ordinaryjoe's TravelStream™ — Recent TravelPod.com entries TravelStream™ news feed for member ordinaryjoe on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/ordinaryjoe en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 10 Oct 2009 09:16:36 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com Tagong Grasslands — Tagong, Yunnan, China http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1240150380/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1240150380/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1240150380/tpod.html Sat, 10 Oct 2009 09:16:36 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Tagong, Yunnan, China

Part 2

We walked the pre-dawn ice-blue streets to our 11-hour bus to Xiengcheng – the only westerners aboard. The smoking on the bus quickly became ridiculous and with no windows open because of the cold we could only gaze at the fresh vista of sheer grey crags, snowy peaks and puddles of green crops out of dusty windows. With everyone chain-smoking for the entire journey the only relief was getting off & surrendering our passports at mean-faced police checkpoints.

Mentally in tatters when we arrived we took the first offer of a hotel to rest before our next day connection although the chalked outline of a body was the only thing missing from the first 2 bleak rooms.

We had a walk out into the shoebox town, the Chinese having taken over this once Tibetan town and 'cleaned' it up with bathroom-tiled blocks of concrete. The "bus station" was typical of the bewildering confusion that stalks any visit to China. A collection of boarded-up huts surrounding a piece of wasteland not giving any clue where to buy tickets or whether it was even a bus station at all. 4 separate people pointed and gestured to 4 different doors - all shut - the place deserted apart from a cage of about 20 white baby bunnies. Fiona wanted to let them free to eat the glass & plastic on the floor but I thought it best not. Our hotel manager seemed to be saying the daily bus for Kangding left at 5:30am and no ticket was necessary so settled to wait another night.

At 5.15am the next morning we joined hunched figures hocking up in the darkness waiting for buses, the earth not yet awake. Our driver came round with a torch checking tickets and, not having one, he gestured us off without even having the decency to accept our bribe. With Fi making sure he didn’t drive off with our bags I ran in the gloom across the waste ground & up some wooden planks to the bus huts. Nothing seemed open. I ran back to find our backpacks slung off the bus, our pleads for information going unheard. I ran back to the hotel to find our manager to help. From the incessant babbling it seemed the only way to go was back to Shangri-La on the cancer bus! Trapped & completely bewildered like the bunnies in the cage we found ourselves unwillingly putting our packs on the Shangri-La bus. At the last minute a police officer/bus official/guardian angel finally seemed to understand our broken Chinese (nobody could read our desperation & disappointment) and beckoned me back up the planks. I followed him in the indigo shades of dawn, the whole thing like some ‘running-on-the-spot’ nightmare. I patiently waited in a boarded-up hut around a cooker ring amidst plumes of cigarette smoke and was finally rewarded with what we could only hope were 2 tickets for the next morning’s bus. The scramble of buses departed and silence descended again in the gloom. So, without anything else to do we headed back to the hotel without quibble and asked for our old room back…….again!

Joining the bus the next morning with our fingers crossed & we settled in amongst the aisle of luggage, speeding around mountain roads as we climbed up & out of the valley into the pinky promise of dawn. At 4700m herds of shaggy yaks lazily ambled out of the bus’ way searching for grass on the parched fawn-coloured landscape dotted with stubborn ice. To divert attention from the people being sick out of windows the driver began to play kung-fu movie after kung-fu movie for the reminder of the journey (12 out of the 15 hours). One bizarre comedy-horror film called ‘Herman’s Law of Beijing Hair Culture’ had confusing English subtitles & was like some wacky Chinese version of the Aussie classic ‘Bad Taste’. Highlights included stopping an undead transsexual in S&M gear with Maltesers & Clingfilm and rubbing poo in a trainee ghost-hunter’s face.

The marshmallow clouds & fierce sun of Xiengcheng had long since passed & now the mottled overcast challenges of blank tundra spread in every direction. We stopped for lunch at a crumbling roadside ‘caff’ and after our yak & potatoes trotted to …drum roll please….the most vile horrifying & gut-wrenching toilet we had ever visited. Through the cloth door & into a sunken pit of sloshing shit, piss, rags & butts over the top of which were pieces of two-by-four to balance on. With no privacy separating man from man I whizzed next to 2 squatting old men holding my breath in the shadowy bamboo hell. Involuntary shuddering followed for the next hour or so.

The next morning like gluttons for punishment we returned to the bus station to enquire about our final leg to the Tibetan town of Tagong. Nobody in the station really helped & people just seemed happy to stare & laugh at us although in reality it was probably the socks & sandals (how can I ever forgive myself?). We joined 5 other locals in a minibus & set off into the desolate wastes of the Tagong grasslands, each hillside covered entirely in colourful prayer flags.

Three hours in, a large Tibetan Buddhist monastery came into view and the mini bus dropped us off in the village square. Another of travelling’s random guardian angels guided us to her friend’s house to stay and we were shown to our ‘bedroom’ which was like some ancient room in a palace. Every inch of the room (and the house for that matter) was decorated in patterns of vibrant colour, painted directly onto the walls and with ruby red silk quilts and a royal blue and gold stitched silk ceiling we thought we could rest here awhile.

Taking a stroll on the bitterly cold streets (the village being at 3700m) was like something out a Wild West movie. Horses were tied up on every street corner, 80% of the men wore tall Stetson hats, thick, gold square shades and warm straight jackets with the long sleeves flapping untamed like their wild long hair. This was the Khampa people whose culture spread across the plains and was most definitely the authentic Tibetan tradition we were looking for. We expected a brawl to spill out of some saloon doors onto the street but guns had been replaced by prayer wheels and cut-eyed grimaces with big grins. The other 20% of men were Tibetan monks.

Whilst in Rome we had to try the region’s cup of choice - Yak Butter Tea. We sat with some nomads (who roam the grasslands selling their wares) in a local café and after 10 minutes of a game of charades involving cow/yak impressions they set about making it, eventually presenting 2 bowls and a large pot. It smelt like sick but perhaps it could taste better than it smelt. It tasted of hot sick. A heavily salted, cheesy liquid with globules of yak fat that eventually would return to its solid state. We invented a new extreme sport of Extreme Politeness (with me immeasurably better than Fiona) and I drank a whole bowl of this Yuk tea, desperate not to offend.

During our stay we went for a day’s trek up along a horse-shoe shaped ridge high above the village. At the top, amongst the melted patches of snow, we watched the morning frost retreat back to the huge snowy peaks in the distance. A solitary eagle circled acknowledging our presence as smooth curving hillsides of beige swept in every direction. On our final descent we walked through an army of prayer flags on the hillside watching over the village.

Back in the village looking for beer we walked past a café and a monk, sat there in his saffron robes with his monk friend sipping green tea, invited us to sit with them. Although English was not really on the menu we sat for nearly 2 hours talking in the universal language & both making ourselves perfectly understood. Between gallons of green tea I arm-wrestled one of the monks and politely declined their serious offer for me to join them as a monk in the monastery literally moving Fiona on her way. I think it’s The Devil’s Advocate when Al Pacino says “temptation is my favourite sin!” as it struck me then how one decision could completely turn life on its head!

With enticements of a simpler life it was time to say goodbye to the Tibetan cowboys and move on to the last exhausting leg of the China adventure…..
]]> Tiger Leaping Gorge — Tiger Leaping Gorge, Yunnan, China http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1239286200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1239286200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1239286200/tpod.html Sun, 04 Oct 2009 14:22:28 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Tiger Leaping Gorge, Yunnan, China

China presents its own special problems to the westerner – understanding & being understood, suspicious foods & by far the worst toilets in the world. For our third visit to China we wanted to try something different before the relentless onslaught of westernisation consumes it completely & made a sketchy plan to explore the wilder west up along the Tibetan border.

Our first destination was the ancient walled town of Dali where little old ladies dressed in traditional 'Bai' dress offer cannabis on the clean, picturesque streets and, under the shadow of bellowing 4000m mountains, you could take a ride on a huge ram. We toured the surrounding farming communities on bikes & the next day sat through a bumpy 5-hour drive to the Tiger Leaping Gorge, keen to walk towards the mountains again. Never fully sure if your ever on the right bus you quickly learn to just accept whatever fate comes your way & despite thinking we’d past our stop & were on our way to Siberia the driver pulled up in the middle of nowhere nodding furiously at our furious pointing on the map.

Ready to rest our weary heads before our 3-day trek we looked around the deserted village for a guesthouse. Out of nowhere an Australian called Margo popped out of a café & told us to leave our big packs with her to forward on & start on the trail to the next guesthouse. She insisted that it would be raining in the morning & we could easily complete the 2-hour trek to the next village before sundown. Though mentally & physically unprepared we trusted her judgement & off we trudged in the late afternoon with 2 vague, hand-drawn maps.

Trying to follow the map we turned left up a steep track following a scruffy local. The steep path wound through beautiful smelling pines, a crystal clear valley of deep green opening out before us – the finishing post of the Himalayas. The local turned & spoke to us in Chinese. We helpfully spoke back in English & whether he wanted money for guiding us, to take us home to his family or the recipe for curried crab cakes we’ll never know. If only we’d understood…

Within an hour we had reached a village & looked for the guesthouse. The path we had been following split into 3 ways & with no help from the maps or babbling villagers who all pointed in different directions we were becoming totally lost. We continued circling the village following trails up & down & round & over mistakenly following a pointed finger through some house gates & into (and straight out of) a courtyard of uniformed men & a rabid chained dog. One of the soldiers walked with us to a point on the edge of a dense pine forest & gestured to go straight through it. Now with no path & moving away from the village we were getting perplexed & slightly worried with the sun dipping behind the opposite valley. Out of the forest we reached a road going up/down the hill & a separate footpath sweeping round the mountain. The light was fading fast. Where were we?!

Not wanting to leave the safety of the village we followed the road back down now miles from the official path. Out of nowhere a man poked his head up out of a bush & spoke enough English to show us how far off the trail we were. The village was not THE village & we were a further hour and half away from where we wanted to be. He walked with us to a clearing & pointed out the way saying the guesthouse was round the next mountain. Now quite gloomy & with a hint of desperation creeping in we followed his pointed finger away from civilisation & onto a precarious mountain pass. I frantically tried to recall some Ray Mears techniques about how we could survive the night out in the open. Mountains closed their faces to the impending darkness as we continued through a shady forest & around the mountain. After an hour and a half we saw lights of a village ahead of us & ran through the surrounding stepped rice fields like something out of Platoon……….

The Naxi family guesthouse welcomed us with green tea as we relayed our story to Luigi Semoli – not a swarve, 6ft Roman but a funny Manc as Italian as a newspaper of fish & chips - & a jolly, forthright forty-something German called Wolfgang. Green tea turned into Dali beers and we chatted into the night.

The next morning we waited for the sun to blind us as it ‘crescendo’d’ over the snow peaks, crowning them in pure light and set off on our 3-day trek alone. At 2670m, we walked halfway up one tight valley wall, the sheer drop cutting down to a fast-flowing emerald river where tiny specks of tourists gathered oblivious to the magnificent scene above and below us. On the clear days we could follow veins of snow on the tops of the mountains opposite down through bare rock to lush greenery then down to the river. The last day’s walk around waterfalls was whipped in cloud changing the atmosphere to a beautiful shadowy bleakness.

Our last guesthouse on the trek claimed to have the ‘best toilets on Earth and in the Heavens’. A mighty claim and after gaining certain expertise in the standard of latrines since being away (though only on Earth) I made my assessment. On first look it seemed pretty bog standard (haw haw) with the straddle & squat technique (not the best conditions to make you want to linger) but with only the sides covered the rest of the toilet was completely exposed looking out over the entire expanse valley. How liberating!

At the end of the trek we found the (un)likely lads (Luigi & Wolfgang) having a beer and decided to ride with them to Shangri-La. The journey was spectacular - mountains giving way to huge wide plains (still at 3200m) with Luigi making us laugh as he continuously agonised over deleting photos on his SIM card from the trek so he could take more of the views before him.

In the bitterly cold Shangri-La (tourist name for Ziongdian) we rode horses on the grassland plains, walked through thousands of colourful prayer flags atop monasteries and ate dinners with the German & the Gerbil. We were on the edges of Tibetan culture and wanted to see more but with the visas for Tibet extortionate and the mountain passes only just re-opened for foreigners we planned a route along the Chinese side of the Tibetan border despite warnings it would be hard…….
]]> The Off — Manchester, England, United Kingdom http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1224523800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1224523800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1224523800/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 15:36:15 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Manchester, England, United Kingdom

After the jabs, the visas, the planning, the moving out, the moving in, the packing, the planning, the TEFL course, the goodbyes, the saving, the remortgage, the dentist, the direct debits, the job, the equipment, the tenants, the wellwishes, the car , the bloody lettings agents, the tickets, the blogs and email being set up I finally sat on the plane to Delhi feeling a little numb and sat between a Kenyan woman from Denver who, between coughing fits tells me she is going to hospital in Delhi for "treatment" and a nutty old indian woman on the aisle who refused to let me in and out of my seat and continued to bark at me in Hindu for the first couple of hours. We eventually bonded over an armrest and a flavourless inflight curry. After grabbing an hour's doze we arrived at dawn in a hazy, crazy Delhi......
]]> Pokhara, Nepal — Pokhara, Nepal http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1261660860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1261660860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1261660860/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 15:31:57 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Pokhara, Nepal

Half expecting to step into a different world over the border with Nepal, nothing really changed. We were told we had missed the quicker bus to Pokhara but a 13 hour overnight one was leaving in 2 hours. Suspicious, cranky and cornered this last hurdle on the journey from South India was too much and probably just to shut me up a bloke eventually agreed to drive us the 6 hour journey in his car - 30GBP well spent me thinks.

At around 10:30pm after driving along pitch-black winding mountain roads a bank of dotted lights like stars on the land swung into view. Pokhara was a world away from India and the bright, colourful streets shone like to gold to us. With all the cheery red faces, restaurants, bars and mountain views, however, we couldn't get ski resort out of our heads. It was Christmas Eve and keen to sit outside with a chilled, unmasked beer we sat in a local shack eatery and started talking with Tanka, the owner, about our hotel's trekking plan for us. It was clear he had extensive experience of the mountains having been a porter for 15 years although his stoutly paunch suggested he hadn't seen them recently. Unable to resist his friendly smile, keenness to return to the mountains and shy demeanor we accepted an offer for 16 days trekking around Mount Annapurna (at half of what the hotel were asking) and an invitation to join his family for Christmas Day dinner (Hindu style).

Christmas Day arrived and the mainly Hindu Pokhara had pulled out some of the stops with their version of Christmas - multiple Santa's on motorbikes, children singing Hindu love songs whilst clinging on to the back of pick-up trucks and open oil drum fires outside the lodges and bars. Apart from a calculator, which brought the great joy that only statistics can bring, my other present was an hour's tandem paragliding with a Brazilian woman over the town (although it has to be said the Brazilian pilot was simply a bonus on arrival). Watching the earth sail beneath my flailing legs against the backdrop of Phewa Lake around Pokhara and the distant snowy peaks to the north was very peaceful - my kind of extreme sport - and we flew around with the eagles lifting and swooping in and out of air thermals for around an hour before touching down without incident.

The next few days we were able to relax in the British-summer style winter days and buy some warm winter gear for the mountains. On the morning of the 28th December we set off at 1900m starting the first steep ascent. It would take us the first 5 days to reach our first destination of Annapurna Base Camp at 4200m and no amount of words or pictures could ever do these days justice really. Awesome is an overused and misplaced word these days but the sight of these giant glaciated pyramid peaks rising so far into the sky that you looked at them very much like you'd talk to a very tall man, was just that. We walked through humble villages terraced onto the mountainsides, sweeping green valleys and willow-the-wisp woods haunted by cloud but the mountains shining brightly, ever present, in the distance above and beyond. We paced over streams of crystal clear water, white river rapids and rickety Indiana Jones style bridges between deep gorges. Don't think Fiona appreciated my gentle rocking although Tanka's 'heavy foot' on these bridges had us both grabbing for the sides.

On NYE (day 4) we walked upto 3740m, the effects of altitude sickness beginning to kick in. In the day we had walked in silence through prime avalanche country listening for the roar of snow above the V-shaped valley walls and followed the fast flowing river up, the oxygen thinning out and each step heavy and laboured. I had a headache but i dismissed it as over the previous few days i had spent much of my time whacking my head against Nepal's ridiculously small door frames. In the afternoon heavy cloud chased us through the valley and as a blizzard whipped the mountains, reminding us of their power, we sought sanctuary at Macchpuche Base Camp before our New Year's Day ascent to Annapurna Base Camp (4200m). By 4pm, as the weather worsened outside, a jolly group gathered : Us Brits in our trainers, 4 Italians decked head-to-foot in North Face gear checking altitude meters and inexcusably refusing the rum, a serene middle-aged Swiss couple and 3 Korean students who were almost inconsolable at not being able to make the top for NYE of which one had the most enormous face i've ever seen.

We huddled round the large table with a kerosene fire roaring underneath playing international paper games: Battleships (Italy), Town River Tree (UK), Nepali chess (Nepal), Yahtzee (Switzerland) and a non-sensical numbers game called Baseball (Korea). Playing chess with the highly random Tanka my head was becoming increasingly tight and 2 hours later the sides of my head felt like it was in a vice and the crown under a steam train, the Italians taking up most of the scarce oxygen. Plied with vile garlic soup to thin the blood it was mooted that if i was actually sick we may have to descend in the dark blizzard to the previous village 2 hours walk away. Thinking the walk to be more dangerous than the choppy waves of nausea i tried to sleep. In bed, New Year's Eve, 7pm.

Temperatures fell at night to around -16 degrees, the cold, stone walls and naked bars in the rooms punishment after the day's pleasures. Keeping warm at night was a full time job - rapid changes into all thermals, fleeces, woolly socks and gloves inside our sleeping bags became efficient races. Also, having to drink a lot of fluids in the day walking the twice nightly trips to the outside 'hole' toilet became the single most painfully annoying aspect of our existence. Waiting until the last possible moment to leave the warmth of the sleeping bag at some ungodly hour I'd jump out of the bag - find the torch - find my shoes - open the squeaking door - wake Fiona (now also bursting) - walk in the snow and try (this time) not to slip on the icy, stinky toilet - walk back wide awake and try and get warm again knowing I'd be up again before long.

The early morning was clear, the only light in our shaded position the pink fire-glow on 2 cones above us. Feeling a little better in the morning and having another gallon of garlic soup for breakfast we decided that having come this far we would climb the 2 hours up to Base Camp. As the sun rose we followed the trail left by the eager Italians in 2-foot of snow. Turning into a valley bathed in sunlight the whipped folds of snow glistened like diamonds all around as we crunched and creaked in the fresh snow. Base Camp was set in the bottom of a stunning bowl of about 6 gleaming, mammoth mountains now only a further 4000m above us in the brilliant blue sky (they seem closer after walking 5 days up to them). It was the pinnacle of the first part to the trek and whirling round to take in the indescribably peaceful 360-degree view we didn't really know how to leave.

We spent the next few days on the way down and crossing west to another area where the scenery changed and unfolded dramatically before us, the mountains being so sheer in size and slope as to house wildly different climates within days walks of each other. The treacherous forest trails covered in ice and snow that were dank and foreboding in the low ethereal cloud became a winter wonderland in the bright welcoming sunshine. The white slid gradually back into the lush green valleys of waterfalls and circling eagles and then over through North American style pines, wide, windy valleys and over to the arid desert steppes of the Mustang region. Great stuff with or without ipods.

By this time Tanka was being extremely sarcastic and highly entertaining, his tone somewhere between Yoda and Mr Miyagi. Between ridiculous impressions of peacocks & American tourists and sweating profusely, Tanka did us proud and took us to local houses for lunches & snacks and made a point of relaxing at viewpoints rather than simply haunting the tourist lodges, himself happy to be back in the mountains. Away from his family he got "a little bit drunkle" every night but on one fateful night after joining him drinking some local, lethal moonshine things changed. He had been quiet all day and after polishing off most of the large beer bottle of fermented millet he started saying he wanted to return to Ghasa (the previous village we'd stayed in) to "study" the widow owner. Getting a straight answer was difficult at the best of times with Tanka but when pressed he said he thought that she had killed her husband and wanted to study her motives as his own wife had tried to kill him three times! Tricky to react to such a statement really but i thought it best left and stopped pressing - arranged marriage problems not being a forte. Of course, Fiona admirably ploughed on regardless. Apparently (for those soap fans desperate to know), his wife was in love with another man and as Tanka had lost a lot of money helping the poor and taken a loan she thought getting rid of him would eliminate the debt and unlock the forbidden love. Wanting to stand up clapping shouting "there's your movie!" he followed it up by saying he was dead inside and only lived his life for others now. Cue awkward silence. Fi did well to try and talk some calm sense into him but he was straying into difficult waters and he wasn't really listening to us anyway. Bidding him a swift goodnight and an English, cure-all slap on the back we scuttled off to the bedroom to let off a large sigh (and race into our sleeping bags).

In the morning an embarrassed but smiling Tanka shuffled about complaining about the strength of the "brandy"(?) and how my hangover was funny but nothing more was said or raised on the subject and we still had 7 days left! Within a couple of days (perhaps unrelatedly) his habits like crushing snoring, the sloppy slurpy eating and his indecisive plundering, all forgiven when he was hilarious, became deeply annoying. The comedy character in our travelly dream world had become a real person with all the fears and frailties and coupled with 16 days in each other's pockets we had to learn a swift lesson in patience.

Over the last 5 days of the trek we walked on desolate desert clays cracking under the extremes in temperature, found a fossil by smashing specific rocks on the dry bed of an ancient river that maybe once fed green vegetation, bathed in a hot spring and narrowly avoided "YakDonalds" in a medieval desert town near the border with Tibet in the mysterious Mustang Kingdom region of Nepal (the upper parts only allow 500 tourist per year asking $1000 for the permit). Things were getting pretty grubby too. With only really 2 hot showers in 16 days and not the largest wardrobe to choose from we had become what the Nepali's call "mountainous" and my beard, now home to a chaffinch called Sid, a blue-eared Kingfisher and the threatened Slinder Billed Babbler, needed urgent work.

On the last day we had to get a 2 hour bus off the mountain along the deeply rutted dust bowl of a mountain track. The ugly intervention of man was creeping into the mountain village and crudely constructed roads cut out of the young volatile mountains broke our hearts a little, not having seen a vehicle in 2 weeks. Feeling like stones in a portable rock crusher we could only find seats at the back of the Lilliput bus and with my knees crushed up against the metal seat in front the rollarcoaster from hell roared in a choking cloud of dust. Being jolted on every inch of road off our seats (and plundering back down again) the beating seemed endless. Nothing could be worse than this surely. In answer to my prayers my stomach & bowels (which had been squirmy for a couple of days) started to gripe and loosen. I tried to wedge myself above the seat hanging by the handrails to avoid (for want of a better expression) my arse being pounded like a pneumatic drill and things loosening beyond control. Eventually shouting to Tanka at the front, off his face on paan (chewing tobacco spices), i asked him quickly to go and ask them to stop the bus....quickly. Can we stop the whole bus please the westerner needs to shit himself! Great.

Over the next 2 weeks, now back in Pokhara, we growled about on an old style Yamaha Enticer motorbike with mustache handlebars for a couple of days, i continued to thwack my head on low beams and went on another 5 day trek to the Mustang region with Tanka who wanted to show us the real Nepal and not just the perceived tourist trek of Annapurna. With our tempers even again (the mountains do funny things to you we decided) we agreed.

On the second day Tanka got hideously lost and we trailed the mountains in torchlight until we found the village of Siklis. Having not seen a soul for a couple of days the least things we expected to find at 1750m was a drunk, Irish painter and decorator sat round a camp fire. This was 50 year old Ciaran who had been coming to his beloved mountains for 12 years but over the next 2 days did not move more than a metre away from his glass of fermented millet relaying stories of his IRA mother and father in the 50's and struggles of various people's armies around the world. At one point a local was aimlessly strumming his out-of-tune guitar to one of Ciaran's tales of woe round the camp fire in a bizarrely discordant violin moment.

Without any lodges on this trek we had to rely on the generosity of people to give us a bed for the night. We stayed in Hom's home, a native Gurung and long-standing friend of Ciaran. On the second night, having climbed and lazed about watching distant avalanches at a beautiful viewpoint with Fiona in the day, Hom had organised about 20 people from the village to come to his home and perform an Amatoli (traditional music and dance). We were welcomed warmly as guests and watched and listened as the men sang and played merrily and the women, in full swing, twirled and swirled around. Obviously we were made to get up and dance and suitably embarrass ourselves. Ciaran lurched about 'on stage' like an 'auld' lush but nothing other than non-judgmental smiles surrounded him. At one point he accepted more Rakshi wine by stuttering through "Does the Pope shit in the woods?" and was basically a disgrace but having him there just added to the unreal scene.

Leaving the next morning we walked for 5 hours and landed in TangTing (another Gurung village). After accepting some unbelievable pumpkin soup, dug up in front of us, the cook invited us to stay at his parent's house and to take us the next day to walk up to his favourite place. In the dark, smoothly clayed floor of his mum's kitchen, we sat round the wood fire sunken into the floor as she deftly cooked an entire meal of flavoured veg, potatoes, rice, cabbage, dal & tea on one stand over the fire! Despite neither speaking English (nor us Gurung) we had an enjoyable time with them and by the next morning they were dressing us in traditional Gurung dress, giving us Hindu/Buddhist blessing (the religion being blend of the two) & trying in vain to teach us the Oriental-sounding Gurung language.

The walk the next day through steep jungle at a hectic pace was tough with no trail to follow but rewarding. Tanka, now more Jabba the Hut than Yoda in his sainsbury's orange shirt, struggled, eventually reaching the summit looking like a mountain of Vaseline. The viewpoint at 3200m was probably the best we'd seen, viewing 15 of the powerfully peaceful giant mountains (all between 6000m & 8300m). We stayed at the top for a couple of hours and after the son and his mate cooked us lunch round an open fire we descended back to TangTing with its stair-cased stepped farms and cattle dragging ancient wood ploughs.

Before our 36 hour bus(!!?) back to Delhi on 2nd Feb we relaxed in our peaceful lodge gardens only leaving for a day's white water rafting and the odd meal.

We only based ourselves in Pokhara (avoiding the highly polluted Kathmandu and other "Indian style" towns) so my views may be obscured by those rose tints but Nepal must be visited once. It is, quite simply, very good for you inside and out.

As always fi's pictures (which do things far better justice than mine) should be up soon (small backlog of 9000 sunset photos from India to sort first) http://flickr.com/photos/fiona236a


]]> Varanasi — Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1230108420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1230108420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1230108420/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 15:14:36 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India

The long and arduous trek from the southern tip of India up to the Nepal border for Christmas (and perhaps even a drink served over a real bar) set off on the evening of Sunday 14th December with a 27 hour train journey. Indians like to rise with the sun and by 6am the carriage was full of unmuzzled conversations and music blaring from mobile phones. As we settled into the day's ride, sharing the carriage with 4 brothers, a man with pitifully thin preying mantis legs crawled through the train corridor pointing from his legs to his outstretched hand repeatedly. This was the start of what became a procession of freakish, out-of-work circus performers filing past every hour or so. We had four agressive eunochs, a shouting blind man with no eyes, an indian dwarf, a boy showing us his mangled hand, an aggressive singing woman with such a peaceful haunting voice when she stopped punching the locals for money, a man with his arm back to front (his elbow was where his biceps should have been and the rest of the arm folded backwards and lastly a shaven headed old lady who kept lolling her sleeping head on Fiona's shoulder. Where these people come from and go to on the train is a mystery but we concluded there must be a separate carriage where they let one out every hour to stalk the train.

The train arrived at midnight in Visakhapatanum and disembarking we started to walk the eerily dark and quiet streets to find a lodge. With most places seemingly full or unwilling to take us we eventually found a room and dismounted from our packs ready to flop. Brushing my teeth i heard a scream from Fiona and rushing in i knew from her face we had an insect. In the bed turning over her pillow Fiona had revealed the enormous cockroach. It scuttled for cover under the base of the bed and unable to find it we nervously secured ourselves in our silk liners and watched TV pretending it wasn't there and managing to convince ourselves that it was probably time for it to sleep anyway. The sleep timer on the TV clicked off the set and the room plunged into darkness as we tried to drop off. Not sure why i opened my eyes but in the gloom i saw the cockroach climbing up my silk liner and with screams of "Not the face" i successfully levitated off the bed bouncing fiona into action in a millisecond. It stared back at us on the white sheets and without thinking i managed to drop a glass over it and moved the critter to be dealt with in the morning.

The industrial town of Visakhapatanum was not the most welcoming of places and obviously didn't entertain many visitors but we found an oasis in a cultivated mountainside park where the views of the coastline were magnificent. From the top we spied a walkway to the beach where we had ascended the mountain so heading back in the cable car we went for a walk along the beach. We noticed an old man squatting near the sea and, getting closer, it was clear he was having a crap. Focusing forward we began to see little, open shallow graves of shit everywhere. Now seeing a number of staggered people squatting and seeing silhouttes in the near distance flickering round a major fire of rubbish on the beach we hot-footed it off the beach in disgust. It is bewildering to us how little respect they have for nature and their environment sometimes. Are they blind to the mountains of plastics and packets glogging up the vile streams of sludge. Their deficating liberalism and active disregard for tossing personal rubbish wherever they choose goes beyond mere western aestetic appeal and although indians rave about their fantastic immune systems i fear it is ultimately Mother Earth who will not be able to stomach the fight .

At the station that night we met Danny, a friendly indian man who sat next to us and as was now normal started to talk to us. He asked us if we could do him a favour and try and find a wife for him in England and keep in close contact with progress. He was deadly serious. After trying to explain women in England may not easily drop everything and come to India he said he would help smooth the move. The intensity of our 30 minute conversation was completely alien to us but his openess and honesty at times was touching (if not sociopathic).

The train was cold and by 7am the next day with little sleep we arrived in our next destination to scramble north. The train after this was leaving at 7pm so we had 12 hours to kill without a hotel room hanging around the station and grotty town streets. Cutting the day up into hourly segments didn't really help and by 7pm our resolve was wavering.

Although our train arrived in Umaria at 2am we had no way of knowing what lay in wait. No books, apart from the train timetable, confirmed the existance of Umaria. It was close to the National Park we wanted to go to and instead of stopping in the large town further away we decided in our push for time (and drink) to chance it hoping a hotel awaited us! The only ones to disembark at Umaria we crossed the bridge at the dimly lit station and were immediately offered a tuctuc and clean hotel. Success! As the sun streamed through the curtains a loud, continous banging on the door broke through our consciousnesses and i opened the door bleary-eyed and annoyed. It was 6:30am and the tuctuc man who picked us up was stood there offering us a lift to the National Park!

Taking the local bus we arrived in the peaceful Tala. Walking along the road looking for a place to stay we met a scottish couple who were looking for people to fill a jeep for a cheaper tiger safari in the park. Things were looking up. There was the scottish couple, fi and me and an incredibly bored looking canadian who spoke only to confirm his identity. A 4 hour trek around on the hunt for tigers yielded nothing but a couple of wild bicycles and goose chases but we had a good laugh apart from the candian who was left expressionless at the end and we left him just standing at the exit waiting for death. A couple of precious hours in the warm sun before the bus back to Umaria was the last we were to experience for the next couple of months. Back in Umaria we waited and waited before boarding the 4:20am train to Varanasi.

In the afternoon on that train we met a chilled and genuine indian guy, called Babu, a 23-yr old from Varanasi who was travelling back after seeing family in Hampi (the boulder place). He helped us into the old town at Varanasi to the hotel where we wanted to go but as that was full he arranged his friend to take us to his and organised a cheap price for a great view over the numerous ghats of the River Ganges now shrouded in the foggy cold air of a chilly north indian winter. The Ganges (or Ganga here) was markedly different to the emereld green fresh waters of Rishikesh. With that many thousands of bacterial extretions, sewage and filth it was officially termed "septic" by the UN in 2002 so what better way to appreciate it than a relaxing boat trip to view the different ghats.

We reached the infamous burning ghat where between 25 and 600 bodies are burned each day from the eternal fire that has been burning for over 2000 years. Charred building facades, powerful plumes of grey smoke created a somber air that did not fill with emotion. Women, on account of the wailing and sometimes throwing themselves on the funeral pire, were banned from the ghat (although tourists of both sexes were allowed to view from distances) and the male relatives of the deceased who unwrapped the stiff corpses and lit the prepared piles of firewood went about the work calmly and efficiently without fuss. When finally reduced to ashes and thrown in the Ganga, in true Indian style, the bodies were seived for gold.

The old city was great and away from the countless touts selling pashminas, boat trips and black market currency deals the tiny shops and dizzying mass of narrow streets were full of life. The usual smells of dung, incense, sour milk, spices, piss and tea all chopped into each other without warning. Over the 3 days there we collected some cheap warm clothing for Nepal, met up with Babu for drinks and finished by watching the Aarti (river ceremony) in the evening circling the route by echoing our arrival to India at the aarti in Rishikesh but we were really ready to face a new challenge in a new country. Our mission to be in Nepal for Christmas was nearly complete.

I'm going to have real problems summing india up and am not sure whether it can be summed up. It is like trying to explain the offside rule to a deaf guy without the use of your arms. It makes less sense the more you try to articulate it - a country full of contradictions, non-sensical complications and dead ends.

India is unashamedly India. It does not try to be anything else, western modernisation a small dent in their hard shell of deep-rooted culture. Its true heart, like any country, lies in its people. With a population that will overtake China in 15 years on half the land mass the country could not function without the great level of tolerance or the unflinching drive for postivity and life whatever the circumstances. A double-edged sword for us really insofar as the daily smiles and friendly, out-of-their-way help (not counting the annoying touts) was never an effort or chore to them and made our passage through India a really pleasureable eye-opener but the fact in 2 months we couldn't get a minute to ourselves was tiring and, at times, wearing.

Train travel was the best way to watch their interactions and bizarre social codes without too much interruption. For example, the unreserved parts of the trains were packed with bodies. At any station hundreds of people pile into the small openings pushing, shoving, clambering and bawling at each other Fighting for seats and space the train slowly pulls away as stranglers and the older folk throw themselves over each other onto the moving train. As soon as its left the platform however the shouting and commotion stops and a sudden polite calm descends and guys who were near violence moments earlier are exchanging customary head wobbles. It's bizarre to watch (and unimaginable in the UK) but this as with the chaotic but rage-less roads, the miles of slum housing and even the cows wandering the streets seem to work off some doctrine of necessity. Every person wants/needs a seat on the long journey so of course they'll do everything to get one. They'll do what they have to do but accept and understand that others are merely trying to do the same so getting irrate or confusing faux-politeness is alien to them. All's fair in love and war. In the UK we have love and hate, they have need and greed (but in India both are played out with a genuine smile!)

This is why they love the English's purported sense of fair play (one of many collonial stereotypes they hold and cherish) and why the Mumbai bombings were such a blow to them (no pun!?) as the incredible range of strongly-felt religions mingle easily and visibly in peace with each other.

This could go on so i'll stop but needless to say we loved every hectic minute and no doubt the country's magnatism will draw us back one day.

.....bring on Nepal....




]]> Kochi — Kochi, Kerala, India http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1229255040/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1229255040/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1229255040/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 15:01:06 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Kochi, Kerala, India

Feeling quite confident we decided to go off the beaten track slightly to the small town of Kalpetta in the rainforest state of Kerala to visit a wildlife sanctuary. The only accommodation in town was a lifeless grey government guesthouse and we met some fellow safarees, a couple from Bristol, Keith and Lucy, who we teamed up with to save some money.

The jeep arrived the next morning at 5:30am and passing dense vegetation, quite enormous houses and a number of working elephants we finally found the entrance to Waynard Wildlife Sanctuary. I was in the normal state of readiness for outdoor pursuits packing only a spare pair of shorts. In the park we saw more elephants, langur monkeys, spotted deer, barking deer, peacocks, giant squirrels(!?) and a tiger.............. footprint and although feeling like some tracker in a Wilbur Smith adventure, the time of year was not on our side and we could not see much through the blurred wall of tree trunks.

The next stop was to see some neolithic cave paintings up a mountain. The jeep took us part of the way up and we climbed the last part to the paintings. The views over Kerala were stunning taking in manicured tea and spice plantations, elephant rock (see photo) and the dark green rainforest all around. There was an opportunity to climb to the peak and determined to get the full 360-degree view of what Keralans call "God's Own Country" Fi and myself climbed the rocks. Keith (who was quickly living up to his name) and Lucy stayed on a safe ledge. About 3 metres from the peak i got the wobbles as things were getting very steep and with floating linen trousers not being the rockclimbers choice of dress i joined Fiona who had stopped further below. Back at the cave paintings a group of about 20 Muslim teenage lads were gathered around as we walked towards them. Keith fussed and worried around Lucy. All of them waved good morning and before moving on we had to shake all their hands! Trying to imagine this situation back home with any group of teenage lads. So far in India there has not been one situation, setting or street where we have not felt safe.

After lunch served on a banana leaf at a local eatery our guide took us to Sunset Valley Point where after a short walk along a narrow path to a rock ledge where the world just opened out in front of us and took our breath away. Waterfalls and a meandering ice blue river were the only breaks in the thick carpet of green foliage stretched out far below us. After 20 minutes however the visibility was becoming poor and we could see a huge dark clouds rolling through the valley towards us. Trotting back to the jeep the thudding dollups of rain increased in verocity. Worrywort Keith flapped about getting wet and sat dripping in the foetal position as the guide secured the waterproof flaps on the jeep.

Next our guide took us to a waterfall undetered by the now sheet rain. It was too much for Keith & Lucy who did terrifically well to even step out of the jeep. It wasn't particularly warm and my t-shirt (already embarrassingly filthy) was now stuck to my skin and my linen trousers more like lead so with nothing to lose and not wanting to miss out we followed our much amused guide to the impressive waterfall. Back at the jeep i apologised and removed my t-shirt, sneezing. The driver wanted to take us to one more place. I was now wrapped in Fiona's red and gold shawl so stepping out like an indian lady we walked round the boating lake listening to Keith worries and ignoring the bewildered stares. Stopping for a quick tea to warm up Lucy suddenly shrieked. A leech had attached itself to her foot. I had trainers on but checked up my trousers to find three of the critters nibbling away. Flicking them off and changing into my shorts it became clear that we all had them. Fiona was panicking thinking they were all over her (she would later fully strip in the carpark behind the jeep!?). Of course, Keith was traumatised after discovering one on his neck and demanded to be taken home.

Arriving back at the hotel in the cold wrapped in nothing but a sopping red sari shawl and some shorts with my legs dribbling with blood we settled down for the night ready to dream of leeches and waiting for the blood-curdling screams from Keith & Lucy next door.

The first of 2 buses to Kochi was a 2-hour rollercoaster down the mountainside covering 9 hairpin bends with steep drops down one side and deep ditches down the other. With Sandra Bullock at the wheel we rocketed through the traffic like a bullet sometimes even on the correct side of the road not slowing for anything or anyone. The second 5-hour bus again raced without concern to its destination furiously beeping at anything daring to slow it down with Bollywood movies playing on the screens at distorted ear-splitting volume. The locals, young and old, were obviously unflustered by the whole thing, smiling away and wobbling their heads in amusement and approval at our contorting faces.

In the affluent port city of Kochi (the regional capital) imposing malls, boutiques and mammoth billboards lined the wide roads all imaginatively illuminated at night and was a far cry from the rainforest. The next day we had spotted in 'The Book' an infinity pool at a smart hotel on Willingdon Island, a short ferry ride off the mainland. The small island industrial port was in the middle of the arrival of yachts involved in the Volvo World Yacht Race 2008 and busy with new pavements, roads and roadside folliage being added all around. We settled into the 5-star surroundings poolside like rednecks at a society charity bash. "This here pool sure is purty ma. Ooh. we's got fresh towels too!" Symbols of corporate sponsorship littered the lawns as we finetuned our lies about being with the media .

At lunchtime we wandered out to find something a little cheaper to eat (one sandwich could have paid for a hotel and 2 meals for us!). Outside the complex we were treated like royalty thinking that we were part of the yachting community. I spotted a little place and with the locals (mainly dockers) barely looking up we took our places and were served a tradtional Keralan thali by our waiter who seemed impressed and pleased that we had shunned the glitz our our yacht race. The food was extremely spicy but beautifully flavoured and with flames in our mouths we settled back at the pool looking out over the lip of the infinity pool at the gas container ships and handmade canoes roll in alongside each other. Before leaving we power showered in the poolside spa and cleaned them out of complimentary shampoo, shower gel and shower caps. The hairdryer would not fit in the bag.

The next bus was to Munnar, a hill station and plantation town back in the rainforest with a rather random but imposing and real 50ft cardboard cut out of Lenin stood on a hammer and sickle?! The journey there, mainly uphill, past many grand houses and the roads were mercifully smooth. Humanity seemed to settle harmoniously into the vegetation with litter and filth noticeably absent, the lo-rise towns hardly denting the waves of green. During our stay there we arranged a trek up one of the mountains at 2400m. We met our fellow trekker, a 50-year old jolly German man named Andreas with a big twirly moustache (but sadly no liederhausen to complete the picture) and after our guide poured a quick early morning chai we steadily started the 2-hour climb. With regular stops to marvel at the developing scenery creeping out of the shadows created by the red rising sun we could see on one side the tall trees helping to cover the spice plantations that lay beneath and on the other the lazy undulations of an enormous manicured tea plantation set like a lush carpet of green across telly-tubby hills. At the top the far horizon, now under the colourless light of the risen sun, mountain tops as far as the eye could see were poking above the valley mists. We settled for breakfast while the funny Andreas meditated on the top (see photo!)

After 3 days in the lovely Munnar we took another bus to Kumily. The usual kamakazi bus team of driver, ticket man and door opener/bell ringer were thick as theives, laughing and joking as we sped at breakneck speed round horseshoe corners with a rude rasp of the horn. At one point they stopped at a stall at the side of the road and bought some oranges and handed them to us as a gift. As well as feeling safe we've always felt looked after and protected and whether it's by barman, bus-man or waiter, helping people is integral to their existance and courted by the law of Karma and bring luck.

In Kumily, a friend of the guys in Munnar, took us on a tour of a tea factory and the surrounding bonzai tea tree fields. He also took us to a spice garden and several plantations where we saw and sampled fresh curry leaves, cinnamon trees, cardamon, turmeric roots, cashew nut trees, coca leaves, ginger roots, lemon leaves, aubergines, a red banana tree, tapioca trees, chilli peppers, wild lemongrass, masla leaves, nutmeg, sandlewood, rosewood and teak trees, papaya trees, vanilla pods, rubber trees and latex wood. Seeing all these foods and spices at source was quite humbling in a strange way - i was beginning to see why they called these bountiful lands God's Own Country.

Our last stop was Alappuzha which we reached by 2-hour ferry. We stopped here to relax into the slower pace of Indian life for 4 days before our enormous journey north through the entire country to Nepal. We hired a houseboat for a 24 hour trip around some of the countless waterways. We lazed on our chaise longue sipping from a bottle of Goan port (the only take out a bar would give us) sailing silently through the wide channels of calm of water lined by palm trees and small villages. Moored up in the evening we were offered a ride in a canoe down some of the smaller channels of the backwaters. Taking up the spare oar we paddled down the river (although in reality i was probably not helping steer at all) feeling like we on an expedition on the Amazon. We picked up some India University student type straight out of a teen horror flick - all innocent and jokey. Now fearing for our lives (as Brits always get killed in these films) we turned off the main 'highway' and into a gloomy side channel, the sun setting rapidly behind the thick cloud cover. We silently scouped at the water anonymously spying on the locals evening rituals and briefly stopped at a local shack for a vile coconut beer. It was dark by the time we returned, the waterway now illuminated by shy moonlight and an electric storm in the near distance.

Having been at the guest house for 4 days we got to know some good people in the comfortable common area including a girl from Hong Kong who was happy to meet us when we got there to show us round the city and Kitchu, a young indian guy who worked there. On our last full day Kitchu invited us to his family home for dinner, taking us to a secret non-tourist beach in the afternoon that had been created by the Tsunami a few years ago. The baby palm trees stretched out as far as we could see on the deserted beach. After flinging a frisbee round for a while in the blowy conditions we left for his mum's. We ate outside the humble 2 room house with his family and one of his friends. The conversation was fun and flowed as easily as the mozzies bit my legs and the fantastic food tumbled out, the family ignoring our pleas for it to stop. With our lips burning and our stomachs overflowing with polite scoffing we headed back arming ourselves with sleep before some serious train rides to reach Nepal for Christmas.
]]> Pallolem, Goa — Pallolem Beach, India http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1228227840/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1228227840/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1228227840/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 13:19:00 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Pallolem Beach, India

We quickly secured another beach hut amongst the tightly packed palm trees and walked out along the sand 'street' between the raised huts to a small opening where we could see the sea. Without any preparation of what we were about to see we stepped onto the golden sands of Pallolem Beach. The size and majesty of this 'perfect' beach took us both aback. Set in a slow dream-like curve and stretching around about a mile the beach was fringed by a matt of tall palm trees reaching towards the sea across the entire arc. Without any hotels in evidence the countless beach shacks nestled out of view in the coconut forest and handmade fishing boats perched on sleepers by the sea's edge ready to be rolled into the inviting sea.

We sourced a place to do some yoga and were told that there was a class at 6:30am just behind the beach. The next morning we peeled ourselves out of bed and walked across the sand under reddening skies and back in to the dense cover of the palm trees finding the bamboo structure and our teacher, Swami Dayanand. He was an imposing figure of about 6ft 2in and his height and wide, smooth back seemed completely at odds with his late 60's age, long, wavey, grey hair seamlessly connected to a salt and pepper beard and swaddling clothes. The 90 minute session was a gentle combination of different styles and it felt very peaceful listening to sounds of the early morning and the rush, rush rush of the waves with several lie down relaxations between positions.

Now wide awake at 8am we had some breakfast on the beach and watched cows coughing!? Eager to get to the beach we found a couple of loungers and lounged, baked and turned in the morning heat. A morning catching crashing waves on the body board and an amateurish game of bat and ball with Fiona completed the tough morning. (sorry - you don't need to hear that).

The couple of days we spent there - never actually leaving the beach to venture out - was just what we needed. Pallolem's laid back atmosphere impressed us and although quite a tourist resort it never felt crowded or manic. People join in impromtu games of volleyball, cricket or football in the late afternoon and as the day slips into twilight you walk past the beach huts with their porch hammocks with the occasional Tom Sawyer strumming at the moon. The (too) many restaurants that fringe the beach between the palms set up barbeques and prepare the catches of the day and chilled house music drifts with the waves.

Ready for another 12 hour train journey and onward 3 hour bus i am beginning to realise that travelling in India is simply hopping from paradise to paradise interspersed with mental and physical endurance tests. The train takes us further south to the affluent rainforest state of Kerala........
]]> Hampi — Hampi, Karnataka, India http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1227622980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1227622980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1227622980/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 13:13:56 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Hampi, Karnataka, India

From Rajasthan our aim was to reach the Ajanta caves which meant a 14-hour train journey to Mumbai and a long bus ride out east with a couple of changes but after a day chasing our tails in Mumbai (a long dull story of queues, tip offs and dead ends) the trains were full and not fancying have my backside ground down into my pelvis on a non-sleeper bus we decided to head straight to Goa. This decision made us both smile and we instantly knew it was the right one. We bought our sleeper bus tickets from a man named Atheef (never a good sign) and left Mumbai the same day we arrived (this is 2-weeks before the recent atrocities thankfully).

The bus took a further 14 hours and we arrived in Mapusa, Goa at 9am where we swatted away the army of braying taxi drivers. As we stood there on the corner considering our options an Indian man sped upto us on his moped with a look of pure excitement and said directly to me, "Are you searching for happiness? The Kingdom of Happiness is within you!" I politely told him i was already happy. "Aha! You already pray to the gods in the Kingdom of Happiness. Keep praying to the gods!" And with that he whizzed off again, beaming. Welcome to Goa.

After hardballing a taxi fare we arrived at Vagator Beach and after the place we wanted was full set about to find a room (and more importantly at tis stage) a shower. With a 14-hour train journey, 8 hours rushing about Bombay and a bumpy 14 hour bus the layer of grime was in danger of forming a crust. I remember on the bus at after the 4:30am stop smelling a ghastly pong exactly like 'wet dog' and saying to Fiona that i thought maybe one of the indian children in the opposite cabin had peed the bed. Sadly, no. As i went to the toilet waiting for a room that morning i smelt the same smell on me! My griping stomach had still not left me and the bacteria was now coming through my pores.

Anyway.....!?

Luck finally presented itself in the form of a series of newly constructed beach huts and saw our first view of the Arabian Sea through long leaning palm trees. After a thorough shower we scrambled down to the sandy beach and both fell asleep as the rhythmic whoosing and hissing of the waves sought to relax our weary heads. As was the case through the 4 days in Vagator we were rudely awoken by the start of a constant stream of hawkers selling massages, clothes, shades, books, drums, fruit, threading, pedicures in rotation all wanting a little chat but images like that of a man playing frisbee with himself for 2 hours with 2 frisbees and the surrounding paradise kept me amused. We hired a moped to scoot around the various beaches and coastal villages with me thinking i'm some sort of toytown James Dean in swimming shorts.

As i said since Udaipur i had been occasionally gripping griping pains in my stomach after eating and by the second day in Goa (after a particulaly delicious pizza) was running for the loo. My stomach grumbled and tumbled not giving a clear signal of whether it was hungry or angry and rooting us to the beach hut. However, with Dr Fiona giving me a clear diagnosis (bacteria from the chicken stuck in my Heptic Flexor - don't ask!?) and after advising i avoid certain foods i was backing up and running.......only for the doctor to fall ill the next day.

Not wanting to be outdone Fiona went one better and ran a high fever, aching bones and 'the trotskis' pushing her food round the plate for days. Fi would sit in the shade on the beach, her condition worsening as i bopped and hopped round the parasol trying in vain to avoid the fierce sun. We stayed in the beach hut for the next 2 nights as the sounds of the club down the road pumped out the wobbling basslines. All i could do was throw some shapes from our bed. At least it felt like we'd really got our money's worth having spent a lot of time in the hut staring at the fan thinking we were in some 'Nam jungle sick bay.

Similar to when a hero in a horror film suddenly realises half the town is not acting as it should it hit us that the beaches of N.Goa were overrun by Russians. With experiences in France ski-ing too i think the British holidaymaker has found a new nemesis to target their xenophobia upon. They make our beloved Germans look like affable swedes. At the risk of presenting a sweeping generalisation (a pet hate of mine) they appear brash and rude and with little or no experience of travelling to other countries they show no respect to their host country, their high and mighty attitutude at odds with Goa's laid back vibe. You have been warned.

Although we contemplated delaying the trip to Hampi due to Fiona being quite weak she insisted we move on and on 20th Nov we boarded another sleeper bus ready for another 12 hour ride. A drunk indian man boarded and in the first 3 hours caused an almighty fuss by first needing 3 men to push him up to the top bunk and then shouting about his passport & wallet being lost. This went on and on and on in ever decreasing drunk circles.

At 3am i woke up (as the bus had stopped and the buffetting had given way to a disturbing calm) and jokingly asked Fiona in my haze if we were still in India and who was shouting. She said it was the man about his passport. She looked puzzled too. I looked out of the window into the gloomy striplit streets beow. The street signs were in a completely differently language and then saw some shop signs saying Bangalore. What!? We were further from Hampi than we were in Goa! We had checked with the driver and bus agent before we left but started to think we were on the wrong bus. At 9am stopping in a town called Hubli the waking westerners on the bus blinked at their Lonely Planet maps confused that we were closer now to Goa than Hampi! I was greatly amused by a German man shouting "Where have we beenz all night?". The bus of nutters run by nutters were told it was a further hour to Hampi. Three and a half hours later we arrived, 17 hours from whence we had begun!

As the bus doors opened a pit of expectant faces and waving arms offering hotels and connecting rickshaws squirmed about. It was either like a camera-less paparazzi press clambering for a celebrity or a scene of The Living Dead. After a refreshing sleep i was ready for them and like a chainsaw-less hero roared into the crowd helping a "not in the mood" Fiona from screaming at them and moved her to the side. I spotted a guest house i recognised and hotfooted it out of the mayhem. At the hotel our driver discovered it was full and mortified, insisted we stay at his mother' homestay two minutes walk away. The room was clean and with the promise of hot showers we were sold. As Fi laid down for a while i ambled down into the town along the main vehicle-less Hampi Bazaar.

The backstreets leading off the main bazaar where we were staying were filled with smiling children playing games from a forgotten era of innocence. Girls danced through games of hopscotch as the boys (which I only thought happened in Hovis adverts) whipped old rubber tyres with sticks down the bumpy track. There was a real sense of community in this small jovial town where you could wander the streets at any time and only come across a friendly hello or the usual questions of where you are from and your marital status.

The next day, with Fiona having a "little and often" attitude to food to build her strength back up after the illness, we wandered around the main temple. Up the flat granite slopes to the right of the main temple I dragged a trudging wife around the surrounding, almost lunar landscape. Amongst the countless, teetering 9th Century Jain temples and as far as the eye could see into the distance lay enormous granite boulders seemingly frozen in time, prevented from tumbling down the slopes by a unseen pause button. Looking around the horizon it resembled no environment I had come across. It was like being in Bedrock on the set of The Flintstones with gravity defying stones having been piled on top of each other by some giant baby with building bricks. Boulders, some the size of terraced houses, were propped up or balanced at impossible angles by small ones. Fiona's pictures on Flickr probably do them more justice than mine.

With Fiona fighting fit the next day we caught an early coracle (small boat across the river) to "the other side" where we had heard that you could buy beer and swear. With the intention of first hiring some bikes for the day we paced past the various dens of debauchery and settled on a couple of single gear, eyebrow-handlebarred bikes from the 1930's and creaked down the road to nowhere in particular. The surrounding oversized boulders dominated the horizon as we cycled through irrigated banana palms and paddy fields. On our travels we cycled into a village which was also a dead end but ended up throwing stones at the lofty coconut palms with the local kids to bag ourselves some fruit. We saw a sign pointing towards some cave paintings and took a diversion off the road. The road eventually plateaued out opening out fields of rice and bananas. Workers shouted the usual hellos from the fields eager for a response. Further along an old man standing in a field managed to communicate that the cave painting were behind the fields over some boulders. With blind faith we parked and locked our bikes and followed. An even older man in thick NHS specs was further along the track and walked with us. With puzzled looks to Fi and requests for confirmation we pushed on wondering whether we were offering ourselves up for kidnap. A clearing! We were ushered up some rocks and shown three sets of ancient paintings and a great view of the valley.

Despite the cloudy start the sun flared down on our perspiring limbs turning then a scorched pink and having to cycle back the last 5km for lunch with a puncture was not helping. We rode with a couple of kids for a while - Fi challenging them to a race. They wanted to help fix the puncture but their village was back the other way. Instead they showed me the best way to ride it with a puncture and with no sense of self consciousness whatsoever I sat back on the seat above the back wheel and pedaled like a flid back to base.

After beers in the afternoon we took the last coracle back across, the dropping sun cutting a rippling dazzle over the water. That night after an epic haggling battle with a 13-year old over 2 t-shirts & some pants and an unbelievable cashew nut curry from a restaurant stepped into the banks of the river we finally got to look at some stars together making promises to Fiona to buy her some jewellery.

Our 5am start to leave the fantastic Hampi (Wed 26 Nov) signalled the start of another 8 hours train journey to the South of Goa and Pallolem Beach. This (mercifully) shorter blog is under a separate entry to break up the text a bit. Didn't mean it to be this long!

.....photos to follow....although Fi are much better on Flickr.....
]]> Bundi — Bundi, Rajasthan, India http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1226374800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1226374800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1226374800/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 12:26:59 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Bundi, Rajasthan, India

The blue-painted shoe box town of Bundi was the last place on our tour of the Rajasthan region. We are leaving today to catch a train to Mumbai and onward as soon as we can to Ajanta. The last 2 weeks have taken in the tourist traps of Agra, Jaipur, Jodphur, Pushkar, Udaipur and Bundi and has been quite full on.

Our first stop was Agra, the home of the Taj Mahal, and after the peace and tranquility of Rishikesh somewhere inside we were both a little upset to be back on the tourist trail with its vigilant demands. Apart from the filthy city of Agra, the Taj Mahal lived upto expectations and was stunning in design, intricacy and symmetry. We went along at sunrise with the throngs of tourists anxious to take that perfect photograph (digital photography has made this an endless task!). After trying to take a picture of the shy(!) Fiona as Lady Diana in front we left.

Our hotel was pretty grotty. It's never a good sign when your room key is just a padlock. When we got in that evening we put in the mozzy plug-in and sprayed some Deed after noticing a couple of mozzies flying about. Suddenly, as i closed the left curtain a large lizard scurried across the wall. I scurried across the floor falling into the other curtain and disturbing at least 20 mozzies and a moth. That was it! - out came the nets, the silk liners, long sleeve t-shirts and after bathing in Deet we settled down to a rather tense game of Scrabble. Must try and handle this better as we're not going to cope in the jungles of Borneo!?

Next stop was Jaipur - the capital of Rajasthan. Arriving in the city it looked more developed with pavements and properly built shops! Poverty did not haunt every traffic light. However, not being here to shop, a city was not really what we were really after. Making the most of it we went to the Raj Minder cinema to see a Hindi film - Golmaal Returns. The old-style one screen cinema was enormous. Didn't understand a bloody word of the film but we just about followed the comedy plot. The locals lapped up the slapstick humour shouting and clapping throughout. There was the obligatory hindi dance section where the cast of hundreds jigged about. We really enjoyed it thinking initially we would be bored.

Next stop was Pushkar, a desert town 5-hour drive away. On the dusty streets that lined the roads to each town perched row upon row of tiny ramshackled shops, their shutters open like gaping mouths hungry to feed. They all seemed to be either 'newsagents' selling crisps and drinks or individual ridiculousness like an egg shop or a scourer shop. Stumbling mobile fruit stalls trundle past huge gaunt oxen which lap at stagnant lakes of water and hundreds of electrical wires cram into precariously leaning poles. How the country holds together without more structural, electrical and hygiene disasters is the biggest mystery of all but everyone seems happy and sane enough to put their faith in themselves and others and incredibly it all seems to work.

Pushkar was a town set around a large lake with steep desert mountains all around. With lots of rooftop cafes and a more relaxed vibe we were finally able to stretch out a chill without the harrassment. The taxis were hilarious here - just a piece of wood the size of a door placed on four wheels. They shout taxi!? - you jump on and they wheel you down the road! The town is quite an important religious place with several Brahman Temples and through our hotel we were taken by a Brahma priest (the highest caste and understood to be direct descendants of Brahman) to one of the many ghats surrounding the lake to take us through the Hindu prayers and the rituals they undertake whether it be on the ganges or here.

With our special married bindi marks (the indians love the fact we're married but cannot understand why we have no children) and baggy pants and feeling all indian I organised a music lesson. At 7 we went to this guy's house set in a maze of side alleys and sat down in his bedroom and learnt some Sitar and Tabla (the bongo-style drums). Loved it! He showed me some of his skills on the instruments before i politely declined the usual offers to sell me (and ship) my own sitar home. After it became clear i was not going to buy he seemed to lose interest and left to meet a friend. As fiona was getting pedicure etc off his sister i was left in some guy's bedroom on my own facing the wall with a sitar in my arms that i had only learnt to play 15 mins before. Was a little surreal. Anyway, I tootled away thinking i was Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin playing the same scale over and over when, after about 30 mins, the family must have got sick of listening to me and sent in another brother to show me another scale. My fingertips at this point were being sliced to the bone on the cheesewire strings but with usual English politeness i ploughed on - now wanting fiona to hurry up.

Next stop....Jodphur.....Apart from getting lost in the tight, never-ending myriad of streets, the hotel manager going through his photo album of his dream trip to Sheffield and the strange chewing spice man who had lost his pigmentation (quite common in india - we think its the pollution) Jodphur was relatively uneventful.

More hours and kilometres on the clock and the roads were getting slightly worse. It's not uncommon for cars and buses (and cows) to be coming the wrong way down the motorway. On the way to Udaipur we stopped at Ranakpur Temple - an incredible complex of roofs and harmonious outdoor spaces intricately cut from smooth white marble and held up by a forest of exquistely carved pillars (1444 in total). Each knotted pillar contained a unique series of obsessive carved doodles and every turn you made gave an amazing view.

We eventually reached Udaipur and sat on the rooftop of our hotel watching a perfectly round peach sun set over the city and misty mountainous landscape. After only our 12,546th sunset photo and our now statutory banana pancake we walked into town to get a feel for the place. This was our favourite place so far and where Octopussy was filmed it certainly has that kind of 70's Euro jet-set feel to it. An enormous white hotel floats in the middle of the lake, the impressive city palace on the banks and the hassle-free shops and bazaars allow us to roam and relax.

Made the mistake of eating some chicken and was ill for the last night. The indians do not eat meat (most restaurants are veggie) and only seem to have meat on the menu to serve western demand. They are not used to cooking it and lord knows what conditions the animals pecked around in. But my craving for meat was too much!!

The bumpy journey to our last destination of Bundi over completed, half-completed, barely completed and non-existant motorways was make or break for the guts and thankfully i sailed through, the pain of my head hitting the car roof every 2 mins offsetting the discomfort in my stomach. Our 'hotel' in Bundi was set in the grounds of the crumbling 16th Century palace set on the hill overlooking the city and was essentially an openair courtyard with the surrounding stables now (barely) converted into rooms. Bundi was fantastic, the streets offering a 'no catch' hello at every turn. The kiddies were just made up to see you and wave instead of tugging at you physically and mentally for food and money as in Delhi and Agra.

We visited the palace and it was somehow refreshing to visit an attraction that had not been restored although this enormous structure sprouting organically out of the rockface and crumbling and tumbling into the town build over 100's of years may rot away completely. With no tourists around we were left to explore uninhibited the ruinous hallways and courtyards as if we were discovering it for the first time. Inside the unprotected sheer drops and pitch black stairways full of pigeon shit shared the space with beautiful 500 year old murals but the real rulers who lived and effectively owned the place were the hoards of monkeys. They scamper, spring, prowl, lope, preen, sit-off and generally unnerve Fiona. WIth a big stick in hand we sidestepped their watchful eyes and made a cool sharp harp.

It was time to head south and we jumped on a sleeper train and took the 14 hour tain journey to Mumbai (Bombay)

p.s. fiona is putting her photos on Flickr (photo website) and will provide the link in due course......
]]> Om — Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1225280220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1225280220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/ordinaryjoe/1/1225280220/tpod.html Wed, 16 Sep 2009 11:41:18 -0400 Tripping The Light Fantastic....a chronicle of fantastical places, implausible people, inane ramblings, random acts of impulsiveness, stool reports and anything else that crops up....
Rishikesh, Uttarakhand, India

After a comfortable 5-hour train journey north and a further hour bumpy bus ride we arrived in Rishikesh the scenery changing from the flat, dusty chaos of Delhi to the green mountainous bustle of the foothills of the Himalayas made famous after the Beatles sought spiritual enlightenment with the Maharishi. The main strip of shops offered all essential merchandise from plinky plonk meditative music and ayurvedic teas to reiki and gong mediation lessons.

We had pre-booked our stay for a week of Ashtanga yoga at the Parmarth Niketan Ashram on the banks of the fast-flowing River Ganges. After dumping the bags we searched for (as no one in india will give you a straight answer) our contact and eventually were offered a bespoke daily programme of yoga, indian philosphy & meditation lessons. What we eventually came to realise was that the ashram is basically a holy place of worship & study for Hindus to come for seminars & theological talks.

On the first night we were drawn towards a gathering of people on a ghat (steps down to the river). An enormous opal statue looks back at the hundreds of people sat on the steps. The ceremony lasted nearly two hours with lots of Hare Krishna looking devotees chanting and clapping away with some westerners who had clearly been here too long. We later sat in silence eating our vegetarian slop cross-legged and barefooted on the floor wondering what we had stepped into!? All we wanted was to do some yoga and relax! I am no good with religion - there are too many opportunities for me to put my foot in it. Fiona too is struggling with the no talking at dinner.

Our inital thoughts changed over the week as the friendly (and highly camp) staff were very chilled and were just happy for you to simply experience the ashram without chastisement. The veggie food was also really good although curry for breakfast takes a little getting used to. The lush gardens and walkways, the clean, tranquil courtyards, huge ancient trees and religious iconography all create a space in which to rest the ego and float a while and despite the cowshit, motorbike horns, viciously cute monkeys and flies I'm starting to appreciate their way of living.

Eventually we settled into the routine of relaxing by crisp, pale blue waters of the ganges on the sandy beach in the morning then sweat our knackers off during an hour and a half of Ashtanga yoga at 12pm. Our teacher (Manoj) seems to think me sweating buckets is hilarious and enjoys pushing me deeper into impossible positions as my body screams but he has really helped my practice. We then break for lunch and after a quick shower go to our philosphy lesson at 3pm with Buddhi Prakesh. The lessons are really interesting learning about indian/hindu thought which is not through fear or guilt or any negative emotions but by a connection with knowledge and the peaceful contemplation (via meditation) of the universe and the wonder of nature and consciousness and how it all ties in with modern sciences like quantum physics. Granted, some people are eating paper off the floor but the essence of it all still holds true for me. Ommmm. Buddhi is about 70-odd (it is difficult to tell) with a pearly white hair and beard and in a white tunic and white 'skirt' (mundi) it seems at times, in the dimly lit room, we are sat on the floor listening to Plato! But he is genuine, kind and has a serene nature.

After an hour's philosphy there is a lesson on meditation. I keep falling asleep. One time i woke up, fiona had gone and another class had started around me prolaxed on the floor! After realising i eventually crept out to find fiona in hysterics. I was snoring too apparently.

After philosphy and with our beads and heads full of hindu mysticism is the Aarti (river worship ceremony) which we have been to a couple of times sitting safely at the side. The holy man (Swarmi Chidanand Saraswati) whose face is plastered over everything sat in the middle singing and giving his sermon. On the second night after the aarti we were invited with some other westerners for an audience with his Swarminess. We were ushered into an outdoor santuary with rose petals strewn across the lawn and a bamboo overhang. He was taking questions mainly of a philosophical nature although the floor was open to anything. He was a humble and light-hearted man with an aura that certainly commanded some awe and it certainly felt like a privilege to be there but looking around the confused and issue-ridden westerners were lapping it up like they were in the presence of Jesus! He offered clear common-sense advice about letting go of grievances and listening to your yourself separate from your ego followed by a lingering but peaceful stare. I wanted to tell him a joke but i couldn't think of any suitable.

Some of the characters we have spotted over the week at the aarti - First there was Kate Bush who, dressed in flowing white sheets, curls and unfurls like sails swaying in a trance to the music like one of those dancing flowers and make dove silhouettes with her hands. Other casualties include Shirley Valentine, a woman in her 50's who has been completed 'Rishikeshed' - sari over her head like M.Teresa, beads-a-gogo, henna all over her hands and bindi - singing words that didn't exist and clapping unrhythmically. Her dowdy friend next to her, not having been bitten by the bug clapped unsurely probably worried about her friend and having to explain to friends and family back home that she stayed behind or perhaps just secretly looking forward to her getting off the plane in full regalia. Lastly, the queen bee herself - an American woman in her late 30's who appears to live and work at the ashram. Her white sari a symbol of the abandonment of her former life and a sickly sweet smile of a psychopath. Would love to know her story and who or what she is running from!! Maybe it's just me and i need to let go of the cynicism but it's just too funny.

Anyway, can't add photos here - will try again once we reach Rajasthan.
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