentally written a bit of a novel...It was a day of firsts..  first on the plane, first through customs, greeted by our first authentic Indian head waggle...excellent!  And for a budget airline, Air India Express is brilliant - heaps of food and very comfortable.We arrive at the airport with no rupees, thinking we will use the ATM when we land. Unfortunately there is no ATM at Kolkata´s international airport and the money changer doesn´t accept plastic.  So the realisation sets home that we are not in Kansas anymore, things are done a little differently around here...if at all.On our half km walk to the domestic terminals ATM, we get our first taste of being hassled by locals overly eager to be of assistance.  While L is off to get cash, a young Indian guy strikes up conversation with J.  Just for fun, J tries the tactic of answering each question with a question and noting the difficulty with which the guy settles on answers to questions like  "how old are you", decides to fabricate a story.  J enjoyed being someone else for a while and is still mystified as to if the guy was actually trying to get anything out of him or not.  Placing our full faith in Lonely Planet, we opt to arrive in Kolkata without any accommodation booked, instead with the intention of taking a taxi to the "tourist ghetto" of Sudder st, where numerous budget hotels are located.  We purchase a prepay taxi coupon - Luckily Louisa is aware enough to realise that the attendee is trying to rip her off by shortchanging her of 500 Rupees.You don´t get much of a chance to work the systems out for yourself before being "helped" out by eager locals. With the prepay taxi system, there is a number on the receipt that is the license plate of the taxi that is yours.  After a displaying a look of confusion for a mere moment, a malnourished cripple lacking left hand offers assistance.  Picks up our bags with his stump and starts loading into a taxi.  Almost in before we all realise that its not the one we´re supposed to be in.  He then takes our bags and leads us down long queue of taxis till we find the one with our number on it.  Driver of original taxi follows and gets in front seat of our taxi, much to our confusion.  We give the helpful cripple a possibly generous tip and begin the taxi ride.  Okay so 3 incidents down and we are finally in our way.Beep, parp, beep, toot. Beepbeep beeeep paaaarrrpp! Goh Blimey the sights and sounds to be rejoiced in during our introduction to Kolkata.  Most drivers seem to have their own signature horn-hooting rhythm and offer it up with as little reason as seeing a bird in a passing tree.  The resulting cacophony becomes our theme music for the rest of our time in Kolkata.The traffic consists mainly of whimsical yellow `Ambassador Classic´ taxis, some almost new and some rather well beaten, including the one we were riding in, which didn´t have any paint remaining on its entire left side.  The taxis continually swerve to avoid the local buses which travel at twice their speed and resemble stunted jugganorts dressed for Mad Max.About 2/3rds of the way into the journey, traffic comes to a complete standstill.  The driver turns off the engine and slumps forward on the steering wheel.  Other drivers lean on their horns.  Others get out of their vehicles and help themselves to a cup of chai from a street-side stall.  After about 10 mins, we start moving again, but the same routine happens about 3 more times before we make it to Sudder St.  We read later that at 2pm every day the entire 1-way system of the city changes direction, bringing traffic to a complete standstill.  Not all bad as it also gives pedestrians a brief window of opportunity to cross the roads.We spot the sign of one of the hotels we´ve read about in lonely planet, so decide to ditch the cab and take a look.  Manage to walk into hotel continental instead of hotel intercontinental, which is 4 or so doors down, and they happily claimed they were the hotel we were looking for.  Nice lobby but out of our price range so we grab our packs and hit the streets.A step from the door we were tagged by another "helpful" but let´s face it annoying guy trying to put us in a hotel - had to trick him to escape but he did give us the excuse to wander into a range of hotels and look at what was on offer.Finally after that marathon effort we settled in to our relatively comfortable shoebox and take a long deep breath which in fact turned into a decent meditation session.  This would become a common occurrence after most excursions - a requirement to settle the mind from the sensual bombardment. Obviously not put off by the apparent chaos we decide to check out Sudder St - apparently Calcutta´s equivalent to Khao San Rd- according to the lonely planet.  Those expecting today´s Khao San with its beers, wares and fanfares will be disappointed.  It does though have the large no. of hotels, travel agents, cheap eateries and a higher proportion of locals to tourists. We took up a curbside position to observe the goings on in the neighbourhood and through the perpetual assault on the senses, experience our first real moment of connection with the city and its people.  In front of us, a black skinned, grey haired barefoot man drags his tana-rickshaw to the side of the road and drops off three young kids, then begins to negotiate fares with a couple of aristocrats.  Playing out the roles their castes demand, the aristocrats looked upon the rickshaw driver with distain and sternly demanded a lower fare.  The rickshaw driver pleads for a little sympathy, apparently saying he´s exhausted and has no money.  The aristocrats threaten to walk then turned back to hop on board the rickshaw.  The driver turned and looked at us with a gleaming, knowing smile, letting us in on his private victory.  Once the men were aboard, he set off, turning again to us and offering another smile - this time filled with wisdom and joy.  It was clear that he knew it was all just a game, and that his harsh life circumstances had no bearing on how brightly his spirit shone.  This was the first experience showing us how thin the veil of apparent madness and confronting contrasts is in this city.  At times it almost has the air of a movie set - you half expect a director to yell `cut´ and everyone to gather around and commend each other on how convincing their performances were.  If you relax into the experience a little, open your eyes a bit wider and tune into the energy of the city, the veil falls away and you see the place in an entirely different light - brimming with life and delight.  Resonating with an energy that is authentically human.  Welcome to India, heart of the Earth!We spent a morning strolling around the colonial part of the town.  Several blocks worth of impressive buildings nestled amongst squalor, flanked with rows of white Ambassador Classic cars displaying `on duty´ signs, drivers sitting ready waiting to be called.  The whole scene a slightly faded reminder of the time when Kolkata was the capital of British India.  The beaurocracy still hasn´t worn thin as we found out when tried to post a letter at the post office.  It took 20mins to buy the stamp and have the letter processed.  Each line of the address scrutinised and discussed by three men peering over their spectacles.  The area was one of the more challenging to traverse.  Constantly confronted by men of all walks with their dicks out, pissing into the gutters or against the walls of buildings; men hurriedly trying to clean up the spill from an overturned rubbish truck before it fermented in the heat; a man crouched and clutching to a sign post, clinging to existence as he suffered through the last few hours of his life, tormented by a gathering of flies.  And of course there was the unceasing clamour of horns and revving diesel engines.The biggest display of colonial grandeur in Kolkata is the monument to Queen Victoria.  A large, cool, tranquil and intricately detailed white marble structure framed by well maintained green reserves.  Very impressive, but the contrast with the rest of Kolkata really makes you wonder what the British were thinking.  We spent an hour or so here, catching a breath of semi-fresh air before venturing back out into chaos, poverty and filth lining the surrounding streets.  Not fifty paces down the road before we´re spotted by a child beggar across the street.  She darts in front of four lanes of traffic, homing in on us like a guided missile.Bypassing Louisa, she laps at J´s heels with her tin while he tries to ignore her pleas.  Her voice, a deep, angry growl like she was ripe for an exorcism, became more insistent and urgent.  A man walking towards us with his family spots the scene, accelerates with an angry canter and a torrent of Hindi rolling off his tongue.  He gives her a whack on the head with his empty water bottle.  Relentless in her pursuit she marches right back to J and tries again.  This time Louisa steps in with a firm NO and wave of the hand.  Sensing that she may have meet her match the little beggar gives L a little shove, mutters a curse and is then is back on her way.The begging situation has given us a lot to reflect on - particularly how we as tourists fit into the picture.  We have found (and all advice agrees) that its best not to interfere - let the locals deal with it as part of the workings of the culture and the city.  Luckily there are the two of us and one can always intervene on behalf of the other if the situation persists.  Of course the children are the hardest to ignore, which is the strategy that works the best.  Not much easier to say no to the mothers sporting their babies one arm, gesturing for money for milk with the other.  Nor the withered, weathered elderly who can barely stand and rattle their tins.  The warnings about Indian men´s warped fascination with western woman do little to prepare one for the onslaught of penetrating looks, stares, glares, jeers and on a couple of occasions applauses, laced with sexual overtones.  At times it wasn´t an issue, but at others it was like there was a current in the air causing all men to relinquish their self-respect and express their unfettered carnal urges.  Coming from the school of thought where it is considered rude to stare, it can be unnerving and quite intimidating, causing one ordinarily confident woman shrink under the constant scrutiny.   Over time though, the discomfort caused by the inappropriateness of it all begins to transform into an acceptance that it´s just the way it is.On one occasion we were seated at a park bench when a young couple walks past.  Apparently quite taken by Louisa, the guy performed a rubbernecking manoeuvre worthy of a yogi.  Realising he´d been caught in the act he tries to recover by initiating a conversation about sunglasses, saying his girlfriend had indicated she liked the one´s Louisa was wearing.  The girl had obviously said nothing of the sort and her face sank into a deep scowl.  We draw the conversation to a close, just in time for him to introduce the girl saying, "This is my girlfriend, I hope she is good."  Don´t think he got any that night.One of the possible reasons for this endemic lewd behaviour is the distinct lack of female presence in the city.  All the businesses seem to be run entirely by men (including the women´s clothing shops!), and its mainly men who litter the streets.  Who knows where all the women are - possibly at home, or as J suspects - frequenting one of the shopping malls.  A suspicion that was reinforced on our first trip to a mall - a group of four women, the largest congregation we had seen so far, arrived as we did.One of the coolest things about Kolkata is the abundance of really good book stores.  A number of tiny but very well endowed stores in the Sudder St area, and the Oxford Press store not far from where we were staying.  Unlike the typical stores in NZ which tend to have only small corners devoted to body / mind / spirit, and which in most cases only actually stock trashy American `self help´ substitutes, the stores in Kolkata seem to stock nothing but the good stuff.  Though we could have easily bought a box loads of books we limited our bounty to about 6 books from the likes of Iyenga, Krishnamurti, Osho at ridiculously cheap prices.  Enough to keep us quiet for a couple of weeks.Our 6 week warm-up in Thailand, it seems, did little to prepare us for our first taste of India.  Fresh off the plane. Kolkata presents a continuous chain of challenges to the senses and to one's conditioned view of what is life.  The only worthy response is one of malleability.  Soften into the experiences and let them erode away any expectations you are carrying until you become aware of the undercurrent of vitality that permeates the city.  There is something very special about Kolkata, something bubbling away just beneath the surface.  An energy of connectedness, of life, that it octaves and amplitudes above that which we've experienced in any other place.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1205250540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1205250540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jcls/1/1205250540/tpod.html Fri, 28 Mar 2008 11:52:16 -0400 Road to WhoKnowsWhere

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Bangkok, Thailand

 With a determination to stay in another part of the city and finalise our Indian Visas we make the most of the day since pulling into the train station at 7:00am.  All things went like clockwork.  After dropping our passports off at the embassy in the Sukumvhit area, we checked out the dodgy hotels nearby.  Quintessential was Crown Hotel, with what appeared to be the owner (mob looking spit talking character) and receptionist (tattoo laden, short skirt, high heels) gambling with 3 police officers while the clientele of old farangs and arm draping thai girls lounge by the pool.  We could have stayed there for twice the price we had been paying near Khao San!After a bit more searching and we come to the realisation that no hotels know if they have any vacancies till after 12:00.  We decide to leave Sukumvhit to its neon lights, fat cats and alley cats and check out the more mall-orientated district of Siam Square.Thankfully, we discover a great little street called Kasem Soi 1, which has a good number of budget places, away from mall mania and with easy access to the Skytrain.  There we find a great little place called White Lodge.  500 Baht for a nice light spacious room.  After a day of intense running around we plan out our last days in Bangkok.With 3 days to go we weave our way through the people, stalls, alleys, plastics, toys, bulk buys, baskets of numerous dried foods and other miscellaneous merchandise of Chinatown. Made Khao San Road look like a side street in Invercargill.  Once we broke through the madness we found ourselves at the pier and took one of the tourist ferries to Khao San Rd district.  Tick 2 more things off the list of 'things tourists should do in Bangkok'.  Seems we can't keep away from KS!  While there we organise a tour for the next day (our first official touristy tour).  The desire to do some last minute shopping turns into another excursion to Chatuchak markets. Gosh what were we thinking? We collapse at the end of the day, exhausted from our efforts to get those last minute bargains.2 days to go and we do a crash course of tourist spots in the area surrounding Bangkok, starting with the floating market - a few hours drive south-west of Bangkok.  Depicted in the brochures as a set of picturesque canals in a quiet country town, the markets are in fact as congested as the busiest streets in Bangkok - made worse (according to J) by the fact that all the row boat taxis are driven by elderly women with deep seated issues.  Louisa thinks the crazy boy racers with their motorised long-tail taxis might have had something to do with the craziness too.  Despite the madness, it was a great experience, very slow and most often it was a standstill but the atmosphere on the river was not to be missed and the fall of the sunlight on the tapestry of colours made up of fruits and trinkets was a visual symphony for our over stimulated senses. Cough cough. Next we went to the bridge over River Kwai and the Heath Museum.  Bit of a hospital pass as the museum is in much need of attention but has some remarkable information on the bridge's chequered past.  Most intriguing was a display down one of the side passages illustrating the ascent of man from the Neanderthal.  Apparently men haven't changed much.  We'll let the picture below tell the rest of the story!.  L braves a little walk over the bridge with numerous other tourists and stands in the sidecage as a train passes.Finally we make it to the Tiger Temple. A Buddhist monastery which looks after orphaned tigers (among other animals such as deer and wild boars).  In the early 2000's, local villagers brought injured cubs to the monastery for care and now there appears to be at least 10 tigers including two cubs.  The highlight is getting your photo taken patting a few of their tigers, under watch of a few monks and a large crew of volunteers.  There has been a bit of controversy surrounding the intention of the monks, particularly with regard to the large entry fee (300 Baht).  But having seen the great environment they're providing (a large and picturesque canyon with waterfall) and their proposal to build an island for the tigers, to keep them separated from the other animals, all seems to be in order.We celebrated our last evening in Thailand by having a nice thai dinner before heading to one of the remaining "cultural" events - no, not the ping pong show! - but the Calypso Cabaret.  What do you get if you assemble 50 guys on stage, dress half of them in drag and run an hour and a half of 1930's music through the PA?  Something in between a Broadway musical and a freak show.  Louisa spent most of the show trying to work out how they could wear such revealing clothes and not reveal their "little secrets".  J spent the entire show on the edge of his seat - ready for a quick getaway in case he caught one of their eyes and they invited him on stage to join the festivities.  Overall very entertaining.  No effort spared - a very well put together production.  The drag queens didn't stop at a tuck-under either - most had remarkably perky breasts and no hint of a sausage was revealed, even when those wearing a leotard bent over and wiggled their arses.  Clearly "post-op".  What you lose on the swings you gain on the round-abouts.  OK, enough.  We finally said our goodbyes to Thailand after 6 weeks; its thai massages, the farangs, the ostentatious Buddhas and wats, the fried bananas, Chinese doughnuts, the stumpy dogs with their permanently curled tails, the ubiquitous royal family portraits, the bright coloured cabs, the old weathered expats, the glorious beaches and drinks in buckets, the craziness, the laidbackness, the diversity, the tradition.  With many countries to choose from we debated about where to head next, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam seemed like obvious choices, China was calling and then there was India. It was time to re-evaluate what we wanted out of travelling, to visit a country or experience a country.  Having spent more time in Thailand than we intended...like a month... it was clear we wanted the latter...so it was time to jump headfirst into India.Thanks to the guy for the big tip on Air India Express, a budget airline with flights from Bangkok to Kolkata (Calcutta).  He saved us money and the flight determined our stating destination in India.
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