TravelStream™ news feed for member mrconfused on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/mrconfused en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 02 May 2009 08:36:16 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1156364460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1156364460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1156364460/tpod.html Sat, 02 May 2009 08:36:16 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Spisska Nova Ves, Slovakia

Having done plenty of hiking recently (averaging 7 hours a day over the last 5 days), I was quite looking forward to getting back to exploring small town Slovakia for a couple of days.Before parting company, Simon and I had arranged to meet in a town called Spisska Nova Ves for its location rather than anything about the town itself. (I've had complaints from a few people who didn't quite understand what I wrote about the town, which was a private joke to begin with; I don't wish to cause any offense to humourless people stumbling across this blog, so I have removed a section here. I don't think Spisska Nova Ves is particularly ugly, it's just not as attractive as other places in Slovakia.)The one good thing about staying in Ugly Town was that it did make the pretty places nearby seem that much more appealing in comparison. One such trip was out to a town called Levoca, home to Master Paul, a 15th century master gothic artist, and possessive of a wondefully preserved old town square, lined with gothic and renaissance buildings and centrewd on the massive St James' church, an ornate town hall and a rather plain yet enormous Lutheran church. A shame there's only a very small Lutheran population there anymore. Even better, outside the town hall they had a 'cage of shame'. Something every town needs, I think. Our first mission on arriving in Levoca was to reach the Pilgrimage Church, some 2km out of town atop a hill. There is a short path leading directly there, though we totally failed to follow this. Instead, after getting a little lost we asked some locals for the way. This was a mistake, as he just pointed us straight up the hill. No path, just straight up. I'm sure he did it deliberately. Still, at least the Pilgrimage Church seemed to justify it's name this way - absolutely no suffering involved if you go the regular way. Beating your own path through mud, nettles, brambles, small streams and what we suspected to be ecclesiastical fecal matter, we felt like we had actually achieved something when we reached the top. The church didn't even seem all that special, but the views of town were quite nice.From Levoca, we went to Spissky Hrad, Slovakia's largest castle ruins, and damned impressive they were too. From a distance, at least. Once we were inside, they felt a little too touristy and too much was out of bounds for my liking, but still worth the visit. Annoyingly, whilst there we ran into out austrian 'friend' from the Low Tatras mountains. She was just as irritating this time. Why is it that we run into her and not one of the many, many amazing people we have both met? Evil sense of humour, I'm telling you...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1218567780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1218567780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1218567780/tpod.html Thu, 04 Sep 2008 10:19:15 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Delhi, India

Two months would be a reasonable amount of time in most countries; in India, it feels like nothing. It's a large country, but more than that, there's an enormous amount of ethnic, cultural and geographical diversity to be explored. Someone once jokingly commented that it is more like 26 countries than 26 states, but that doesn't seem too far from the truth. Though I only really visited 3 states, I saw historic centres of Hindu, Muslim and Buddhist culture, travelled from crop-growing plains to barren mountains, ate strictly vegetarian in holy Varanasi, rich, meaty Moghul cuisine in Agra, and traditional Tibetan around the Spiti Valley. It may be a smaller country than China, but it is far less culturally homogeneous. "Unity in Diversity" was the slogan chosen when India celebrated fifty years of Independence in 1997, reflecting the way the country embraces the differences in it's people, rather than trying to suppress and contain it. In that respect, it feels a far less alien culture.Which isn't to say it feels particularly familiar, either. You only have to take one look around, and the colour and vibrancy and filth of the place is immediately apparent. Even in Delhi, cows roam the street (contributing to the 'fragrant' nature of the country) and troupes of monkeys steal fruit from unwary passers-by. Distressing poverty is very evident, street kids present wherever tourists may be, canvas hovels at the edge of every city. Of course, this just makes all those that dress in rags to take advantage of the sympathy, and the constant 'hellomoney' from kids throughout the country, that much more disgustingly repellant.Though many aspects of Western civilisation can be traced back to India, there is much that has barely travelled beyond the borders of the country, a cultural and spiritual wealth that keeps many people returning year after year. So very used to offering foreigners what they want (for a price), travel here goes beyond sightseeing. There are so many opportunities to learn, and that is perhaps the best aspect of travel in this country. If I choose to return, it will probably be for this reason. Staying in one place for some time, you lessen the frustrations that are unfortunately so much a part of the 'Indian experience'.These frustrations were, in the end, too much for me to get over. I can put up with discomfort when I travel. I can get past cultural and communication difficulties. What I can't deal with is constantly being seen as a target, a walking ATM. Though I did meet a few nice Indians, it didn't take long before I learned that, in general, if someone approaches you, no matter how innocuously, they're almost certainly after something. Maybe I'm being unfair, but when you have to fight a hundred little battles every day, you get very, very sick of it. In one hotel, it took 12 hours of asking just to get sheets for my bed; because I had made the mistake of paying up front, they had no incentive to actually do anything about it beyond smile and nod and say they would get some for me, then go back to doing nothing when I was gone. Flexible pricing is a huge irritation - what you are charged is how much the shopkeeper thinks you are willing to pay. It shouldn't be the case that, from the same shop, one day you will be charged 10 rupees for a bottle of water (normal price), the next they will try 15. Sometimes, I found it funny. One hotel owner, carefully judging my appearance, asked 1000 rupees a night for a room (I never paid more than 150). If someone tried to overcharge for fruit (as happened constantly) I would just go to the next stall, buy what I wanted for the proper price, take it back to the first stall and point out just how stupid they were to try to overcharge; this is particularly satisfying if you stay for several days in one town, and can walk past and call them an idiot every single day (I ate a lot of fruit). Forget about getting a decent price from anyone particularly targeting foreigners (souvenier shops, barbers, rickshaws, etc.) As mentioned before, they will lie and whine pathetically to get a few more rupees out of you. Typically, you will hear: "You are my first customer today! I give you special price!" (twice the regular price - note that this will be said whatever time of day it is); "Pay as you like" (not knowing the proper price, you'll almost certainly pay too much, and then I'll whine a bit and make you pay more); "My friend..." (you gullible fool...")Even the ATM's try it on - the only one in Lakshman Jhula (Rishikesh) charged an incredible $15 to withdraw cash!In Delhi, I wanted to get a replacement bridge piece for my glasses. I had tried in China, but nowhere had the right size piece. I specifically asked at the opticians if they had the correct size. They said yes. Half an hour later, they bring back my glasses, "We didn't have the right size piece, so we just forced this one in..." Of course, it fell out three weeks later. This kind of thing is too typical here, but I refused to put up with it. When I returned to Delhi, I went back to the same shop and told them exactly what I thought of them. Their response? "You are very rude. In India, we don't speak to people like that!" Perhaps if you did, this country wouldn't have the problems it does!&nbsp; Following my snap in Kalpa, I was quite happy to yell at people if I thought they deserved it (such as the fool who tried force me into a fortune telling in the middle of the street by shaking my hand and not letting go, starting on all his nonsense and yelling "Don't refuse my work!" when I tried to walk away) but sadly, more often than not, they do get away with these things. It's usually only small things, but all the time and I found that every day, it just wore my patience down and left me entirely frustrated. Travel shouldn't be like that.Sad to say, but it is the people that really spoil this country. Even ignoring the constant irritations, Indian men (you never meet the women) are really quite unpleasant. They're curious to the point of being intrusive, staring at whatever you're writing or reading, even if that happens to be an online bank statement, and conversation, beyond the tiresome typical questions, inevitably was about sex. Shopkeepers would often bring it up, presumably because they believed it would put you on a more 'friendly' footing and make you more likely to buy, when it would have the complete opposite effect on me. They couldn't seem to understand that it was none of their business, continuing the conversation even if you've made it quite clear you don't want to talk about it, and seemed to feel that you wanted to hear all about their imagined conquests, in as lurid detail as their porn-fueled imaginations could muster. I would usually try to just ignore it all, but I couldn't help but laugh out loud when one guy showed me the picture he was carrying in his wallet of his 'girlfriend' - a photo of a model, quite obviously cut from a magazine.Still, this is all harmless enough, and infinitely preferable to the treatment female travellers receive. I heard far too many stories of women being groped in crowded places, even when with a partner, and of hotel staff trying to peek through curtains into people's rooms. I feel sorry for them that they live in a very repressive culture, but that's no excuse for stepping way beyond the bounds of intrusiveness simply because someone comes from somewhere else. Neither is the belief that all foreign women are 'loose' - people have been travelling here for a good 50 years, and it's not as if India is exactly cut off from the outside world. They know full well it's unacceptable behaviour, but (sadly) also that foreigners too easily put up with this as being 'part of travel in India'.Somewhat more disturbingly is how quick they are to become aggressive. The slightest disagreement can provoke a violently over-the-top reaction, as was the case with some Czech people I met. They had been locked out of their hotel (at only 11 in the evening), and had woken the manager to get back in. He took offense at this, and decided to throw them out; understandably the Czechs refused to pay the full bill. This blew up into a full-on argument, and when I came into the situation, five angry young men, one very drunk, another with a hockey stick, were attacking them and an Austrian girl who was not even involved with the dispute, simply because she was another foreigner in the wrong place at the wrong time. A few of us tried to intervene, but were forced out of the lobby and the security gates locked, with the Czechs still inside. Fortunately no-one was seriously hurt, but when the situation had calmed down slightly, one of the Indians (who hadn't even been present at the start of it all) incredibly started to invent a scenario that would have justified their response, completely denying any violence, <i>even though the Czechs were standing right there! Sadly, this wasn't the only incident of this kind I came across. A certain amount of annoyance also came from the travelling community. I met a lot of great people travelling in India (assume if you've been sent this, you come into this category), but also more pretentious idiots than almost anywhere else I've been. It's one of my pet hates, that some people not only feel that their way of travelling is somehow superior to anyone else's, but that they fell the need to inform you of this and dismiss any of your own experiences. "Oh, you're staying in a guest house? I only stay in temples and ashrams..." And there is this idiotic belief that travel in India is somehow more valid than travel elsewhere. This always comes from people who specify: "How long have you been travelling <i>in India for?" I would tell them the truth, 2 months, not mention the rest of the trip, and be quite amused to hear them take on an almost morally superior air because they had been here for 6 months, and lecture me on how to travel.This is the thing: travel in India is not difficult. It's annoying. People are trying to rip you off left, right and centre, but they're doing it in English! Yes, you might get overcharged for your bus ticket, but only because there's someone that knows exactly where, as a foreigner, you want to go, and is willing to take the hassle out of arranging the ticket yourself. You're almost always going to be presented with an English menu in restaurants. You'll probably be over charged, and the food (rarely as good as Indian food in England, incidentally) will lead to intestinal discontent at best, illness at worst, but at least you know roughly what you're ordering. I guess in that respect, India was a good country in which to finish this trip - I had had enough, and was happy to be leaving, returning to a country where I won't be constantly viewed as a potential victim, where I'll only be ripped off as much as the next man, where I will be able to end my day without being so annoyed.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1215086460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1215086460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1215086460/tpod.html Wed, 03 Sep 2008 12:23:13 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

The 1000th&nbsp;day&nbsp;since the trip began&nbsp;(July&nbsp;12th) saw me in Rishikesh, a pit stop on the summer pilgrimage route for&nbsp;locals on their way to the holy temples further north and spiritual shopper's mecca on the&nbsp;traveller circuit,&nbsp;with constantly running courses in yoga, meditation (or 'maditation', as one place had it - presumably you sit around in a hall and get really angry about things; a discipline well suited to travel in India), palmistry, Hindi, music and a dozen other aspects of Indian culture.Rishikesh is actually the name&nbsp;by which a few small towns are collectively known; I chose to spend my first few days in Lakshman Jhula. A general ambiance of health surrounds this place, no alcohol on sale (unless you know the right people..), only vegetarian food and almost everyone improving body or mind. With nobody really trying to sell you anything in the streets and&nbsp;no rickshaws(!),&nbsp;it would have been an easy place to while away a couple of days just enjoying the peace of it all. Add to that the odd, quiet&nbsp;'beach' on the bank of the Ganges, some good company and a handful of relaxed cafes, and it would be very, very easy to waste weeks here, as had a friend first met on the Annapurna circuit and randomly met again.&nbsp;I tended to haunt three places - Little Buddha, the nightly congregation spot&nbsp;fueling my growing lassi addiction; the Pyramid Cafe, slightly away from the main drag, playing good music&nbsp;and serving excellent food in pyramid-shaped tents. Here, I learned to play <i>caram bord, a board game that resembles a cross between backgammon and pool, from&nbsp;a Sadhu dressed only in a tiger-print loincloth, who seemed to spend most of his days either lounging there or zipping around town on his vespa;&nbsp;and the&nbsp;Devraj coffee shop serving a mixed clientele of Indian families and travellers&nbsp;seeking cakes and a reasonable attempt at western food. The best aspect of the place, though, is the view overlooking the long suspension bridge&nbsp;and gaudy temples of the town beyond.&nbsp;A constant flow of people&nbsp;try to cross, their progress frustratingly impeded&nbsp;by Indians on Honda's and foreigners on aging Enfield's,&nbsp;sleeping cows&nbsp;and daytripping Sikhs and saris&nbsp;posing for photos. The monkeys, meanwhile, avoid it all by scampering along the wires, grabbing at bags if they haven't been placated with nuts sold at&nbsp;either end of the bridge.&nbsp;Sandwiched between forested hills and the Ganges (closer to the source and free of the filth of Varanasi), the town is&nbsp;literally covered with painted signs&nbsp;offering yoga, massage, palmistry; a group of well-intentioned foreigners remove litter from the hillside beneath the cafe as Indians stare in disbelief, but (fortunately) throw no more. With the life of the town unfolding before you, and&nbsp;good filter&nbsp;coffee and thick lassis on the menu, space in the cafe is usually at a premium and I would sit alone with many and varied table&nbsp;companions. An Indian family stare, fascinated by my scribbling; a small group of Brits I met&nbsp;at the Little Buddha the night before discuss where to find beer; I discuss hitching the&nbsp;US with a sitar-playing truck driver; a bright-eyed Irish Buddhist monk quietly offers&nbsp;me a piece of his chocolate flapjack while the Romanian nun accompanying him on&nbsp;the pilgrimage tells me (yet again) that&nbsp;I don't look British. My eyes, this time; usually it's&nbsp;the hair or beard. One friend remarks that, in appearance and tendency of speech, I strongly remind her of a Peruvian friend,&nbsp;a new one&nbsp;to me.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As content as I would have been to just sit around in good company, I came here to learn yoga, so after four days of doing nothing, I started taking some lessons, and began a daily routine that would last two weeks. Though I had other reasons for choosing where I was to take lessons, the main reason had to be that, unlike most courses, the lessons didn't start until a very civilised 9.30, far preferable to the 7am starts offered by some places. This did mean, though, that once the lesson was finished and I had showered, I wasn't having breakfast until almost 12 each day. Oddly, I never seemed to get hungry before, and after a few days became quite accustomed to just two meals a day. Following breakfast (and a visit to the fruit market), I usually had&nbsp;6 hours or so to occupy before the evening session. Before the rains really got going, I might take a walk to the waterfall with whoever happened to be around, or go to my beach&nbsp;to relax, though the rising water levels meant that the beach grew smaller every day. By the time I left, there was sadly no beach left, just a few rocks on which to perch. After&nbsp;the monsoon really made itself&nbsp;known, I was forced to spend my days sitting around in cafes again.&nbsp;What a hardship.Following the slightly more intensive evening yoga,&nbsp;the evenings would inevitably be spent in the Little Buddha,&nbsp;still busy&nbsp;despite the rains, or at the occasional jam session in the place next door. Two weeks disappeared fast.One of the other major factors in choosing&nbsp;the&nbsp;course was the teacher. On several recommendations, I opted for the course offered by Ram. Fairly gentle at first, with plenty of 'relax' positions - ie, just standing or lying on the floor and breathing deeply - the course suited me well, and I still felt afterwards like I had had a good workout. By the time I left, I was the only one taking the course, so was being forced to hold the postures beyond my comfortable limits, though I guess that's the only way to improve. Two weeks also gave me time to get used to Ram's accent. It was quite unique, and entirely undecipherable at first, the occasional mispronunciation not helping matters&nbsp;('shoulders'&nbsp;pronounced 'soldiers' was my personal favourite), though&nbsp;his peculiar lilt was really quite soothing. Too soothing for some - it was quite common for people to fall asleep during the long rest at the end of the session. Still, he did begin and end each class with a rich, deep&nbsp;'Om'; there's something intrinsically satisfying about that sound.&nbsp;Though very much a beginners course, the yoga was more&nbsp;challenging than I had expected.&nbsp;The first couple of days in particular, I realised just how out of shape and inflexible I had become. As easy as it would have been to give up then, I'm glad I persevered. By the end of the first week,&nbsp;almost all of the stretching/strength positions were considerably more comfortable&nbsp;- I could even touch both&nbsp;big toes to my forehead at once! I'm not really sure if that will ever come in useful, but you never know. Oddly, the balance postures were still eluding me; I had thought they would be the easiest to achieve.&nbsp;The second week saw far more improvement than I had&nbsp;hoped for&nbsp;in such a short space of time.&nbsp;When I finally left, I was beginning to hold some of the more difficult postures (I was particularly pleased to manage the Peacock - balancing on the hands, body parallel to the ground; it can cure leprosy, if Ram is to be believed (assuming you still have the necessary body parts to pull it off) - if only for 15 seconds or so), and could stretch much further and more comfortably on the basic ones. Concentrating on my breathing and relaxing into the postures rather than straining made a big difference.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One aspect of the course I hadn't expected was the <i>kriyas, a set of almost uniformly unpleasant cleansing rituals. The most bearable involved pouring warm, salty water into one nostril and letting it drain out of the other. The stomach cleansing <i>kriyas weren't pretty, though probably quite entertaining to watch. One involved swallowing one meter of cloth, letting it sit in the stomach for a while, then pulling it out again; the other involved drinking about 1.5l of warm, salty water (supposedly it mimics the natural fluids of the body), stretching a little, then sticking two fingers down your throat and bringing it all up again, along with the toxins polluting your stomach. In this, I displayed a natural aptitude for bulimia - others were struggling to vomit while&nbsp;I was happily heaving away. By far the most unpleasant, though, involved yet more warm, salty water. This time, I had to drink about 2l in quick succession, perform some vigorous exercise, drink&nbsp;another liter, exercise more. At this point, I was supposed to go to the toilet. Instead, it remained painfully trapped inside for the next hour. I tried more exercise, but with 3kg of water sloshing around, I ended&nbsp;up just lying around in severe discomfort until it finally, disgustingly passed through my system.&nbsp;Once started, everything followed smoothly (so to speak), though I still had another liter&nbsp;to flush through my system before my intestines were properly cleansed; effectively, a colonic irrigation without the tube. The whole messy busy was very&nbsp;draining (no pun intended), and&nbsp;I had felt incapable of doing anything other than sleep for the&nbsp;rest of the day. The following days, however, I felt so much lighter&nbsp;in body and thought, and&nbsp;made remarkable improvements in the yoga sessions.&nbsp;Only to be performed once every six months, my next full body toxin cleansing session should take place in January...how convenient...&nbsp;Given the difficulties of maintaining any sort of exercise routine when travelling, I began the yoga course simply as a potential means of keeping in shape whilst on the move, knowing that&nbsp;I didn't really have the time or inclination (as yet) to delve deeper into the meditative side of things (hatha yoga, what we know as yoga in the west, is simply a means of preparing the body for long sessions of meditation, and actually only the initial stage in a more spiritual discipline). It fulfilled my expectations in that regard. After just two weeks, I was feeling so much healthier, externally and internally - the twisting postures do wonders for increasing the blood flow and massaging the abdominal organs, and quickly sorted out the problems I had been experiencing the past two months, following an abrupt switch to a vegetarian diet. Though unpleasant, the <i>kriyas did much the same for the toxins in my system. I found I had more energy, and generally just felt better. More than that, more and more I&nbsp;had&nbsp;a feeling of calm about me, of less pressure, though of course, this may just be down to the lack of rickshaws in Rishikesh. I just hope I can keep the practice going when I don't have regular classes to attend.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1220036520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1220036520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1220036520/tpod.html Wed, 03 Sep 2008 06:30:42 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Spiti Valley, India

The Spiti Valley is not India. It's Tibet without the Chinese. Once part of the Tibetan kingdom but now arbitrarily part of India, thukpa and momos replace chapati and dal as Indian influence almost disappears, with the exception of the occasional cricket oval, somewhat incongruous with the barren landscapes, and the bureaucratic runaround involved with obtaining the 'inner line' permit, necessary for travel close to the Tibetan border; a process that should have taken five minutes but took almost an hour as we were sent running around town to find various different (un-signposted) offices for the required signatures. The journey began at the unsociable hour of 5 in the morning, a 12 hour bus ride through the Lahaul Valley to Kaza, the capital of Spiti. The first few hours weren't so interesting, since we could barely see 50 yards through the early morning mist, though the road safety awareness signs did provide some amusement, my favourite being the vaguely suggestive: "The horn is to honk, please do it on my curves". As the morning wore on, the landscape became more and more rugged and desolate and stunning. I had planned to spend a few days in this region, then return and head further west, but soon abandoned this in favour of more time in this spectacular region. Every rest stop we had, I couldn't stop myself from rushing around, climbing hills for better views of this incredible area. It's a rare journey that can keep me so fascinated to the point that I didn't even notice any discomfort throughout, despite the roads mostly only being rough tracks, and credit must go to the driver for being surprisingly civilised, not driving too fast and not over-using the horn, possibly the only time that has happened for me in Asia!Two (slightly rushed) weeks in this region was spent hopping from village to village, each quite unique, through the Spiti Valley, passing very close to the Tibetan border, coming out through the Kinnaur Valley further south. The only place not worth the time, unfortunately unavoidable as the point of entry to the region and also the administrative capital, was Kaza. Inner line permits safely acquired, we first made our way up to Kibber. A village of typically squat Tibetan mud-walled houses amidst a rather minuscule area of fertile land in the dry mountains, it felt quite untouched despite the few guesthouses on the edge of town. It would have been easy to spend a few days ambling about the mountains and admiring the stars at night (at 4200m with an almost pollution-free environment, the air was incredibly clean and the night sky thick with stars), but a temple festival in nearby Ki provided a good reason to move on.A beautifully stark walk brought us to Ki Gompa, probably the most dramatically located monastery I have come across: whitewashed monks' quarters leading to a small temple rising from a small hillside above a river barely flowing, overlooked by dry, saw-tooth ridges piercing the intensely blue skies. Coinciding with our visit was the 'Burning of the Demon' festival, a day of elaborate costumes and swirling, masked <i>chaam dances celebrating a mythical event of the gompa's past, when a demon king was disposed of by the resident monks. Hundreds of spectators from the surrounding villages had turned out in all their finest; weather-beaten old women in heavy gold jewelry and endearingly grubby children happily sharing the spectacle with the few dozen foreigners present, red-robed monks weaving throughout, providing refreshment with chai (fortunately not butter tea) and heavy Tibetan bread.From Ki, our next stop was the tiny village of Mudh, at any given time home to 235 locals and about 50 foreigners. Despite this, it never felt overrun, mainly because very few actually stay in town during the day. Pleasantly lacking in tourist development - it's remoteness has saved it from that, at least - there is very little to do in the town beyond people watch: bent-backed locals struggle under impossible loads; unguided donkey trains stroll past, knowing exactly where to go; filthy children watch us watching them, hoping for chocolate or biscuits but never asking, no hint of 'hellorupee' on their lips. As diverting as this can be, most were out exploring the comparatively verdant area of the valley during the day. Mudh sits amidst towering, twisted mountains and crumbling ridges, the striations of the rock, sometimes through 180 degrees or more, evidence of some massive geological upheaval of the past. Hillsides of grey and ochre are broken by deep purple landslides and tenacious swathes of grassy shrubs, the glacial waters bringing a little bit of life to this dead region.After a few days in this peaceful community, Tabo was initially less than impressive.&nbsp; Too much drab, concrete construction (why they do this, I can't figure out - it's more difficult to acquire the raw materials and far less suitable to the region than the traditional mud-walled methods) and not especially scenic, at least we found a good homestay with a very friendly family who saw it as their duty to keep us permanently full of tsampa and chai, and even took us to the nearby agricultural research station to buy some apricots for next to nothing.The only real reason to visit Tabo (aside from the apricots, of course) is the monastery. Though I rarely feel inclined to visit monasteries, the one at Tabo is something special. Primitive mud structures set against the backdrop of bare mountains, from the outside it seemed as if it would be more at home in northern Africa than India. The main temple is entirely surreal. With little to distinguish itself, the murals of the entrance hall were easily overlooked; the main hall, less so. The stale, musty air and deep red carpets, columns and meditation cushions, so typical of Tibetan monasteries, were surrounded by an acid trip of Buddhist imagery. The walls, finely decorated with Bodhisattvas and demons, seemingly the whole Tibetan pantheon, and scenes of the Buddha's life, went almost unnoticed behind the head height, floating sculptures ringing the the entire hall. Life size figures in blues and whites and reds, historical and mythical, faces serene and delirious and crazed, arms held in traditional mudras and unique gestures, each one distinct and draped in richly embroidered silks of rainbow hues, sat upon a carved lotus flower. In the centre of the hall sat a figure, four aspects facing the four points of the compass and radiating serenity beneath the distended tongues of demon masks above. Behind this, a smaller chamber, guarded by four figures, two erect and noble, two leering and hideous. An alcove of intricately carved figures is sadly half hidden in shadow; what details are visible have such expression and character, you expect them to come alive, Harryhausen style.The landscape of Spiti had been inhospitable until now, but the drive from Tabo to Nako took it one stage further. The road wound it's way through a world of scree and landslide, borderlands half-formed and crumbling, the Tibetans somehow persevering where nature gave up. Our bus bore the mantra on everyone's mind: 'Oh God, save me!' Shortly after the worst of it, inching our way along, jagged rock to one side, a sheer drop the other, we reached the enchanting Nako. As close to the Tibetan border as we came, it was supposed to be just an overnight stop; I liked it so much, I stayed for 3 days.Surrounded by a landscape so far beyond barren I don't have words to describe it, Nako is centered on a small, green lake, reflecting the healthy growth all around. This isn't natural. Irrigation channels run down from a spring in the hills above, the town an engineered oasis. The relative abundance finds its way into the food - thick with vegetables and seasoned with herbs, it's by far the best we experienced on the loop, in the remotest of towns.Were the food not enough to warrant a stay, the village itself is something special. On a small hill facing the lake, the town is arranged in a jumbled arc. In front is a jagged ridge, the Tibetan border just beyond; behind, monolithic peaks of the same decaying and endless appearance, the highest ridges freshly covered in the first snows of the year from the storms that raged around as we arrived, yet didn't seem to touch the village itself. The town is a jumble of dry stone walls and heaped wooden roofs, prayer flags and tall banners in blue, white, red, green, yellow flying from each against the cloudy, brilliant blue sky. Arcs of paint are splattered everywhere, the winding lanes impossible to navigate without fighting your way past the vocal, free roaming livestock; goats, cows, yaks and dzo (a cow/yak hybrid species) seem to own the town. In the hills above town, the isolation of the place was more evident. Exploring the ever-receding ridges, heavy with the scent of sweet lavender, I found a peace not experienced since walking the Annapurnas.The final place on the loop was Kalpa, in the Kinnaur Valley. Facing the Kinnaur-Kailash massif, on a hillside covered in pine forests and apple and apricot orchards, the once-attractive village is sadly on it's way to becoming another Manali. The concrete guesthouse invasion is beginning to dominate the place, ruining the character that would otherwise encourage an extended stay, and the local entrepreneurs are figuring out the 'white skin tax' concept - a foreigner wants to buy something, overcharge him for it! Even if the maximum retail price is printed on the packet. Idiots.As you might have gathered, by this point I had passed out of the Tibetan region. Throughout my time in this country, I had been suppressing my frustrations with the constant, petty battles, confining them to the occasional rant in this blog. I just accepted them as part of travel in this country. After two weeks amongst Tibetans, friendly people who <i>don't see every foreigner as a potential victim, I found I couldn't put up with it any more. I'll remember Kalpa as the place where my patience finally snapped, and over something really quite petty.Being quite a remote region, facilities around the Spiti Valley had been a little basic, but for the sake of the scenery, I was more than willing to put up with that. Coming to a place where I could expect the standards of hygiene to be a little higher, I was quite specific in requesting a hot shower when investigating hotels (having only had cold showers or hot buckets recently). To be fair, the hotel did have hot showers. We just weren't allowed to use them. The penny-pinching owner would switch off the heater electricity whenever he saw it had been switched on, and, if that weren't enough, would also switch off the water. When I (very patiently) explained to him that I would like to actually take a shower at some point (and perhaps water would be useful for the sink, toilet, etc.) waited for the water to heat up, the damn shower only came through in a dribble. As I said, a very small incident, but it's so typical of this country. Something so simple as taking a hot shower becomes a small battle, and this isn't an isolated incident. This kind of annoyance takes place a dozen times a day, and it just became too much. This was the point when I realised I was quite happy to be leaving India, a sad way to end the trip through what was by far my favourite part of the country. &nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1219777260/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1219777260/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1219777260/tpod.html Tue, 02 Sep 2008 06:59:36 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Manali, Himachal Pradesh, India

I had been recommended to give Manali itself a miss and stay in Vashist, a nearby village, instead. That advice was half right - Manali was really nothing special; unfortunately, neither was Vashist. Another one of those places that seem endemic in northern India, designed to trap foreigners in a safe, comfortable little world where everything is easy and convenient and you can forget that you're in India. People were first attracted here by the quiet, relaxed lifestyle of a small village that no longer exists here. It's firmly on the route for anyone travelling in this region, and to meet this demand, the place has become overrun with cafes and hotels, the surrounding valley hardly visible beyond the ugly mass of concrete.I am usually quite willing to let myself get sucked into little places catering to travellers, but I found nothing appealling about Vashist. Somewhat grungy in appearance and typically overpriced, it lacked the scenery of the Parvati Valley or the feel and opportunities of Rishikesh. If you replace the yoga and fruit shakes with TV bars and chillum, you're about there. The only vaguely interesting thing that happened while I was there was the colourful parade of the local gods up through the main street of town to the hot springs in the temple. After two days, I was more than happy to be moving on. &nbsp; &nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1216580160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1216580160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1216580160/tpod.html Fri, 29 Aug 2008 09:43:17 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Parvati Valley, India

&nbsp;Forcing myself out of an increasingly comfortable routine, it took a somewhat ridiculous 24 hours to reach the Parvati valley, but what I saw of the approach (in the brief moments of clear consciousness that occur when you've been sat in a surprising amount of discomfort for far longer than should ever be necessary) was almost enough to make me ignore the numb pain that had been spreading outwards from my left buttock for the past few hours. Passing turbulent streams, pine-forested hillsides and traditional, wooden villages half glimpsed through the foliage, it was a huge disappointment to then arrive in Manikaran, the main town of the valley, as concrete and nondescript as the rest of the valley had been scenic.Though possible to find accommodation in the smaller villages of the valley, with an ever-decreasing amount of time at my disposal, I felt limited to one of the two main traveller hubs of the area, neither of which were particularly appealing. Kasol, a self-styled 'traveller town' overpopulated with Israelis floating around in a dope-fueled haze, was one option; the hot springs of Manikaran sounded better. It wasn't, unless you happen to enjoy being stopped in the streets and stared at by the thousands of Sikhs on pilgrimage. The hot springs had been tiled and enclosed and turned into little more than a series of hot baths in need of a serious clean. I was very glad, then, when someone suggested a couple of days up in the hills, well away from all of that.This expedition, initially taking us past some ugly dam projects, led us 4 hours up a path through luminous green forests and arcing waterfalls to Khirganga, an intensely surreal place for the fact that there was no real reason for it to be there. Though beautifully located, there was no sign of any proper village, or any Indian population besides the chillum-smoking Babas; the only buildings were entirely temporary in appearance, tin walls and tarpaulin roofs, and only guesthouses and restaurants. The painted signs advertising each place seemed far more permanent than the buildings themselves - I guessed that, come winter snows and dwindling tourism, the signs were brought down with the workers to more comfortable elevations, whereas the structures were left to the mercy of winter and rebuilt with the thaw. Still, with peaceful woods and caves a short walk away, I could quite happily ignore the 'made for tourism' feel of the village, and the hot springs were worth the walk alone. Crystal clear and open to the air, with views of the surrounding mountains all around, I was in there for a couple of hours every day. I felt a little sorry for the women, though - their segregated pool was half the size and housed in a grotty tin shed, not the most comfortable place to spend time.I would like to have explored a little more of the Parvati Valley, but unfortunately picked up something unpleasant and was bed ridden for a couple of days, so saw little else.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214716140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214716140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214716140/tpod.html Tue, 15 Jul 2008 09:13:29 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Delhi, India

I hadn't intended to really stay in Delhi any longer than a night, just to pass through on my way to cooler and quieter places in the mountains. However, it seemed silly not to take the opportunity to start the process of having a suit tailored (why make them rush the suit in a few days when I can give them longer to get it right?), so I've had to spend a few days here, waiting for the first fitting and doing a little sightseeing in the meantime. I was slightly apprehensive about coming to Delhi. As the first port of call for many travellers, I had been expecting endless hustle and rip-offs, especially around the backpackers ghetto of Paharganj. Comparable to Khao San road in Bangkok and Thamel in Kathmandu, it's actually not too bad, far more low key than either of those. The accommodation situation is typically dire if you're at the lower end of the scale, but there are plenty of cheap cafes around and the street level hassle is bearable. Eminently leaveable, it's not a bad place to stay for a couple of days.Old Delhi, immediately to the north of Paharganj, I found to be quite missable. If you've never been to an Asian city and seen the dirty, chaotic everyday shopping streets, ramshackle buildings, traffic and people and animals everywhere (usually where you want to walk), it might be interesting. Having seen many, many other places like this, there was little of interest beyond the admittedly impressive Jama Masjid ('Friday Mosque'). A huge construction, it's just a shame it's rapidly becoming a temple of commercialism, with half a dozen people in various places ready to try to con a few rupees out of you. That's after the extortionate 'camera fee', though I'm slowly getting used to the 'Indian -10rs; Foreigner -1000rs' door policy (that might be a slight exaggeration). After the disappointment of Agra Fort, I felt little need to visit the nearby Red Fort, designed as it was by the same ruler.Immediately south of Paharganj lies New Delhi, a complete contrast to Old Delhi. The heart of the city under British rule, it's ordered and clean(ish), the scams are few and far between, the buildings and monuments huge, well-constructed and likely to actually last more than five years, the commercial centre full of upmarket brand-name shops. It's also rather dull. There just didn't seem to be much happening here. Still, I was quite taken with the Mantar Kantar, geek that I obviously am. A small park of enormous red sandstone astronomical devices (of surprising precision) constructed over 400 years ago, it looks more like an abstract art installation than a series of scientific devices. They also make a great place to shelter from an unexpected rainstorm.Two weeks into India, I'm beginning to get my head around travel in this country. For one thing, it's not nearly as demanding as I thought it was going to be. I had heard so many horror stories about the difficulties you face here; while it is more stressful than some places, I haven't found it so problematic as yet. Certainly, it's nothing compared to the utter bewilderment of finding your feet in China; just buying a train ticket is so much easier! The convoluted misinformation so apocryphally rampant has yet to appear. I may have to ask two or three different people to get the right window, the right platform, the right time, but there's the catch - I <i>can ask people, and there <i>are people that can help. Patience is needed (and elbows when queuing), but it's not like you're ever going to walk out of the station without having got the ticket you want. The high levels of English spoken in the country see to that. And, while the trains aren't up to the same standard as the Chinese, they are cheap as anything. I tried my best not to exclaim out loud when I first bought a ticket for a 250km journey for about 75p. Though certain things do worry me slightly; the sign I saw at one station in particular:'Essential Station EquipmentFirst aid kit&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 1Fire extinguishers&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 2.Detonators&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 40'Unfortunately, that same quality of spoken English lead to the worst hassle and hustle I've experienced since Vietnam. Except it's different here. There, it was a straightforward 'we really hate the foreigners, but they have lots of money we want' attitude - they try to rip you off (relentlessly), you don't like it, you go somewhere else. Here, it's more unpleasant. The hustlers are so false; they'll whine, they'll lie (relentlessly), they'll do whatever it takes to get your money out of your wallet and try to appear friendly whilst doing so. And so often, they just don't think. There must be some little part of the brain just not functioning in the man that&nbsp;keeps&nbsp;attempting to sell sunglasses to&nbsp;someone wearing prescription glasses. The ear-cleaners inhabiting the grassy areas of New Delhi, with their dirty little needles that are not coming within six feet of my ears, seem to believe that if they just keep at it, you'll eventually give in and let them poke around inside your head. Five times, I politely but definitely refused&nbsp;his services. When he grabbed my ear and tried to look inside, I began to get angry. When he brought over his mentor, complete with pictures&nbsp;of happy, smiling westerners having their ears infected with whatever diseases are on those needles, I was&nbsp;considerably pissed off. At least it gave me the opportunity to say "Maybe you should clean his ears, because he hasn't&nbsp;heard a word I have said in the last ten minutes!", but&nbsp;once again, the damage was done and my mood was spoiled.One&nbsp;word in particular - 'friend' - is beginning to get to me. They just don't know what it means! It does not mean 'gullible fool', as they seem to think. Anyone accosting me on the streets with 'Friend....', I walk away. The greasy little idiot in my guest house, when he wanted me to pay for that night's accommodation, just whistled and rubbed his fingers together at me. Taking considerable offence at this, I explained quite sharply just how rude that was. He tried to brush me off with a muttered apology and explanation of it 'being a friendship thing'. I accepted neither.The other major irritation is the rickshaws. It took me a little while, but I think I know just why I find them so objectionable. It's not the numbers of them, though there are thousands and it's just draining to have to say 'no thankyou' every twenty seconds throughout the day, especially when you have to repeat yourself three times to everyone. It's the way they deliberately park themselves right where you're walking, forcing you into the road to avoid them and occasionally (it's happened five or six times now) running straight into you. This isn't intentional, but it hurts like hell - the rickshaws have sharp edges sometimes - and does little for my mood. One of the best things about Dehi is the new metro system. Clean, cheap&nbsp;and air-conditioned, the ever-expanding lines already have many conveniently located stations, greatly reducing the&nbsp;daily irritation. The&nbsp;Indian approach to stations is pretty typical, though. Even with arrows painted on the platforms and constant instructions to let passengers off the train first, every stop sees people face to face through the carriage doors; when they open, everyone pushes and shoves their way on or off the train at the same time. This is especially funny, since the metro&nbsp;isn't being used at anywhere near capacity - there are no crowds that would make the pushing necessary!That said, the metro doesn't go everywhere and the rickshaws&nbsp;are a useful means of getting about the city without breathing in so many fumes/being constantly hassled, and ridiculously cheap given the work of the rickshaw-wallahs; it's almost always the older people that are peddling the heavy bicycles through the midday heat, the younger, more annoying generation using exhausting-belching tuk-tuks. The cycle riders, I will usually tip for the hard work they do, and the fact that they're too busy cycling to bother me with inane chatter. The auto drivers, I torment slightly if I'm in a good mood. "You want rickshaw?" "Yes, but...yours is the wrong shape/colour/facing the wrong direction". Hustlers and rickshaw-wallahs aside (it's telling that the first words I've learnt in Hindi are 'kitna?' - how much?; and 'jao!' - go away!), I've found the people to be very friendly and welcoming, and always wanting to talk to the foreigner. A mixed blessing - it gives you the opportunity to learn a lot (I'm still building up the courage to ask about the inexplicably violent orange hair dye worn by so many men), especially given the standards of English here, but you will never have any time to yourself. The conversations can be quite odd as well. Some very typical questions: "What is your good name, sir?" "What is your mother country?" "Are you one person?" "Are you Muslim?".Not really liking having my photo taken, I'm not so keen on the Indian obsession with having a random foreigner in their photo collection. Almost everywhere I go, people will ask to have a picture of me. I usually acquiesce (at least they were polite enough to ask), and then they drag me off somewhere else and force me into some stupid pose; I've so far refused to hold any children. Slightly different, many people have also asked for a picture, but not of me - they want <i>me to take a picture of <i>them with <i>my camera. These idiots I refuse. My two-week round-up of India thus far: the cities are mostly unpleasant, but the sights are magnificent; transport is super cheap and not hard to organise; the people are mostly friendly (too friendly sometimes - I don't like the whole touchy-feely thing here), but the excessive numbers of touts and scammers make every day a frustrating challenge; the food and drinks are really good (I think I'm addicted to lassis/yoghurt shakes), but the lack of variety could get monotonous; now looking forward to getting away from the heat, humidity and hustle of the plains and heading to the mountains.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214385120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214385120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214385120/tpod.html Tue, 01 Jul 2008 02:37:49 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India

The capital of all India under the Muslim Moghul dynasty (perhaps the greatest in Indian history), Agra is home to immense monuments and the sublime pinnacle of&nbsp;sub-continental architecture, the Taj Mahal. It's also home to some of the most frequent power cuts I've experienced this side of Myanmar, unexpected given it's prestigious status and proximity to Delhi. Though pleasantly clean and ordered after Varanasi, there's very little of interest in most of the city. The only district I saw with any life beyond getting tourists towards the Taj Mahal was Johri Bazaar. Centred on the city's largest mosque, the red and white zig-zag&nbsp;marble&nbsp;patterned domes provided a landmark as I wandered around an area refreshingly free of anything tourist-oriented. I was mostly ignored as I&nbsp;ambled around a&nbsp;jumble of narrow market lanes, the scent of spices heavy in the air and the roads stained red with paan-spit. &nbsp; Given the sheer&nbsp;volume of tourists that visit (it's almost impossible to come to India and not see the Taj Mahal, however hard you try), a huge number of touts, rickshaw drivers and commission-shops also&nbsp;ply their trade across the city, though&nbsp;it wasn't in the same league as Varanasi, and they had a different style. There, they just wear you down through attrition, completely ignoring you if you say no and&nbsp;persisting until, throat so sore you can't argue, you give in. Here, they're more insidious. They're <i>friendly. It makes it so much&nbsp;harder&nbsp;to&nbsp;just dismiss people. Which is to say, I ended up spending a good amount of time in&nbsp;souvenier&nbsp;shops and carpet factories, pretending to be interested and making up stupid lies about myself (actually kind of fun) simply because my rickshaw driver got money for taking me there, even though I didn't buy anything. Drivers in other cities need to learn from this - be polite and friendly, don't overcharge and maybe tourists will indulge you in things like this. And I got a couple of free rides out of it, though&nbsp;with the time it all took, I would have been better off just paying&nbsp;for the journey. Still, if&nbsp;anyone happens to be staying at the Tourist Rest House (nice rooms, well away from the tourist ghetto of Taj Ganj, unfortunately well away from anything like restaurants or decent internet connections as well, very bland food), I&nbsp;can recommend the services of Saleem, an auto-rickshaw driver usually hanging around the entrance with his son.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; There were three main sites I visited in and around Agra: the Agra Fort, Fatehpur Sikri and the Taj Mahal (of course). Agra Fort was a disappointment. Impressively foreboding from the outside, the massive red sandstone walls seemingly impossible to breach (unless you have 300 rupees in your pocket), the fort was the seat of power of the Moghul emperors, a palace complex from where they controlled the empire and lived out their lives in obscene luxury. What with&nbsp;the eventual downfall of the Moghuls and the occasional sacking of the fort, little of that&nbsp;opulence remains; all that is left is a shell of what once was, and as far as ruins go, I'll take the peace and elegance of those&nbsp;in Orchha over these. &nbsp; More interesting was the abandoned site of Fatehpur Sikri. Tired of Agra&nbsp;(after a few days in the city, I can appreciate that one), the Moghul emperor Akbar decided to move his court wholesale to a rocky ridge, some 40km outside of the city. As you do, when you're the emperor of a mighty civilisation. Though similar in&nbsp;conception to Agra Fort, the details of construction were that much more fine, fusing elements of both Hindu and Muslim artistic tradition; the palaces were more elaborate and delicate, the carvings more elegant, and, having only been the capital for a few short years due to an inadequate water supply (you would have thought they would have considered that before starting to build such a huge edifice), it has never been subject to siege, and has lain abandoned for the better part of 40 years. The associated mosque, still in use today, is also suitable grand, and contains some of the most elaborate and beautifully carved screens (surrounding the tomb of a saint) I have ever seen. It was such a shame then, that the town beneath the ridge was so disgusting, dirty and full of unpleasant, small minded little people. &nbsp; However, the sites already mentioned are completely overshadowed by the magnificence of the Taj Mahal. It's one of those rare places that more than lives up to all expectations. Though the image is so familiar from&nbsp;just about&nbsp;every piece of tourist literature on India you have ever seen, there's something about the place that just can't be captured in a picture, a peaceful atmosphere of longing and contemplation that the&nbsp;hordes of visitors cannot diminish.&nbsp;The 'world's greatest monument to love' is the exquisite tomb of&nbsp;Mumtaz Mahal, the favourite wife of one of the greatest Moghul rulers, Shah Jahan, though the design also follows an ancient Sufi text describing the throne of God in heaven, the Koranic inscriptions inlaid throughout lending credence to the idea that Shah Jahan (who was also interred within)&nbsp;had a somewhat inflated opinion of himself.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; Reaching the Taj&nbsp;through carefully manicured gardens and waterways (symbolic of the Islamic paradise), removing your shoes allows you constant contact with the smooth, cool marble of which the entire building is constructed. The tomb itself built is&nbsp;on a raised marble base, approached by a short staircase side on to the front. As you turn, the main entrance, an enormous peaked archway topped with floral patterns inlaid in precious stones and surrounded by flowing Koranic inscriptions, suddenly looms high above, makes you feel somewhat minuscule in the face of such splendour, despite the reconstructive scaffolding currently spoiling the view. Slowly taking in the details, the crowds fade to a constant throb of 100 murmurs, barely registered. An octagonal building, huge, peaked archways&nbsp;sit at the four points of the compass; between each are 3 recessed peaked arches on two storeys. The curling flower designs and Koranic inscriptions are joined by delicately carved flowers at floor level, not noticeable until up close. Punctuating these&nbsp;curvaceous designs are angular patterns, covering the flower-spire peaked half columns on each corner of the building. Along the top of the wall runs a repeating curved pattern; domed pavilions sit above these, the huge onion dome of the centre, it's crescent topped spire reaching skywards (so distinctive a feature of the Taj) barely noticeable from so close. There is barely any space not decorated in some manner, but the repeating patterns never overwhelm the structure with detail, merely highlight&nbsp;the&nbsp;elegance of&nbsp;construction. Even the three-tiered minarets sitting at the corners of the base, and the mosques on either side, initially&nbsp;appearing plain and unadorned in comparison, are subtly carved and rich in detail, so easily overlooked. Inside, the chamber is surprisingly small, an impression enhanced by the lack of natural light. The wide walkway surrounding the tomb chamber reduces the size by thirty feet on each side, the only light provided by a 'traditional' energy saving bulb, half hidden behind an extravagantly wrought, paper-thin metal lampshade in the centre of the room, directly above the cenotaphs of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jahan. The low light makes it difficult to make out the fine details of the tomb, the decoration more rich and more exquisite than outside. Even the screens surrounding the exceptional coffins from view must have been the work of countless long hours. Darkly inlaid Koranic inscriptions cover every available wall space without making i seem cluttered. Unfortunately, the press of people is far more obvious inside, as a dozen or more clamour for the best views, and the low murmur becomes an echoing din. It's a shame people can't show a little more respect in a mausoleum, and refrain from letting out&nbsp;loud, sharp yelps just to hear the echo in&nbsp;a place best&nbsp;left in silence. Though so rich in fine detail only noticed from close quarters, the Taj Mahal is best&nbsp;appreciated from a slight distance, a quiet place in the gardens. The&nbsp;bulbous dome is more obvious, the symmetry and grace of the design more apparent. Though the finer carvings may be lost from sight, the dark patterns and inscriptions stand out against the brilliant white of the marble; the domes seem to glow&nbsp;serenely in the sunlight. With&nbsp;a river and flatlands beyond, the building doesn't dominate the skyline; it is the skyline. Without doubt, simply one of the finest structures in the world.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214298660/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214298660/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1214298660/tpod.html Mon, 30 Jun 2008 10:50:50 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Orchha, Madhya Pradesh, India

Leaving Varanasi, I was seriously beginning to reconsider the prospect of spending so much time in India. Coming to Orchha, it was a great relief to discover that those levels of irritation aren't typical of the entire country. I guess if I can cope with Varanasi, the rest of the country will be no problem!A sleepy little town beside the Betwa river, Orchha town is not much to look at, but it's quiet enough that people actually leave you alone, for the most part, a very welcome change of pace. The only real reason to visit (besides escaping Varanasi's touts, that is) are the ruins of the fifteenth century Bundela dynasty palaces, in varying stages of evocative decay. Those in town were a little busy, but the sites that required all of a five minute walk were almost deserted. Bringing to mind a once-proud kingdom, the colonnaded walkways and curving archways of the Raj Mahal courtyards were overshadowed by the symmetrical harmony of the pointed turrets and light, airy walkways of the exceedingly fine Jahangir Mahal, the small details surviving years of neglect and hinting at prosperous times past. Sitting slightly outside of town, the hilltop Lakshminarayan Mandir also had an air of stately neglect, the lofty central tower rising sharply from a pentagonal courtyard (the decorative work sadly graffitied) offering great views of the town and encroaching forest.As good as it was to be able to appreciate these sites without fighting my way through touts and crowds, there wasn't much in Orchha to occupy two days. Still, the peace made a welcome change, and Orchha was a good place to break the headaches of Varanasi and Agra.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1213866600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1213866600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mrconfused/long_way_round/1213866600/tpod.html Mon, 30 Jun 2008 00:53:22 -0400 Bulgaria to India by plane, train, bus, boat, thumb and wok, 2005-2008

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Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India

"Varanasi is an incredible place" "It's like nowhere else in India; the best and worst of the country all at once" "There's something special in the air - I spent a whole month there" "I travel 9 months of every year, but always end my trips in Varanasi"Perhaps the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world with a recorded history dating back to the 6th century BC, and the holiest Hindu city in India, I had been hearing about Varanasi for some years and was very curious as to what it was about the place that captured people's imaginations so. Though relatively easy to reach from the Sonauli border crossing (only 3 hours on a bus and 6 on a train!), it's maybe not the ideal first destination in India.For a start, it's filthy. I've been in plenty of countries where hygiene takes a backseat, especially out in the streets, but Varanasi seemed to disregard all concern for public health. Maybe this is how the Indian government are attempting to deal with the ever-increasing numbers of homeless in the country? The pre-monsoon rains weren't helping matters, the daily light showers bringing all the dirt to the surface and blending into a delightful black paste that would attach itself to my feet and ankles the second I stepped outside. What with all the stray dogs, holy cows wandering the streets and public defecation (yep, it's okay to just crap in the streets in the holy city!), I can unfortunately imagine what constituted a fair proportion of that ever-present layer of grime. Walking back to my guest house down a narrow alley with no lights, the squelch that accompanied most footsteps really didn't bear thinking about.I guess when you're facing that every day, the black-exhaust belching 'auto-rickshaws' (tuk-tuks by another name) that plague the streets pale into insignificance, and throwing your rubbish wherever you happen to be seems entirely insignificant. Except it's not. It all ends up in the Ganges. 'Mother Ganga' to the locals, regarded as <i>amrita, the elixir of life by Hindus, which brings purity to the living and salvation to the dead, is about as far away from pure as you can imagine. All the junk thrown and, err, 'deposited' in the streets gets washed down here, where it can merge happily with industrial waste from further upstream. The brown water is never free of unpleasant effluent floating on the surface; not seen personally, but I have heard from a couple of people of dead bodies/parts of bodies (I'm not sure which is worse) floating past, to the distinct lack of concern of anyone else. Much of the plastic waste gets washed up along the shore, where thousands of people chose to 'cleanse' themselves in the waters in an effort to bring themselves closer to God. I guess it's quite effective in that respect, though in a literal rather than spiritual sense.Trying hard to ignore the general squalor (really not an easy task), I set about trying to experience this city, trying to discover this 'something special' that brought a faraway look to so many people when they spoke of Varanasi; I didn't get it. Maybe because my timing was off - the city is supposedly usually teeming with sadhus, those photogenically orange-clad, trident carrying holy beggars, rejecting the usual course of life and relying entirely on the will of Shiva to provide for them, but they mostly migrate to the cooler holy sites further north for the monsoon season - but I saw little of the religious life of this city, only the rampant commercialism cashing in on it. Imagine going to the Vatican, finding it devoid of priests, nuns or pope, but still populated by scam artists and touts and overcharging and you might have a similar picture. Except there's nothing architecturally interesting about Varanasi beyond the ghats, the riverside staircases where the religious activity of the city, such as it is, takes place. The ghats would have made for an interesting few hours, strolling along away from the grimy streets, observing the rituals taking place, the ablutions and the cremations, holy filth to one side, monstrous temples and hotels (in equal proportion) the other, but for the number of touts, beggars and 'guides' around. This inevitably reached it's peak around the 'burning ghat', the site of ritual cremation said to release the deceased from the cycle of death and rebirth, so much so that, what with all the hassle I was receiving and conflicting information inflicted upon me ('You can't go down there, it's disrespectful to the family! But maybe I can have a word with them, you understand? Maybe you have fifty rupees for me...') I ended up keeping my distance. It was impossible to sit and read, or just have a quiet moment anywhere to think about what you're witnessing; there would always be someone to disturb the peace.A far better way to see all this is to take one of the continuously offered boat rides (price negotiation necessary, of course). At least then the hassle is kept to a minimum, although the guy rowing my boat wouldn't shut up for the first twenty minutes until I actually asked him not to talk. This way, I could just about see the activity of the cremations amidst the smoke-stained temples and piles of firewood. As with the sky burial, I was surprised by the lack of emotion on display. The white-clad mourners, their heads shaved in respect, seemed merely transfixed by the flames, almost bored, not at all touched by the contents of the fire. It seemed in stark contrast to how things occur in the west - the ritual is so public and prescribed, the emotion entirely detached from it. The only shred of emotion passed almost unnoticed. Down amongst the cows picking through the filth at the waters edge, removed from all the ceremony, a young man sat in a boat, his head lowered and tears barely restrained, a child-sized bundle of white rags in his arms, waiting to rowed to the far shore where the young are abandoned to the waters. Directly behind the ghats lies Godaulia, the oldest part of the city, an impenetrable maze of cheap housing, market stalls, seedy 'restaurants' and chai shops; crumbling buildings rise high above, blocking landmarks and sunlight alike. Vaguely interesting to walk around for a half hour, but not so pleasant when you're blinded from migraine patterns (my fever hadn't entirely disappeared, I guess) and get severely lost for 5 hours; the main streets are unremittingly dull, dirty and leave you at the mercy of the endless stream of touts and rickshaw drivers.Unfortunately, my main memory of Varanasi will be the constant hounding I received for trying to walk around. God forbid anyone should actually get some exercise here! No, walking twenty minutes to the ghats is ridiculous, no-one can do that, he must want to get in my rickshaw, even though I've just seen him angrily tell a dozen others where to go (and then I can overcharge him because he's foreign, therefore a millionaire), the logic runs in the head of every single bloody rickshaw-wallah in the city. And they're not so easy to get rid of. A simple 'no thank you' won't do, you have to either repeat yourself three or four times, or get angry and yell. Not good for the throat when you have to do this three or four times a minute (sadly, no exaggeration). They often don't take you to where you want to go, either. The commission paying shops are a favourite target; I ended up staying in a guest house with a similar name to the one I actually asked for ("Where are you staying?", so many people asked. "Old Yogi lodge" "Ahh, Yogi Lodge! Good place, nice people!" "No, <i>Old Yogi lodge" "Oh...") because I arrived late in the evening and couldn't be bothered to argue after such a long day; a spurious seventy rupee 'tax' was my punishment for that one. And it's not just the rickshaws. Close to the ghats exist an uncountable number of 'silk' shops and associated touts, and the usual, pathetic scammers, too stupid to choose their targets wisely; having nothing better to do one afternoon and feeling affable because I had managed to spend an amazing twenty minutes sitting on one ghat without being approached, I decided to indulge one guy and pretend to play along. After three hours and attempting many varied (but obvious) approaches, he walked away with nothing. Honestly, trying to convince me all his money had been stolen when he was sleeping in a temple when he bought two packets of cigarettes and some bhang from a 'government shop' in the time we were talking is just not going to work.And then there's something unique to Varanasi - the 'government shop'. So I was repeatedly told many, many times, whether I wanted to hear or not, Varanasi is a holy city, the sadhus ritually use bhang (marijuana) in their faith, so it's okay for tourists to get stoned as well! All well and good if you're into that, but the way the commission-seeking touts go about imparting this information is just annoying. One major junction near a government shop is particularly bad for it, these idiots approaching you even after you've just told another to stroll on. "There's a government shop here, you know what that is?" (nudge nudge, wink wink) "I don't think I need to buy a government, thanks" "It is a holy city, so you can buy weed, hash..." "Isn't that illegal?" "No, because it is a holy city!" "Oh, that explains everything(!)" "Yes. You want opium?" "What? That has nothing to do with religion." "It is a government shop..." "Go away" "You come?" "Go Away!" "Just look!" "GO AWAY!"So Varanasi for me: no deep, religious feeling to the city; few genuine holy men about; little to see, and wading through filth to see it; and above all else was the constant, draining hassle. Not a good introduction to the country. On the positive side, I guess it's all going to get better from here!&nbsp;
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