Saturday, January 24, 2004
JAIPUR, Rajasthan - We're still here, the train out isn't for another few hours. Jamesy is on the phone to Claire next door (aaah ...) which gives me chance to enthuse about Jaipur.
It's great! I didn't really see much of the centre yesterday, as the Amber Palace is well outside. Dubbed the Pink City, due to the preponderance of garish pink buildings (funny that), it was only founded in 1727; it's a big grid, divided into nine to reflect the Hindu conception of heaven. It's also the shopper's conception of heaven, as every line of the grid is itself lined with every sort of emporium you could possibly wish for - as long as you want to buy saris, gold & silver jewellery, Rajasthani marionettes or shirts (the latter we discovered, to our great joy, for just three quid a throw: bargainous!).
So, there's a lot of bazar - and also a bit of bizarre. The Jantar Mantar is a sort of astrological theme park, built in the 18th century by the Maharajah of the time who was fascinated with the zodiac, stars and all things connected. There are huge sundials (the biggest standing at 27.4m!) and various other random instruments for calculating anything from the azimuth to the precise calibration of the Hindu calendar to the possibilities of a good monsoon this year. You can well imagine the imposing turbaned Maharajah flitting between his instruments, taking measurements with excited joy. Whatever turns you on I suppose.
The City Palace was just next door. There was a collection of weaponry; worryingly, one case contained "swords, spears and back-scratchers", which one would have thought could be a little dangerous, if you got them confused. There were also chariots (always a bonus) and rooms full of ornate clothing and textiles, including beautiful silks brocaded with the finest gold weave. The Maharajah was quite a dresser in the late nineteenth century, it seems, as he had a special set of clothes in which to play billiards, a game introduced by the British Resident (the kind of role that let the British control the lands of the Maharajahs, but not officially). It was rather more sumptuous than John Virgo's array of yucky waistcoats too; he set great store by his billiards, having substantial parts of many palaces converted so he could play the game in the surroundings that he wished for. And I thought you only needed a table and some cues ...
The best bit for me was the art gallery. It had loads of illuminated pictures of epic scenes from the Hindu scriptures. We were treated to loads of massive wars, in intricate detail, straight from the Mahabharata, with big swords and lots of gore. The king of the demons was depicted, enjoying a joke with his chums; a subsequent picture presented him getting his comeuppance from some epic hero or other. Ganesh, elephant-god, waddled across some scenes, along with beardy Brahma, ash-smeared Shiva and some of the more obscure deities. We considered the advantages of having four or more arms. I suggested that it might make for extra precision in skiing. You could certainly carry stuff and open doors at the same time. Or play piano duets, even if you had no friends. It's complex stuff, is Hinduism, that I don't know enough about as yet. One thing is for sure, though: their deities could take on anyone else's in a fight, no problem. Maybe there's a niche in the market for a Mortal Kombat-style deity beat-em-up.
Outside in the courtyard of the palace, in a marble pavilion, we saw the two biggest pieces of silver in the world - I kid you not. In 1902, the Maharajah visited Britain, but, being an extremely devout Hindu, he had to cleanse himself each time he came into contact with somebody that might compromise his purity. He still wanted to go Brit-side (I'd surmise not for the Roast Beef & Yorkshire ...) and had a bright idea. Why not build a couple of 900 litre urns from pure silver and fill them with water from the Ganges, in order to maintain spiritual hygiene? He could have done what any other traveller does to foreign climes - buy bottled water and drop a chlorine tablet in, it's good enough for me - but, oh no, he had the oodles of cash necessary for such an enterprise. When I'm rich (huh, when ...), I'll come back to India and bring a few gilded tankers full of eau de Stafford. Dammit, I'll bring the whole bally Rising Brook!
Around the urns, seats and tables had been set up and the area was cordoned off. I asked what was happening? Apparently, the Maharajah (who still lives in a part of the palace, but wields no actual political power) was to have a party this evening. "Can I come?" I asked. Not unless I had an invitation, which is why I'm sitting in an cybercafe right now. If anyone happens to have a phone number for the big M (we suspected that Philip might know him - Mr Wood?), I'd be happy to have it.
Off for some food now, and then that railway trek into the desert ... Lawrence of Arabia, eat your heart out. Just let me at those camels.
It's great! I didn't really see much of the centre yesterday, as the Amber Palace is well outside. Dubbed the Pink City, due to the preponderance of garish pink buildings (funny that), it was only founded in 1727; it's a big grid, divided into nine to reflect the Hindu conception of heaven. It's also the shopper's conception of heaven, as every line of the grid is itself lined with every sort of emporium you could possibly wish for - as long as you want to buy saris, gold & silver jewellery, Rajasthani marionettes or shirts (the latter we discovered, to our great joy, for just three quid a throw: bargainous!).
So, there's a lot of bazar - and also a bit of bizarre. The Jantar Mantar is a sort of astrological theme park, built in the 18th century by the Maharajah of the time who was fascinated with the zodiac, stars and all things connected. There are huge sundials (the biggest standing at 27.4m!) and various other random instruments for calculating anything from the azimuth to the precise calibration of the Hindu calendar to the possibilities of a good monsoon this year. You can well imagine the imposing turbaned Maharajah flitting between his instruments, taking measurements with excited joy. Whatever turns you on I suppose.
The City Palace was just next door. There was a collection of weaponry; worryingly, one case contained "swords, spears and back-scratchers", which one would have thought could be a little dangerous, if you got them confused. There were also chariots (always a bonus) and rooms full of ornate clothing and textiles, including beautiful silks brocaded with the finest gold weave. The Maharajah was quite a dresser in the late nineteenth century, it seems, as he had a special set of clothes in which to play billiards, a game introduced by the British Resident (the kind of role that let the British control the lands of the Maharajahs, but not officially). It was rather more sumptuous than John Virgo's array of yucky waistcoats too; he set great store by his billiards, having substantial parts of many palaces converted so he could play the game in the surroundings that he wished for. And I thought you only needed a table and some cues ...
The best bit for me was the art gallery. It had loads of illuminated pictures of epic scenes from the Hindu scriptures. We were treated to loads of massive wars, in intricate detail, straight from the Mahabharata, with big swords and lots of gore. The king of the demons was depicted, enjoying a joke with his chums; a subsequent picture presented him getting his comeuppance from some epic hero or other. Ganesh, elephant-god, waddled across some scenes, along with beardy Brahma, ash-smeared Shiva and some of the more obscure deities. We considered the advantages of having four or more arms. I suggested that it might make for extra precision in skiing. You could certainly carry stuff and open doors at the same time. Or play piano duets, even if you had no friends. It's complex stuff, is Hinduism, that I don't know enough about as yet. One thing is for sure, though: their deities could take on anyone else's in a fight, no problem. Maybe there's a niche in the market for a Mortal Kombat-style deity beat-em-up.
Outside in the courtyard of the palace, in a marble pavilion, we saw the two biggest pieces of silver in the world - I kid you not. In 1902, the Maharajah visited Britain, but, being an extremely devout Hindu, he had to cleanse himself each time he came into contact with somebody that might compromise his purity. He still wanted to go Brit-side (I'd surmise not for the Roast Beef & Yorkshire ...) and had a bright idea. Why not build a couple of 900 litre urns from pure silver and fill them with water from the Ganges, in order to maintain spiritual hygiene? He could have done what any other traveller does to foreign climes - buy bottled water and drop a chlorine tablet in, it's good enough for me - but, oh no, he had the oodles of cash necessary for such an enterprise. When I'm rich (huh, when ...), I'll come back to India and bring a few gilded tankers full of eau de Stafford. Dammit, I'll bring the whole bally Rising Brook!
Around the urns, seats and tables had been set up and the area was cordoned off. I asked what was happening? Apparently, the Maharajah (who still lives in a part of the palace, but wields no actual political power) was to have a party this evening. "Can I come?" I asked. Not unless I had an invitation, which is why I'm sitting in an cybercafe right now. If anyone happens to have a phone number for the big M (we suspected that Philip might know him - Mr Wood?), I'd be happy to have it.
Off for some food now, and then that railway trek into the desert ... Lawrence of Arabia, eat your heart out. Just let me at those camels.
Friday, January 23, 2004
JAIPUR, Rajasthan - One thing I have neglected to mention so far is that it's been just a little chilly here in our first week. Fleeces have often been the order of the day. We even had a touch of unseasonal rain in Agra. Well, everyone back in Britain will be pleased to know that, having arrived in the Desert State, the sunshine is now blazing down upon us, lovely and balmy, perfect for wandering through the palaces of the Maharajas, which is what we did today.
The Amber Palace is an extended rickshaw ride away, half an hour outside of the city, and was built at the beginning of the 17th century. It is set amonst hills that rise randomly out of the plain, as if some big meteorites had decided to land there. So perhaps spacemen built the walls that line each crest, protecting the valley on each side. The Palace itself is notable for many things - including the elephants that are daily beaten up and down the hill by their mahoots, topped off by a bevvy of tourists. We didn't bother, as we didn't have our seasickness pills about our person - looked a bit stomach-churning up there, to be honest. It was an awesome situation, amonst those hills; while dodging the elephant crap, we got a great sense of the majesty of the dynasties that ruled states round here for hundreds of years. Today, this majesty is best represented by a guide we saw accompanying a bunch of Americans. Imagine a cross between the BBC's John Pienaar and racing pundit John McCririck. He even had pointy boots and a feather in his hat; one ageing Texan was so taken with the whole thing that he'd bought a really cool tourist turban to wear.
We're going to enjoy our sleep tonight. It'll be in a bed. Tomorrow night: the sleeper train into the desert, 12 hours to Jaisalmer, land of camels and Mr Desert!
The Amber Palace is an extended rickshaw ride away, half an hour outside of the city, and was built at the beginning of the 17th century. It is set amonst hills that rise randomly out of the plain, as if some big meteorites had decided to land there. So perhaps spacemen built the walls that line each crest, protecting the valley on each side. The Palace itself is notable for many things - including the elephants that are daily beaten up and down the hill by their mahoots, topped off by a bevvy of tourists. We didn't bother, as we didn't have our seasickness pills about our person - looked a bit stomach-churning up there, to be honest. It was an awesome situation, amonst those hills; while dodging the elephant crap, we got a great sense of the majesty of the dynasties that ruled states round here for hundreds of years. Today, this majesty is best represented by a guide we saw accompanying a bunch of Americans. Imagine a cross between the BBC's John Pienaar and racing pundit John McCririck. He even had pointy boots and a feather in his hat; one ageing Texan was so taken with the whole thing that he'd bought a really cool tourist turban to wear.
We're going to enjoy our sleep tonight. It'll be in a bed. Tomorrow night: the sleeper train into the desert, 12 hours to Jaisalmer, land of camels and Mr Desert!
Thursday, January 22, 2004
JAIPUR, Rajasthan - Well, after ranting against luxury yesterday, I find myself in a tranquil, leafy hotel in the suburbs of the gateway to the Desert State. It's still only a fiver a night, but the gripes here are more to do with TV reception (it's all fuzzy - what a liberty!) and less the lack of any water that could even be creatively described as hot.
We bounded (well, nearly) out of bed at six this morning, ready for our early train. We had quite a rickshaw ride through the empty chilly streets of dawn. It's not so easy to fit three passengers AND their rucksacks in an auto-rickshaw. This meant I had to wedge myself in the front, next to the fairly shy driver, and hang on for dear life. They are completely open at the side, and there's no seatbelt, so when we were cornering to the right, I had to compensate by leaning into the driver, in a fairly friendly way: we're all mates here! It was more drafty than scary actually - although there was a roundabout that could have been taken a little slower ...!
So, there we were, at the station, ready and waiting for our train. And, there we were, still, three and a half hours later, watching it pull in. Virgin Trains are the model of punctuality compared to some here - but, to be fair, the distances covered are so vast that small delays as experienced at home build up into mammoth waits. No worries though - I acquainted myself with the chai-wallah on the platform and downed a few of his steaming sugary cups. And we were only waiting to wait some more: the train journey from Agra to Jaipur is seven hours, so it was a great opportunity to start the book that I had brought, tailor-made for taking up vast amounts of time. Middlemarch is a brick, and also multi-purpose, as I'm sure I'll be able to use it to secure a mosquito net, when the time comes. Anyway, from now on, count a certain Dorothea Brooke, a young lady of means and particular religious fervour as another travelling companion of mine. She can't possibly marry Casaubon ... can she?
On the way back from the internet place last night, I indulged in a typically Indian activity outside the hotel. A group of kids were playing cricket: well, they had a bat, and were using a stool as their wicket, and scrunched up paper tied with string as their ball. Presumably, they wanted to see how rubbish the English are at the game we invented at first hand. I didn't disappoint in that respect. After a lamely looping bowl, I stood at the crease, bat in hand, as a seven-year-old raced in from the Taj Mahal end. I blinked and missed it, the scrunch of paper whizzing past my on-side as I forlornly prodded mid-air and the street kids went wild. They all wanted to be Rahul Dravid or Sachin Tendulkar, naturally. I handed back the bat and said goodbye, accepting the fact that I wasn't even Martin Bicknell.
We bounded (well, nearly) out of bed at six this morning, ready for our early train. We had quite a rickshaw ride through the empty chilly streets of dawn. It's not so easy to fit three passengers AND their rucksacks in an auto-rickshaw. This meant I had to wedge myself in the front, next to the fairly shy driver, and hang on for dear life. They are completely open at the side, and there's no seatbelt, so when we were cornering to the right, I had to compensate by leaning into the driver, in a fairly friendly way: we're all mates here! It was more drafty than scary actually - although there was a roundabout that could have been taken a little slower ...!
So, there we were, at the station, ready and waiting for our train. And, there we were, still, three and a half hours later, watching it pull in. Virgin Trains are the model of punctuality compared to some here - but, to be fair, the distances covered are so vast that small delays as experienced at home build up into mammoth waits. No worries though - I acquainted myself with the chai-wallah on the platform and downed a few of his steaming sugary cups. And we were only waiting to wait some more: the train journey from Agra to Jaipur is seven hours, so it was a great opportunity to start the book that I had brought, tailor-made for taking up vast amounts of time. Middlemarch is a brick, and also multi-purpose, as I'm sure I'll be able to use it to secure a mosquito net, when the time comes. Anyway, from now on, count a certain Dorothea Brooke, a young lady of means and particular religious fervour as another travelling companion of mine. She can't possibly marry Casaubon ... can she?
On the way back from the internet place last night, I indulged in a typically Indian activity outside the hotel. A group of kids were playing cricket: well, they had a bat, and were using a stool as their wicket, and scrunched up paper tied with string as their ball. Presumably, they wanted to see how rubbish the English are at the game we invented at first hand. I didn't disappoint in that respect. After a lamely looping bowl, I stood at the crease, bat in hand, as a seven-year-old raced in from the Taj Mahal end. I blinked and missed it, the scrunch of paper whizzing past my on-side as I forlornly prodded mid-air and the street kids went wild. They all wanted to be Rahul Dravid or Sachin Tendulkar, naturally. I handed back the bat and said goodbye, accepting the fact that I wasn't even Martin Bicknell.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
AGRA, Uttar Pradesh - A funny thing happened to me yesterday. I was waiting just outside the East Gate of the Taj Mahal site, after having been sent back to the cloakroom by a be-striped army major to deposit my forbidden walkman with the wizened chain-smoking cloakroom wallah. A crowd seemed to have formed, as soldiers had temporarily blockaded the entrance. Press photographers waited in anticipation of something. Hmmm. An electric bus - in accordance with the no-pollution zone set up around the Taj - pulled up amidst seemingly tight security, staving off the gawping rickshaw touts. Various suits stepped out, followed by important looking ageing Indian dignitaries. Then came a dazzling far-eastern looking lady in a sumptuous kimono. And then, hair swept back and smiling to the assembled ... out stepped the King of Nepal.
Didn't know it was him, of course, because we're not big mates. I asked a Sikh chap as I followed the entourage into the Taj, and ascertained that His Highness was on a state visit and was here at the Taj as part of that, and to have a photocall. It's a stunning place for a photocall, I can vouch for that. It's one of the most famous buildings in the world and pretty much every tourist that comes to at least this part of India traipses into Agra to pay homage. For good reason: it is the most perfect, eye-poppingly fabulous structure, covered in marble decorated with designs in precious stones. It is exactly symmetrical. Shah Jehan, who built it as a tomb for his deceased love Mumtaz Mahal, even went so far as to replicate the mosque that he built on the left-hand side with an exact copy on the right. Obviously, the latter was not functional in any way, facing away from Mecca - but, hey, he was the Moghul Emperor and, frankly, what else was he going to spend his riches on? The Taj sits in gardens full of tourists, but imbued with a beautiful peace - especially since you don't get hassled by rickshaw wallahs every thirty seconds. They even had the fountains on due to the Nepalese visit: they're gorgeous and don't get an outing too often these days. As soon as he disappeared through the gates, the tap was abruptly turned off. He is lucky to be alive, after being out of town when his brother massacred the rest of his family a few years back; evidently, a little of his luck rubbed off on our tourist experience!
We also took in Agra's Fort yesterday, a massive arrangement of Moghul buildings, just around the bend of the river from the Taj - if it hadn't been so smoggy, we would have had a great view back towards the dome!). And today we spent the afternoon wandering around yet another awesome Moghul site, the deserted city of Fatehpur Sikri, built by Akbar the Great, including a separate palace each for his Christian, Muslim and Hindu wives! It was a bus journey away and we bombed along the bumpy road for an hour in a bit of a rattler, squashed in like sardines - all for just 20p.
Did we find Agra's infamous scams? Well, a couple of cycle-rickshaw drivers did agree to take us to the Bus Station, but then try to divert us into their mate's shopping complex, no doubt to offer us with an array of marble products and carved elephants. They picked the wrong blokes there.
Something else we did yesterday was go out of town to a hotel restaurant that one of the books recommended for a slightly more expensive, but especially exquisite Indian meal. We arrived at the Hotel Amar Vilas to find that it was a five-star fantasy island ... Indian greeters in traditional costume directed us through the fountains and pools into the chandeliered, marble reception: a Moghul temple of our times. Although the curry was just a tenner, plus beer (so Cambridge curry house prices - but VASTLY more than we had previously paid here), rooms it seemed cost $375, at their very cheapest, and the hotel was full of wealthy westerners enjoying India through rose-tinted specs.
To be honest, it made me feel a bit sick. Not because the curry was in any way dodgy - my South Indian Fish Curry was wonderful. Down the road, kids were crawling around in the gutter trying to flog plastic models of Ganesh for 25p. Here, guests (including us) were offloading cash for a roof over their heads and a bit of curry that went beyond the wildest dreams of any of those people back in town. India for them was a few well-dressed "traditional" Rajasthani dancers being suitably exotic, at a hygenic distance from their vantage point on the hotel's terrace bar. The price of one room for one night could probably make life that bit more bearable for dozens, if not hundreds, of people just a few hundred metres away. Certainly makes you think.
Well, anyway, I nicked one of their flannels. And so did James. And as I used it for my daily ablutions from a bucket this morning in my 3 dollar a night hotel bathroom, pouring in kettle-boiled water in the absence of any piped warmth, I thought I'm very glad I'm staying here and not lording it on the hill. All the guests at Amar Vilas have a view of the Taj from their balconies. All very well - but there are other views of India that don't deserve to be ignored.
We're off to Jaipur in the morning. 6 in the morning. Hurray!
Didn't know it was him, of course, because we're not big mates. I asked a Sikh chap as I followed the entourage into the Taj, and ascertained that His Highness was on a state visit and was here at the Taj as part of that, and to have a photocall. It's a stunning place for a photocall, I can vouch for that. It's one of the most famous buildings in the world and pretty much every tourist that comes to at least this part of India traipses into Agra to pay homage. For good reason: it is the most perfect, eye-poppingly fabulous structure, covered in marble decorated with designs in precious stones. It is exactly symmetrical. Shah Jehan, who built it as a tomb for his deceased love Mumtaz Mahal, even went so far as to replicate the mosque that he built on the left-hand side with an exact copy on the right. Obviously, the latter was not functional in any way, facing away from Mecca - but, hey, he was the Moghul Emperor and, frankly, what else was he going to spend his riches on? The Taj sits in gardens full of tourists, but imbued with a beautiful peace - especially since you don't get hassled by rickshaw wallahs every thirty seconds. They even had the fountains on due to the Nepalese visit: they're gorgeous and don't get an outing too often these days. As soon as he disappeared through the gates, the tap was abruptly turned off. He is lucky to be alive, after being out of town when his brother massacred the rest of his family a few years back; evidently, a little of his luck rubbed off on our tourist experience!
We also took in Agra's Fort yesterday, a massive arrangement of Moghul buildings, just around the bend of the river from the Taj - if it hadn't been so smoggy, we would have had a great view back towards the dome!). And today we spent the afternoon wandering around yet another awesome Moghul site, the deserted city of Fatehpur Sikri, built by Akbar the Great, including a separate palace each for his Christian, Muslim and Hindu wives! It was a bus journey away and we bombed along the bumpy road for an hour in a bit of a rattler, squashed in like sardines - all for just 20p.
Did we find Agra's infamous scams? Well, a couple of cycle-rickshaw drivers did agree to take us to the Bus Station, but then try to divert us into their mate's shopping complex, no doubt to offer us with an array of marble products and carved elephants. They picked the wrong blokes there.
Something else we did yesterday was go out of town to a hotel restaurant that one of the books recommended for a slightly more expensive, but especially exquisite Indian meal. We arrived at the Hotel Amar Vilas to find that it was a five-star fantasy island ... Indian greeters in traditional costume directed us through the fountains and pools into the chandeliered, marble reception: a Moghul temple of our times. Although the curry was just a tenner, plus beer (so Cambridge curry house prices - but VASTLY more than we had previously paid here), rooms it seemed cost $375, at their very cheapest, and the hotel was full of wealthy westerners enjoying India through rose-tinted specs.
To be honest, it made me feel a bit sick. Not because the curry was in any way dodgy - my South Indian Fish Curry was wonderful. Down the road, kids were crawling around in the gutter trying to flog plastic models of Ganesh for 25p. Here, guests (including us) were offloading cash for a roof over their heads and a bit of curry that went beyond the wildest dreams of any of those people back in town. India for them was a few well-dressed "traditional" Rajasthani dancers being suitably exotic, at a hygenic distance from their vantage point on the hotel's terrace bar. The price of one room for one night could probably make life that bit more bearable for dozens, if not hundreds, of people just a few hundred metres away. Certainly makes you think.
Well, anyway, I nicked one of their flannels. And so did James. And as I used it for my daily ablutions from a bucket this morning in my 3 dollar a night hotel bathroom, pouring in kettle-boiled water in the absence of any piped warmth, I thought I'm very glad I'm staying here and not lording it on the hill. All the guests at Amar Vilas have a view of the Taj from their balconies. All very well - but there are other views of India that don't deserve to be ignored.
We're off to Jaipur in the morning. 6 in the morning. Hurray!
Monday, January 19, 2004
DELHI - Back in 'Super Fast Speed Raveena Cyber Cafe', on the way back from a hearty Masala Dosa (a South Indian version of the crepe, filled with scrummy spicy veggies) and a couple of glasses of chai.
We've seen the sights of Delhi today. Unfortunately, the vast Connaught Place is being dug up at the moment, while work gangs sink the new Delhi Metro. And the Rajpath - Delhi's answer to the Mall, a wide, flagpoled boulevard - is mainly closed off in preparation for Republic Day next week. This is when the moustachioed might of the Indian army parades down the wide Imperial avenues, in a display of military bombast, principally to remind Pakistan that they have lots of REALLY big guns, and know how to use them.
They also have bagpipers - we saw them hanging around outside Lutyens' Secretariat building, along with the rest of a full British-style military band, I think waiting for rehearsals (we heard them doing their scales after we'd walked away). The Secretariat is amongst the buildings at the heart of British Empire Delhi, together with the Presidential Palace and the Parliament Building: very grand and lots of wide open spaces.
From wide open spaces to little cramped ones: we ran the gauntlet of an auto-rickshaw ride! For just 80 rupees we snaked through the Delhi traffic with our driver, rather phlegmatic, in a typical three-wheeled green-and-yellow motorbike with a curtained cab on top (which was, no doubt, both hydromatic and systematic). Rickshaw-wallahs accost you every step of the way here, as if there's no way three western gents should possibly be doing any walking in Delhi.
But it would have been a long way to walk between those monuments of the Raj and the chaos surrounding the Jama Masjid, Delhi's (and I believe India's) biggest mosque. We got there at prayer-time, so had a quick wander up to see the Red Fort (essentially, a big red fort - it's closed on a Monday, so we'll have to come back), before taking off the shoes (as if Delhi hasn't enough pollution) and getting an insight into Islam. The mosque can accommodate 25,000 worshippers if it needs to, and the architecture is beautifully elegant. The view from the top of the tower was awesome, though it's a measure of how smoggy Delhi is that you couldn't see very far at all! (I feel a little like I've smoked a good few fags in the last day or so).
But the best bit about Delhi is just edging your way down it's immensely busy, narrow streets, dodging auto-rickshaws, scooters, bikes and the carts of nut-wallahs, fruit-wallahs and every other sort of wallah you can possibly think of. I've really been down with the kids, actually, as they love to come up to us and say hello - and saying hello back and giving them a bit of a smile really does make their day.
And the streets themselves? Yep, there are piles of rubbish, open sewers, shambling cows, mangy dogs and hassle from all directions. But there are also colourful explosions of saris and carpets; exciting, pungent, spicy smells emanating from the carts of chapatti-wallahs; all kinds of people (from rugged Kashmiris to smiley Tamils) doing all kinds of things. We saw a jeweller named Rattna - wonder what he thinks of his customers? We saw a big, airy, many-coloured tent that the Islamic community had erected I think for their Haj pilgrims. We saw a decorated elephant lolloping past with rickshaws and crazy buses zooming by.
There's so much more to tell, it's a fascinating place. It's also full of poverty, with people ekeing out a difficult existence on next to nothing. It's very difficult to see child polio victims shuffle by or have half-clothed kids clinging desparately to you with hand outstretched. I saw a blind old man crouched in a puddle at the edge of the road, where presumably he spends his hours subsisting only on the few coins that come his way during the day.
Whew. Agra tomorrow. The train leaves at 6am - so those of you who know me well will know how functional I'm going to be first thing ... We're looking forward to the Taj Mahal and the ancient deserted city of Fatehpur Sikri. We're also anticipating the range of entertainingly creative scams that tourists generally encounter in the area - but we're ready for 'em! Someone has already tried to persuade us that the ticket office at Delhi Railway Station was under construction, and therefore we should go to buy tickets at their place, probably a little more "unofficial". Surely we don't look that daft?
Um, don't answer that.
We've seen the sights of Delhi today. Unfortunately, the vast Connaught Place is being dug up at the moment, while work gangs sink the new Delhi Metro. And the Rajpath - Delhi's answer to the Mall, a wide, flagpoled boulevard - is mainly closed off in preparation for Republic Day next week. This is when the moustachioed might of the Indian army parades down the wide Imperial avenues, in a display of military bombast, principally to remind Pakistan that they have lots of REALLY big guns, and know how to use them.
They also have bagpipers - we saw them hanging around outside Lutyens' Secretariat building, along with the rest of a full British-style military band, I think waiting for rehearsals (we heard them doing their scales after we'd walked away). The Secretariat is amongst the buildings at the heart of British Empire Delhi, together with the Presidential Palace and the Parliament Building: very grand and lots of wide open spaces.
From wide open spaces to little cramped ones: we ran the gauntlet of an auto-rickshaw ride! For just 80 rupees we snaked through the Delhi traffic with our driver, rather phlegmatic, in a typical three-wheeled green-and-yellow motorbike with a curtained cab on top (which was, no doubt, both hydromatic and systematic). Rickshaw-wallahs accost you every step of the way here, as if there's no way three western gents should possibly be doing any walking in Delhi.
But it would have been a long way to walk between those monuments of the Raj and the chaos surrounding the Jama Masjid, Delhi's (and I believe India's) biggest mosque. We got there at prayer-time, so had a quick wander up to see the Red Fort (essentially, a big red fort - it's closed on a Monday, so we'll have to come back), before taking off the shoes (as if Delhi hasn't enough pollution) and getting an insight into Islam. The mosque can accommodate 25,000 worshippers if it needs to, and the architecture is beautifully elegant. The view from the top of the tower was awesome, though it's a measure of how smoggy Delhi is that you couldn't see very far at all! (I feel a little like I've smoked a good few fags in the last day or so).
But the best bit about Delhi is just edging your way down it's immensely busy, narrow streets, dodging auto-rickshaws, scooters, bikes and the carts of nut-wallahs, fruit-wallahs and every other sort of wallah you can possibly think of. I've really been down with the kids, actually, as they love to come up to us and say hello - and saying hello back and giving them a bit of a smile really does make their day.
And the streets themselves? Yep, there are piles of rubbish, open sewers, shambling cows, mangy dogs and hassle from all directions. But there are also colourful explosions of saris and carpets; exciting, pungent, spicy smells emanating from the carts of chapatti-wallahs; all kinds of people (from rugged Kashmiris to smiley Tamils) doing all kinds of things. We saw a jeweller named Rattna - wonder what he thinks of his customers? We saw a big, airy, many-coloured tent that the Islamic community had erected I think for their Haj pilgrims. We saw a decorated elephant lolloping past with rickshaws and crazy buses zooming by.
There's so much more to tell, it's a fascinating place. It's also full of poverty, with people ekeing out a difficult existence on next to nothing. It's very difficult to see child polio victims shuffle by or have half-clothed kids clinging desparately to you with hand outstretched. I saw a blind old man crouched in a puddle at the edge of the road, where presumably he spends his hours subsisting only on the few coins that come his way during the day.
Whew. Agra tomorrow. The train leaves at 6am - so those of you who know me well will know how functional I'm going to be first thing ... We're looking forward to the Taj Mahal and the ancient deserted city of Fatehpur Sikri. We're also anticipating the range of entertainingly creative scams that tourists generally encounter in the area - but we're ready for 'em! Someone has already tried to persuade us that the ticket office at Delhi Railway Station was under construction, and therefore we should go to buy tickets at their place, probably a little more "unofficial". Surely we don't look that daft?
Um, don't answer that.
Sunday, January 18, 2004
DELHI - Wahey, we made it! We touched down after 11am in the end, and were met by our driver from Hotel Namaskar, who whizzed us into the centre in his spanking new car, which he was rather proud of. Jamesy was continuing to try and learn Hindi from his phrase book in the back, which must have been painful for the driver to listen to, because he proceeded to offer 350 rupees for the immediate purchase of said book! James declined, and the linguistic training continues.
We're in the Paharganj area of Delhi, which is where a number of travellers' hotels are situated. As we were checking in, the proprietor Mr Budhraja took a good ten minutes (despite the piercing distraction of the vegetable-wallah screaming outside) to take us through the various praise that has been lavished upon him by all the guidebooks - he keeps all the copies highlighted on his desk, and evidently loves being an international celebrity.
First impressions here? It's noisy, pungent, busy and there are lots of cows wandering about and auto-rickshaws, bikes and cars coming from all directions, all the time! It's quite a sensory explosion, that's for sure - think we all need some good food and good sleep now, just to start appreciating it properly!
We're in the Paharganj area of Delhi, which is where a number of travellers' hotels are situated. As we were checking in, the proprietor Mr Budhraja took a good ten minutes (despite the piercing distraction of the vegetable-wallah screaming outside) to take us through the various praise that has been lavished upon him by all the guidebooks - he keeps all the copies highlighted on his desk, and evidently loves being an international celebrity.
First impressions here? It's noisy, pungent, busy and there are lots of cows wandering about and auto-rickshaws, bikes and cars coming from all directions, all the time! It's quite a sensory explosion, that's for sure - think we all need some good food and good sleep now, just to start appreciating it properly!
