Saturday, February 28, 2004
STAFFORD, the jewel of the north-west Midlands - I've been to a country pub for dinner. It's been a freezing cold and clear February day. Evidently, I've arrived home! To use the slogan of a celebrated restaurant in Agra, things here are the "same, same, but different"; namely, Claire Short still has it in for Tony, Leeds are still bottom of the Premiership - and Peter Andre is popular again! Crikey ...
Before I do the whole reflection thing, I have to talk about our last day in India. We spent most of the day mooching around the Nehru Museum, in his old pad in the south of Delhi. When I say pad, I mean mansion really; it was a place built for a colonial commander-in-chief, and just the sort of residence for the legendary statesman and his family. There was lots of interesting stuff in the museum about the road to independence - rather more complete and balanced than the skewed presentation in the Red Fort! - as well as a chance to see Nehru's rooms preserved as they would have been. I found that the most fascinating part of the museum actually - quirky stuff like the judge's hammer that he kept on his desk and the big ornately-carved elephant's tusk that stood in one of his sitting rooms. And, obviously, just like anywhere, it was wonderful to peer fleetingly through his collection of books. We even saw Indira Gandhi's old bedroom, the boudoir of India's iron lady enough to send a tingle up any spine (!).
Our final rickshaw ride as a posse of three was out to south Delhi to meet our Cambridge PhD friends - surprisingly, the rickshaw had just about enough room for our bags, that were completely stuffed after six weeks of accumulation of all kinds. We eventually found Rachel and Sarah's flat, and spent a bit of time chatting to them, plus Sarah's mum and aunt, who were over visiting from the US. The plan was to go and see the qawali at Nizamuddin mosque, not too far from Humayan's tomb, where we had been the other day. We ricked it in and found the mosque, inside a maze of bazars (James and I bought silly hats), that were crammed utterly with people, all seemingly going in the opposite direction ... Once we had made it inside, we found a spot to sit on the floor and take in our surroundings - a beautifully ornate and very cramped place of worship, with a bloke coming round and randomly fanning people, and a small enclosure of people that, I was informed, had been "taken by the spirit" and were therefore not quite with us. Unfortunately, the qawali wasn't happening, due to an impending religious festival - so we thought we'd go and eat instead.
The Last Supper! (Blurring my religions here ...) And what a supper. The restaurant was a place called Karim's, renowned for its fine Mughlai cuisine; we'd been for lunch at its sister restaurant in Old Delhi right at the beginning of the trip. This meal capped most of the others. When I saw Akbari Murgh Masala on the menu, named after good old Emperor Akbar - the guy who was a supposedly tolerant ruler, open to those from other religions, but still made towers from Hindu heads - I just had to plump for it. Good choice; it was a wonderful meal, as sumptuous as the court of the Moghuls itself - and made all the better by the company. We chatted to Gabriella the Croatian yogi, someone Rachel had recently met: she lived in Munich and had set up a couple of yoga schools with her boyfriend, after turning her back on the world of PR. She was off to Rishikesh to see her guru and was one of the most bubbly happy smiley people you're ever likely to meet!
That was the great thing about this trip (as any trip) - the people that we met along the way. Gabriella, that Croatian yogi; Mani, the Bihari reinsurer; Farid, the Muslim tour guide at Fatephur Sikri; Mathew, the Keralan / Maldivan hotel manager; Jim, the marketing man "to the right of Mussolini"; psycho Thali man at Mount Abu; Richard, the fisherman-cum-handicrafts vendor; that Dutch bloke at Jaipur station; Posy, the intrepid English Lady; above all, Laura and Em, the tough Aussie chicks, and the one and only Jeffrey! Loads of others obviously; and each and every one brings your trip alive and gives the places themselves so much more than the ageing monuments that every tourist finds when they visit.
So, what to take overall from India? Did I find myself, man? Don't know about that - not sure I took enough psychadelic substances. It was an awesome experience to witness so many different cultures, see so many fascinating places and meet all of those interesting people. I tell you what will stay with me. Someone told me that the most important thing about travelling for them is to carry on doing it when you get home - to carry on treating each day as an opportunity to do new / different stuff, discover new places, meet new people, even when you're somewhere really familiar; to not get into the sort of groove in which you shut yourself away from anything fresh and interesting and get wound up in trivialities. It's inspiring to think that travelling could be a state of mind, rather than a state of geography - because, to be honest, since you can get a Coke anywhere you go these days, where you actually are doesn't matter quite so much. It'll certainly be a lot tougher now to forget how phenomenally loaded I am compared to hundreds of millions of people elsewhere in the world who live in squalor - squalor now being a reality for me, and not a concept.
Guess what the first thing I did when I got back yesterday? I had a takeaway curry from one of Stafford's premier curry houses. Akbar never ruled over the proud jewel of the north-west Midlands, the legions of the motherland repelling the hordes of Moghul invaders on numerous occasions. Consequently, we didn't get the benefit of his culinary expertise - not that it was bad, just that it wasn't quite Karim's (aaah, Karim's) ... And it cost nearly a tenner a head, with haggling not an option!
It'll take some getting used to, this Britain lark.
Before I do the whole reflection thing, I have to talk about our last day in India. We spent most of the day mooching around the Nehru Museum, in his old pad in the south of Delhi. When I say pad, I mean mansion really; it was a place built for a colonial commander-in-chief, and just the sort of residence for the legendary statesman and his family. There was lots of interesting stuff in the museum about the road to independence - rather more complete and balanced than the skewed presentation in the Red Fort! - as well as a chance to see Nehru's rooms preserved as they would have been. I found that the most fascinating part of the museum actually - quirky stuff like the judge's hammer that he kept on his desk and the big ornately-carved elephant's tusk that stood in one of his sitting rooms. And, obviously, just like anywhere, it was wonderful to peer fleetingly through his collection of books. We even saw Indira Gandhi's old bedroom, the boudoir of India's iron lady enough to send a tingle up any spine (!).
Our final rickshaw ride as a posse of three was out to south Delhi to meet our Cambridge PhD friends - surprisingly, the rickshaw had just about enough room for our bags, that were completely stuffed after six weeks of accumulation of all kinds. We eventually found Rachel and Sarah's flat, and spent a bit of time chatting to them, plus Sarah's mum and aunt, who were over visiting from the US. The plan was to go and see the qawali at Nizamuddin mosque, not too far from Humayan's tomb, where we had been the other day. We ricked it in and found the mosque, inside a maze of bazars (James and I bought silly hats), that were crammed utterly with people, all seemingly going in the opposite direction ... Once we had made it inside, we found a spot to sit on the floor and take in our surroundings - a beautifully ornate and very cramped place of worship, with a bloke coming round and randomly fanning people, and a small enclosure of people that, I was informed, had been "taken by the spirit" and were therefore not quite with us. Unfortunately, the qawali wasn't happening, due to an impending religious festival - so we thought we'd go and eat instead.
The Last Supper! (Blurring my religions here ...) And what a supper. The restaurant was a place called Karim's, renowned for its fine Mughlai cuisine; we'd been for lunch at its sister restaurant in Old Delhi right at the beginning of the trip. This meal capped most of the others. When I saw Akbari Murgh Masala on the menu, named after good old Emperor Akbar - the guy who was a supposedly tolerant ruler, open to those from other religions, but still made towers from Hindu heads - I just had to plump for it. Good choice; it was a wonderful meal, as sumptuous as the court of the Moghuls itself - and made all the better by the company. We chatted to Gabriella the Croatian yogi, someone Rachel had recently met: she lived in Munich and had set up a couple of yoga schools with her boyfriend, after turning her back on the world of PR. She was off to Rishikesh to see her guru and was one of the most bubbly happy smiley people you're ever likely to meet!
That was the great thing about this trip (as any trip) - the people that we met along the way. Gabriella, that Croatian yogi; Mani, the Bihari reinsurer; Farid, the Muslim tour guide at Fatephur Sikri; Mathew, the Keralan / Maldivan hotel manager; Jim, the marketing man "to the right of Mussolini"; psycho Thali man at Mount Abu; Richard, the fisherman-cum-handicrafts vendor; that Dutch bloke at Jaipur station; Posy, the intrepid English Lady; above all, Laura and Em, the tough Aussie chicks, and the one and only Jeffrey! Loads of others obviously; and each and every one brings your trip alive and gives the places themselves so much more than the ageing monuments that every tourist finds when they visit.
So, what to take overall from India? Did I find myself, man? Don't know about that - not sure I took enough psychadelic substances. It was an awesome experience to witness so many different cultures, see so many fascinating places and meet all of those interesting people. I tell you what will stay with me. Someone told me that the most important thing about travelling for them is to carry on doing it when you get home - to carry on treating each day as an opportunity to do new / different stuff, discover new places, meet new people, even when you're somewhere really familiar; to not get into the sort of groove in which you shut yourself away from anything fresh and interesting and get wound up in trivialities. It's inspiring to think that travelling could be a state of mind, rather than a state of geography - because, to be honest, since you can get a Coke anywhere you go these days, where you actually are doesn't matter quite so much. It'll certainly be a lot tougher now to forget how phenomenally loaded I am compared to hundreds of millions of people elsewhere in the world who live in squalor - squalor now being a reality for me, and not a concept.
Guess what the first thing I did when I got back yesterday? I had a takeaway curry from one of Stafford's premier curry houses. Akbar never ruled over the proud jewel of the north-west Midlands, the legions of the motherland repelling the hordes of Moghul invaders on numerous occasions. Consequently, we didn't get the benefit of his culinary expertise - not that it was bad, just that it wasn't quite Karim's (aaah, Karim's) ... And it cost nearly a tenner a head, with haggling not an option!
It'll take some getting used to, this Britain lark.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
DELHI - Amritsar was sensational. The Golden Temple seemed to float in the middle of a great tank of water, in which Sikhs bathe for its spiritual properties. Without pause, the Adi Granth was being sung and read by a team of holy men and relayed throughout the whole complex over loudspeakers, which made for a quite magical atmosphere, as hundreds of Sikh pilgrims wandered around the tank clockwise, heading for the temple itself. Some were less traditional Sikhs or simply tourists - though very few were obviously western - sporting only the head covering and bare feet stipulated by temple rules. (We looked a bit like we'd just wandered off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean.) A great many were proudly wearing all five of the five K's - the sword, turban, comb, special trousers and bracelet that the Sikh religion espouses for the faithful. Some were from specific sects of the religion: I saw one old bloke all in deep blue (indicating some warrior group within Sikhism), with a voluminous white beard and huge sword, about to totter towards the pool for his holy ablutions.
We got to the centre of the complex, the Golden Temple itself, and filed in with all the other pilgrims. We found the musicians playing and the source of the readings and song that were being broadcast to allcomers, set in a chamber of the most magnificent opulence. Many people were sat against the walls, either letting the whole experience wash over them, or taking active part and following the text in little pocket-books, presumably extracts from the Adi Granth. As familiar or favourite bits popped up, you could hear people briefly join in sotto voce, singing along with the very impressive professionals that were belting it out inside, to the accompaniment of tabla and harmoniums.
It was awesome. Afterwards, we went down the road to Jallianwalla Bagh, site of perhaps one of the more inglorious incidents in the history of the Great British Empire. In 1919, to quell unrest provoked by the Rowlatt Acts, and other local incidents, good old General Dyer decided to open fire without warning on an unarmed public meeting, in a garden space with only two extremely narrow exits. A couple of thousand died, and today there is a landscaped memorial to the "martyrs", the outrage at their death seen as giving rise to the movement that eventually lead to Indian independence 28 years later.
We met some Cambridge postgrad students the other day who are doing some PhD fieldwork in Delhi, so we're off to theirs for dinner tonight, preceded by a qawali, which, apparently, is some kind of devotional Urdu song-performance that can be pretty spectacular.
And then, at some ridiculous hour, we're flying home. HOME! Doesn't seem like six weeks at all. Bye bye India! It's going to be a long long night ...
We got to the centre of the complex, the Golden Temple itself, and filed in with all the other pilgrims. We found the musicians playing and the source of the readings and song that were being broadcast to allcomers, set in a chamber of the most magnificent opulence. Many people were sat against the walls, either letting the whole experience wash over them, or taking active part and following the text in little pocket-books, presumably extracts from the Adi Granth. As familiar or favourite bits popped up, you could hear people briefly join in sotto voce, singing along with the very impressive professionals that were belting it out inside, to the accompaniment of tabla and harmoniums.
It was awesome. Afterwards, we went down the road to Jallianwalla Bagh, site of perhaps one of the more inglorious incidents in the history of the Great British Empire. In 1919, to quell unrest provoked by the Rowlatt Acts, and other local incidents, good old General Dyer decided to open fire without warning on an unarmed public meeting, in a garden space with only two extremely narrow exits. A couple of thousand died, and today there is a landscaped memorial to the "martyrs", the outrage at their death seen as giving rise to the movement that eventually lead to Indian independence 28 years later.
We met some Cambridge postgrad students the other day who are doing some PhD fieldwork in Delhi, so we're off to theirs for dinner tonight, preceded by a qawali, which, apparently, is some kind of devotional Urdu song-performance that can be pretty spectacular.
And then, at some ridiculous hour, we're flying home. HOME! Doesn't seem like six weeks at all. Bye bye India! It's going to be a long long night ...
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
AMRITSAR, Punjab - It's been a long day of ... just sitting on a bus! Woohoo! We had a taste of things to come when we get home as we got up at 6am in Shimla and felt bloody freezing for the first time in 5 weeks. I don't actually think it was that cold, but Goa must've softened us up a bit. Mind you, I still only put two layers on; Jamesy went for four (including the pink shirt of legend that he purchased in Delhi), but he is from Sussex.
We twisted and turned down the mountain roads of Himachal Pradesh (thankfully our stomachs were stronger that some unfortunate fellow passengers), before passing through Le Corbusier's planned city of Chandigarh, built in the 1950s as a capital for Indian Punjab, Lahore having fallen on the Pakistani side at Partition. If Ahmedabad is the Manchester of India, then Chandigarh is certainly the Milton Keynes, judging by the grid of roads, big roundabouts ... and not a lot else.
Anyway, ten hours later we arrived in Amritsar, very obviously predominantly Sikh. A jolly turbaned rickshaw-wallah took us on an entertaining detour off-road on the way to the hotel, to avoid the traffic; especially entertaining as I was doing my usual trick of wedging myself in the front cuddling up to the driver so as to keep away from the tarmac - and associated buses and motorbikes - a few feet away.
Unfortunately, we arrived too late to make it to the Wagha Crossing, the border point with Pakistan (30km away) where there is a hilarious ceremony of pompous military theatricals each evening, with puff-chested troops lowering the flags and closing the border. Never mind - tomorrow, there is the resplendent Golden Temple to look forward to, which is apparently stunning ... It's about our last place before we start to head home (booo...), so it'd be nice if it was!
We twisted and turned down the mountain roads of Himachal Pradesh (thankfully our stomachs were stronger that some unfortunate fellow passengers), before passing through Le Corbusier's planned city of Chandigarh, built in the 1950s as a capital for Indian Punjab, Lahore having fallen on the Pakistani side at Partition. If Ahmedabad is the Manchester of India, then Chandigarh is certainly the Milton Keynes, judging by the grid of roads, big roundabouts ... and not a lot else.
Anyway, ten hours later we arrived in Amritsar, very obviously predominantly Sikh. A jolly turbaned rickshaw-wallah took us on an entertaining detour off-road on the way to the hotel, to avoid the traffic; especially entertaining as I was doing my usual trick of wedging myself in the front cuddling up to the driver so as to keep away from the tarmac - and associated buses and motorbikes - a few feet away.
Unfortunately, we arrived too late to make it to the Wagha Crossing, the border point with Pakistan (30km away) where there is a hilarious ceremony of pompous military theatricals each evening, with puff-chested troops lowering the flags and closing the border. Never mind - tomorrow, there is the resplendent Golden Temple to look forward to, which is apparently stunning ... It's about our last place before we start to head home (booo...), so it'd be nice if it was!
Monday, February 23, 2004
SHIMLA, Himachal Pradesh - I'm in the foothills of the Himalayas, I kid you not. This place is not exactly crampon country though: in fact, it's a bit reminiscent of Stratford-upon-Avon, but on some really big hills. The British used to use it as their summer capital when the heat in Calcutta or Delhi became far too much. To this end, they built loads of mock-Tudor buildings, and a church that could grace the square of any quaint middle England town. We're yet to find a cream tea, but I bet there's one not too far away - with doilies and everything, I'm sure.
We went to the Viceroy's old place earlier on, which is a huge Scottish baronial pile, with views out to snow-capped peaks in the distance. Although we're at 7000ft here, they are HUGE in comparison. On our guided tour round the building, which is now a centre for post-doctoral research - what an awesome place to study! - we saw such things as the very table on which the Partition of India was settled in 1947 and a classic photo of Edwina Mountbatten flirting with Nehru, with her Viceregal hubby looking none too chuffed.
We spent all morning on the little "toy train" through the hills to get here, which was wonderful in itself. I kept expecting a Sikh version of the Fat Controller to bound out of a signal box and give us a hearty wave. I could wax lyrical about it, but I might sound like I'm turning into a trainspotter. I'm not - but it was lovely to wind along ridges, over viaducts, through tunnels and bursting into yet another spectacular valley with spectacular views ...
Bit of a crazy whistlestop (oh, there I go, trains on the brain ...) end to our trip this. We're on a bus in the morning to Amritsar to catch the Golden Temple!
We went to the Viceroy's old place earlier on, which is a huge Scottish baronial pile, with views out to snow-capped peaks in the distance. Although we're at 7000ft here, they are HUGE in comparison. On our guided tour round the building, which is now a centre for post-doctoral research - what an awesome place to study! - we saw such things as the very table on which the Partition of India was settled in 1947 and a classic photo of Edwina Mountbatten flirting with Nehru, with her Viceregal hubby looking none too chuffed.
We spent all morning on the little "toy train" through the hills to get here, which was wonderful in itself. I kept expecting a Sikh version of the Fat Controller to bound out of a signal box and give us a hearty wave. I could wax lyrical about it, but I might sound like I'm turning into a trainspotter. I'm not - but it was lovely to wind along ridges, over viaducts, through tunnels and bursting into yet another spectacular valley with spectacular views ...
Bit of a crazy whistlestop (oh, there I go, trains on the brain ...) end to our trip this. We're on a bus in the morning to Amritsar to catch the Golden Temple!
