On the beaches of Goa

It's 6am, and we're bouncing down the road to Hampi, capital of the Vijayanagar Empire, after four days in Goa, capital of ravers and hippies. We spent two nights in Vagator, in the north part of the state, before passing through Velha Goa (the old capital of the Portuguese Empire in Asia; so many capitals!) to Palolem Beach in the south.

As befits several days in a famous beach paradise, there is little to report. We spent time on the beach, swimming in Indian Ocean, sea kayaking in Palolem, and drinking cocktails by the sand. The hotels we stayed at were both lovely, one with a pool surrounded by bungalows, and the second right on the beach, and both had air conditioning, which I'm beginning to think is a year-round necessity for me, at least in Southern India. Yesterday we went walking and found a cool vegetarian/vegan café called Zest. I ordered coconut water, so they gave me a coconut with its top lopped off and a straw in it. Once it was drunk down, they cut it in half so we could scrape out the meat with a spoon. Emma had a sushi bowl, which contained no fish but a lot of veg, and we got to take a close look at some of the more hippyish elements of western tourism.

Then we realised we couldn't pay. We were R130 short (about £1.30) and the nearest ATM was 2.5 km away. So what could I do? I started walking. Actually, the real plan was to walk like I had a long way to go, and attract a Tuk Tuk driver to offer a ride. It worked - not 5 minutes later I was on the back of a scooter driven by an off-work taxi driver named Dhilliv. Nice guy, he got me to the ATM, chatted with me while we waited in line, and was the first to realise that the line was so long because the thing wasn't working. So he drove me another 1.5 km to another machine, which also was out of cash, past another machine that he knew was out of cash pretty much permanently, to a final machine which absolutely worked. Then he schlepped me all the way back to Zest. So Dhilliv: you're a star, and worth every Rupee. :)

The South of the country is considerably prettier than the north. There are more trees, bushes, animals (we have seen many a monkey these last few days) and proper houses. The south is apparently the more wealthy part of the country, Punjab excepted. In addition to Mumbai and Goa, which are the finance and tourism capitals, there's also Bengaluru (Bangalore), the IT capital, Kerala state, which although poor has the highest rate of literacy in the country thanks to the world's first freely elected communist government, and Chennai (Madras), which apparently has nothing interesting at all about it. I'm not looking forward to Chennai.

We're also heading out of the Hindi speaking areas and into the Dravidian parts, where languages such as Konkani, Telugu and Tamil predominate. Since these languages have nothing in common with Hindi, and use a totally different writing system, I'm pretty much skunked in my, admittedly limited, attempts to learn some of the language. I have a few phrases, and I can transliterate the Hindi signs,  and that's about as far as its going to go. C'est la vie.

Patrick

Em sez: I can't believe he didn't say more about Old Goa! It was just a quick afternoon stop on the way to Vagator, but we fit in visits to three historical churches. And even though I'm not the Catholic one, it was fairly exciting to see a saint. Unlike the locals I resisted the urge to take a selfie with his coffin. First stop in town was the excellently named Basilica of Bom Jesus. While not the St Francis I would have been happier to meet (he of Assisi), St Francis Xavier's remains are entombed here. The miraculously undecomposed body itself is put on display just once every 10 years (missed the 2014 viewing), but the rest of the decade his tomb can be viewed from all four sides- and unlike in other churches where photography is either all together banned, or at least unallowed with people- it was selfie central at this one! The Portuguese spent quite a bit of time in Goa, so of course there were other Catholic churches- the Se Cathedral and the Church of St Francis of Assisi. 

Churched out, we wandered down to an uninspiring bit of river, wondering where this important trading dock was supposed to be. My lunch was a plain but tasty dal, but Patrick decided to have a South Indian speciality, dosa. After miraculously eating the whole thing, he described its immense size to those who hadn't been around to witness it. Like a fisherman over-exaggerating the size of his catch, no one believed his exclamations of "It was THIS BIG!!" but happily I took a photo!

Beaches don't really do it for me (I love being IN the water, but sun and sand don't appeal), and one morning walk in Vagator was enough to send me to bed the rest of the day, emerging in the evening to bond with the adorable hotel cat, Stitch. 

 

Palolem was intensely touristy, but did allow for a mini Dragoman reunion, as Dollie and Sophie had both independently continued their travels to the same beach, after finishing their leg of over-landing in Mumbai. It was lovely celebrating Sophie's 26th birthday at a restaurant where the dining tables were set out on the beach. Art Café's live music night left something to be desired, but one of the singers did a decent rendition of The Kinks' Sunny Afternoon, and cocktail in hand, toes in the sand, cool wind straight off the ocean playing in my hair- it was a good moment that's stuck with me. We all had a good laugh when a dried up hippy who'd clearly spent too many decades doing too many drugs got up to sway around and sing some duets with one of the guitar guys. We affectionately named her Sue and decided she owned 5 cats and a llama. All this even before she put on her inflatable bat wings.
In the day, the endless stretches of shops selling the same tat and tourist bars serving the same cheap sugary cocktails was too much, but the sea was perfect and I was happiest floating on the waves or kayaking to the nearby island.

Mumbai Meandering

Excuse any typos- we're on an 11-hour train journey, rumbling south to Goa after three nights in Mumbai.

It's near impossible to say anything original about this city- more eloquent writers than we have spent pages trying to encapsulate the smells, colours and feel of this spectacular city. The extremes are palpable- on one long walk, we passed the most expensive personal residence ever built ($1bn), shortly after a row of shacks. Men in tailored suits chat on iPhones near begging children. There are Bentley dealerships and Jimmy Choo showrooms and designers I haven't seen outside of Mayfair- and cobblers plopped in the middle of the pavement who charge 50p to expertly fix two shoes. Much of what is written about Mumbai focuses on these extremes- the billionaires or the slums, and as such, the reality was quite different to expectation. It's a true world city and from the windows of the truck and cars, and in hours of walking, I felt elements of LA, Miami, Barcelona and New York. It's a city that feels like one, rather than the chaos of Delhi. Being white and showing some shoulder didn't turn any heads, whereas in Jodhpur I felt like a circus freak. We also weren't conspicuous as a couple holding hands on Marine Drive, which is apparently a favourite amongst courting youngsters; the sea wall is covered in jeans-wearing boys each with an arm slung round the shoulder of a jeans-wearing girl.

Upon arrival, after a long hot, sweaty, bumpy ride from Ellora, the first destination from our Colaba hotel (optimistically called Hotel Supreme) was Leopold's. It's been a popular cafe since 1871, but it held a special allure to me, having just finished the tome "Shantaram" for the second time- the cafe is the favoured hang out of Lin, Karla, Didier, Vikram and company when that story unfolds in the early 1980s. These days it's going for the American diner look, with various US license plates adorning the walls, and posters with cheeky slogans. Alongside absolutely spectacular noodles, I tried the Chenin Blanc and Brut from a local vineyard, Sula, which were surprisingly drinkable. About 5 minutes into the 20 minute walk there, my £2.50 sandal (from a market stall bucket in Jodhpur) split apart. Anywhere else in India, this would have meant certain doom and I would have had to hop back, or be carried on Patrick's back (OK, we know which scenario is the more likely). But the streets and pavements of Colaba are cleaner than those in London, and I marched there and back barefoot, truly making it a pilgrimage.

Our first full day, we semi-followed a self-guided route suggested by Lonely Planet, through Colaba and Kala Ghoda and Fort, taking in the famous Taj Mahal Palace hotel, Gateway of India, Horniman Circle, Flora Fountain and enjoying the façades of many beautiful art deco buildings. We followed a side street to find the decaying grandeur of the sky blue Beit Knesset Eliyahu synagogue, and spent too long in the Mumbai Museum gift shop because their aircon was so good. Towards Churchgate, we made a stop into the Anglican cathedral, St Thomas, full of memorials to English heroes of colonial times.

We had a fantastic Thali lunch at Samrat with my friend Shiraz, who I hadn't seen since we met on a Shakespeare course at RADA 11 years ago! There was obviously much to catch up on, and wonderful to pick up on various aspects of Indian and Mumbai culture, direct from someone born and raised here.

Patrick and I disagree on the exact distance we walked on Wednesday (we haven't entered the world of fitbit yet), but a quick glance at google maps shows a direct path from Hotel Supreme to the High Street Phoenix Mall would have been 10km, though we added several more to take a more scenic route and make detours. The walk along Marine Drive is deservedly famous, though we were pouring with sweat by the time we reached Chowpatty Beach and guzzled down a mango gola each. Gola is shaved ice (which Westerners are warned to avoid, due to potential microscopic beasties hiding in the unfiltered water, but we were hot enough to take the risk) dunked in a cup of diabetes-inducing neon-coloured flavoured syrup. Perfect for consuming on the sand under the shade of a palm tree. After Chowpatty we wandered inland a bit and decided to make our first visit to the chain Cafe Coffee Day (as ubiquitous as Costa) and came across the most woefully inept excuse of a barista that ever ground beans. I believe Patrick's descriptive phrase involved this simpleton falling off the back of a turnip truck. The bulk of his confusion involved not grasping that a frappé involves milk, when all we wanted was the plainest of unsugared black coffee in ice- though we were the only customers in, it took 30 minutes for him to eventually produce one cup of black iced coffee, after the appearance of the unwanted frappés, though Patrick had to leap up when he was about to pour in a carton of cream, insisting it wasn't milk.

Our walk continued north, through Kemp's Corner, sometimes inland, sometimes along the sea. We heard the afternoon call to prayer whilst staring out at the Haji Ali Dargah Mosque, which seems to float in the sea, at the end of a long bustling walkway from the mainland.

Once we finally reached the sprawling Phoenix mall (and went through near airport levels of security), we met up with Shiraz and his friend Preeti for an afternoon of Bollywood. Reclining in armchairs, pizza brought to our seats, we enjoyed the romcom LoveShudda - the characters often sprinkled their Hindi conversations with English and much of it took place in London. It was delightful, and the dance numbers were great fun.

Shiraz's driver met us afterwards and drove the four of us across "the Sea Link," a 2km bridge that puts the Severn to shame. It opened in 2010, and apart from being a stylish feat of engineering, it has massively cut commute times from the suburbs. Shiraz showed us his home, in the popular neighbourhood Bandra West. Though he apologised for it being small, it's a palace compared to our flat and has incredible wall length windows looking out to sea.  There is a nearby promenade along the beach which we walked up and down a few times - though it was nighttime, it was busy with families, couples and friends enjoying a relaxing evening away from the bustle of the city. I'd rather an evening like that- seeing a friend's home, talking politics and enjoying a normal neighbourhood- than a night at the posh Taj hotel. It was a perfect final day in Mumbai, and Shiraz even had his driver take us the many miles back to Colaba, so we were able to enjoy the spectacular lit-up skyline of the city from the Sea Link.

Two days in Mumbai wasn't remotely enough, but we made maximum use of the time we had before getting up at 5am this morning to head to Chhatrapati Shivaji (more colloquially known as VT- Victoria Terminus) for this lengthy train ride to Goa (Dutchie started driving Daisy down yesterday). Though, we're in an air conditioned sleeper carriage, and I got a proper sleep the first few hours, before waking up for lunch, chatting, reading, etc. The rocking of the train is strangely peaceful, as is the sing-songy calls of "Chai! Chai! Chai!" or "froot sall-aad!" or all the names of other snacks I can't distinguish from the endless parade of train attendants selling refreshments for pennies through the carriages. It's certainly comfortable enough way to spend 11 hours, though I'll reserve complete judgment till I've visited the loo.

Emma

I need a bed!!!

The alarm went off at 4.45am this morning, so we had a pitch dark packing up of the sleeping bags and tent for the fourth and final time. After four consecutive nights of camping, tent breakdown was quite smooth, but I am ready for some real sheets, and to feel something other than rocks below me. We only truly bush-camped once- three nights were in the grounds of various guest-houses, so we had access to toilets (you know you've been in India a while when you choose the squat toilet over the Western pedestal style). And even a couple cold showers, which made the 30-degree-plus heat slightly more bearable.

Our first stop after Udaipur was Mandu. The 15th century complex was fairly expansive and the guide showed us the Ship Palace (so named for its oblong shape and location between two lakes), the Swing Palace (for its sloping walls) and Champa Bodi (Turkish bath) in the Royal Enclave- for the sultan and his 15,000 queens (not a typo- imagine the cat fights!). There was also an auditorium with fantastic acoustics- Ida sang a beautiful version of Hallelujah in one corner of the huge theatre, while the rest of us listened in a distant enclave. Outside the Royal Enclave, we visited some of the sights in Mandu village. Baobab trees grow here (brought from Africa centuries ago), so the little chalky white seeds are sold as a snack. They are like a less chemically extreme version of a warhead- sour then sweet. I tried them as we walked around the Jama Masjid, a disused mosque and supposedly the largest example of Afghan architecture in India. As well as the main dome, there were several dozen smaller domes that functioned as "loudspeakers," so we were treated to another spectacular version of Hallelujah. I think of cloisters as a distinctly British cathedral or university thing, but this mosque had a pretty fine set. Nearby was Hoshang's Tomb. While it is probably India's oldest marble building, I confess that the tombs are starting to run together in my memory, and it's hard to be overly impressed after the Taj Mahal. Though apparently the Taj architects did come check out this tomb for some inspiration.

For most of the camping days, we were sadly without Dollie and Vincent, who were stuck in Udaipur with a violent bout of food poisoning. Though we temporarily lost those two from the truck, we gained Raffik and his son Shahid, two local cooks who provided breakfast, lunch and dinner for 4 days! It was such a welcome change to not have to think about going out to a restaurant for every meal. Their cooking was absolutely fantastic and they were really  lovely- also very devoted to Dragoman. Raffik brought out his scrapbooks one night, of photos and letters from Dragoman going back to 2002. There's even a photo of him in India's Top Gear magazine, when there was a feature on Daisy.

On the 20th (happy birthday, dad!), we visited the Ajanta Caves, which are truly spectacular. The Ellora caves (visited the following day) are known for their carved sculptures, but the Ajanta caves are famous for their preserved paintings. Like Chislehurst, "caves" is a misnomer as they are not natural, but carved out of the rock gorge, starting in 200BC. And like a previous "Armshaws on Tour" destination Machu Picchu, this wonder was long ago forgotten and taken over by nature, before its accidental rediscovery by a Brit on a tiger-hunting expedition in 1819 (John Smith carved his name into a column shortly thereafter). I hope the helpful tiger survived the incident. The "caves" were used as a Buddhist monastery and many of the frescoes show events from Siddhartha's life. They are very colourful and incredibly well preserved for being 2200 years old. We laughed when we saw a Chinese woman go past in a palanquin with four bearers, but considering the horrible heat and long descent (20+ minutes just going down steps), maybe it wouldn't have been such a bad idea. We only saw a selection of the 30 caves, but had a grand view of the horseshoe arrangement from above.

Ellora - which we saw yesterday - was variously used over the course of five centuries as Hindu, Buddhist and Jain temples. Like Ajanta, the caves were laboriously carved out of the mountain, but thanks to the more gentle slope of the hill, here the architects were able to carve out lovely courtyards as well. The acoustics in the first temple we visited were simply astounding; our guide chanted a Buddhist prayer, and the resonance made me feel as though, given the right note and a perfect spot, you could hum the mountain into shaking. We were taken to six temples/monasteries, but the absolute highlight was Kailash Temple, the largest single monolithic structure in the world. It consists of a large, lavishly decorated main temple with an entrance tower linked by a second floor walkway ... You know what? It's easier to look at the pictures when we post them in April. :)

After that our tour ended, but we and the cool kids (Sophie, Emily and Vincent) decided to check out the Jain Temple about 1.5 km down the road. Of course, five youngish people going off alone to check out an abandoned temple is the stuff horror movies are made of, so we started arguing about which one of us would survive, who would be the first victim, and who the killer would end up being revealed as (Emma, me and undercooked chicken, respectively).  Fortunately, we all survived, and the temple was worth the hike in the blazing sun and back again, although having to immediately set up the camp within 5 minutes of schlepping back we could have done without.  

That evening we found as much shade as physically possible, read, played Uno, and snacked on fresh-made pakora, courtesy of Raffik, before eating a lovely dinner. We stayed up a little, drinking rum and mango juice, talking with our fellow travellers. It really hit us all that this part of the journey is coming to an end. We'll be losing some amazing people, but Sophie has plans on meeting up with us and the  notorious Kate in London in the summer, and Ida has a standing invitation to visit us anytime she feels the urge. Sarah has demanded that we visit her in Switzerland, and her offer of a couch puts that into the realm of financial possibility, while the pictures she showed us of her town make it a highly attractive one. We also get to keep Vince, Emily and Sandy, so we will have some friends with us for the next portion, even if the newbies aren't quite as great as our current crew.

This part has gone by so fast - it's crazy to think that our trip to Peru would have been ending about now, while ours has really only just begun! Signing off from the rocky road to Mumbai.

Em and Pat

Emma Bond Returns, in Octopatrick!

[Written 17th Feb - upload delayed till 22nd Feb due to lack of WiFi whilst camping!]


We've been too busy to keep up thus here blog, kind reader, but for the best of reasons - we were doing cool stuff and getting drunk to boot!

We got into Udaipur (Venice of India, Rajasthani cultural hub and ground zero for the Indian wedding industry) on the 15th after a visit to what has to be the most gorgeous religious edifice in existence: Ranakpur, a temple built in the 1400s by a wealthy Jain politician as a locus for that pacifistic, austere and demanding branch of Hinduism. All white marble,  its interiors melding into its exteriors, an interlocking medley of domes, statues and trees, it amazes in every capacity, even if certain members of our group *cough*Robert*cough* were unimpressed.

Udaipur, among its many charms and claims to fame, provided the background for one of the Bond series' less sober entries, Octopussy.  A strong exemplar of the 'so bad it's good' school of film making, it tries to get all of India sandwiched into a few scenes: Bond flies to India in a helicopter past the Taj Mahal (in Agra, Uttar Pradesh) before landing literally hundreds of miles away in Udaipur, Rajasthan. Its like having Hercule Poirot sail past the Statue of Liberty before docking in Miami. The film features some of the local sites, such as the Monsoon Palace (up on a dominating hill above the city), the Lake Palace (built in the middle of Lake Pichola) and the City Palace, which while pretty had been ruined for us by Mehrangarh in Jodhpur as thoroughly as all future temples have been ruined by Ranakpur.

Restaurants and cafes throughout the city show it nightly, so we of course caught a showing during dinner, and I can honestly say my Palak Paneer had nothing on the film when it comes to cheesiness.

And if Patrick is going to make puns like that, I'm taking over! We made the most of our first full day in Udaipur, starting off early with a 2-hour horse ride in the surrounding area! Ida is an experienced rider, so I was worried she would be a bit bored plodding along with us novices (Sophie and Marina also joined), but we all had an enjoyable trip. The horses are a local breed called Marwari- easily recognisable by their inward turning ears. Back in town, we had an amble on our own two feet. Like Jaisalmer, it's a much calmer city than Delhi, which makes me a bit more amenable to shopping. We stopped into a little art shop run by a very friendly couple (who happened to have twin sons!) who did us each a little sketch on the spot, in addition to the prints we bought. The highlight of the afternoon was of course the City Palace.We must have spent hours exploring the sprawling complex. My favourite motifs were the mustachioed sun image and a variety of dazzling mosaic peacocks. We celebrated our driver Dutchie's birthday that evening on the hotel's rooftop- most of us dressed up as Dutchie in his ubiquitous shorts and tank look, with tattoos drawn on our arms. We caroused through the evening, loving the sunset vistas over Lake Pichola, Floating Palace, City Palace, and Monsoon Palace all in view. Copious amounts of Old Monk rum was consumed, songs were sung, selfies were snapped, Australian slang was learned, and the general merriment continued long after we were cut off, and we ended up like a pile of puppies on a divan in the restaurant.

Needless to say, the next day was much calmer. Patrick and I took a meandering walk through town, crossing the pedestrian footbridge near us, then walking through the part of Udaipur on the other side of the lake, before crossing back over the other bridge. Apart from some pretty damn fine milkshakes a group of us went out for to say farewell to Dominic, the best part of the day was following up on Annette and (Danish) Patrick's suggestion to visit the tailor across from the hotel. Rakesh was obviously skilled, a fact not lost on the several great British actors he had photos with around his shop- whilst filming Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, Bill Nighy had 7 suits made by Rakesh, and Dame Judi and Dame Maggie also had custom pieces made. For a fortune less than what we'd pay on Savile Row, Patrick ordered two 3-piece suits and two shirts, and I got a suit (Parliament, here I come!). We returned that evening with our Danish friends and got to do a mini fashion show together - their coats are absolutely stunning. My only regret is not having a couple shirts made for me- I'll just have to be jealous every time I see Patrick in his wares. In between visits to Rakesh's shop, the four of us had dinner at his brother's restaurant, and we got the star treatment. After climbing a mountain of  stairs, we emerged on a private rooftop, a level above where the rest of the restaurant ended, with just the one table, and stunning views. Udaipur is a very popular wedding destination, so our conversation was frequently interrupted by celebratory fireworks or the thumping beats of a groom's procession somewhere in the winding streets below.

Udaipur has been very good to us, but we have an early morning departure tomorrow- on to the next adventures...

V-Day in Jodhpur

Many a couple will be spending tonight at posh restaurants, chocolates, flowers, and diamonds in hand. Me and my fella did something extra special this Valentine's Day too- went zip-lining through a centuries old fort, wind whipping across our skin as we enjoyed an exquisitely unique vantage point over "the blue city," Jodhpur.

Aldous Huxley wrote, "from the bastions of the Jodhpur Fort one hears as the gods must hear from Olympus." I would add that from the zipline of the fort, one sees as the gods must!

Patrick and I were both newbies to the sport, and there couldn't be a better place to start. It's run by a British company to European safety standards, and after getting harnessed, we were given a really useful demonstration and practise zip on a short, low line. There were three other Dragomanners with us (seasoned Swiss Sarah and fellow newbies Aussie Wendy and Danny) along with another married couple, from Poland, though Ali was American. We got to zip across 6 lines over the course of an hour, each one more exhilarating than the last, some crossing a watery ravine and all with spectacular views of the blue city from within the fort's walls. The adventure culminated in a 300 metre line-  mathematician Armshaw calculated we were zooming along at 36km per hour, though Sarah had to really slow down to prevent taking out an idiot parrot that chose the wrong perch!

After that indescribable start to the day (no, I'll live up to Eddie Izzard's stereotype of Americans and say it was AWESOME like a hot dog), we then spent a few hours exploring Mehrangarh (proper name of the fort) itself. It was founded in 1459 and the audio guide provided more insight, history and stories about little details than I could possibly relate. When I finally get photos off my camera in May, I'll probably be somewhat confused about much of them. For instance, the section of wall still bearing holes from cannon balls lobbed at the fort in the 1820s, or a plaque in Hindi commemorating the person sealed alive in the city walls as a sacrifice to ward off a hermit's curse. Incidentally, part of Batman: Dark Knight Rises was shot at Mehrangarh and Cracked has a pretty cool piece about it- from one of our ziplining points we had a perfect view of the section used in the film (the fort above the pit Batman escapes from). Another sad\horrifying\glad-I-don't-live-in-the-past story was about the sculpture of orange handprints on an arch- it's the mark widows would leave in the wall before being burned on their husband's funeral pyre, supposedly silently.  Somewhat less grim were the rooms of palanquins (Patrick and I both resisted the urge to break into The Decemberists' "Infanta" song), miniature paintings, cradles, weaponry, Elephant howdas and more.

From one of the vantage points, we were able to see a massive palace some distance from the city- where Rajistan's current Maharaja, H.H. Gajsinghji II, still lives (alongside tourists, as part of the palace functions as a hotel). He was born in 1948, just a year after India became independent. So what is a 21st century democratic republic doing having a Maharaja? I let the PhD take over from here..

Patrick here. Basically, the British Raj had two types of regions: the Raj proper, governed by functionaries in the name of the Queen, and the so-called 'princely states', which were governed by traditional elites (thakurs, rajas and maharajas) but acknowledged the British monarch as Suzerain. (Good Lord, how I love the stupid language of Empire). When India gained independence, it was really all these territories gaining independence and then choosing whether to join the Republic of India or of Pakistan - going it alone was not an option. And that meant losing the political role these nobles had held for centuries, although not the land the owned.

For the Maharaja, that meant finding some way of reinventing his role for a democratic society (tall order for a kid who is crowned at the age of four), but apparently he's taken to it with gusto. He created a trust to preserve the forts (Mehrangarh being the biggest) and use them to produce an income, turned the majority of his mansion into a swanky hotel (following the lead of many a British toff) and set up a variety of NGOs on issues such as culture and women's empowerment. If the Mehrangarh museum is anything to go by, he's done a good job of it all. Side note: the first income earned was from the selling of bat guano to local farmers!

After our lovely stroll throughout the grounds, we walked down the hill towards Jodhpur proper. Here we found one of the less lovely aspects of India - constant harassment by young men on motorcycles of women not dressed modestly enough for their tastes. Nothing aggressive, but hearing 'hello!' ring out again and again and again, and having motorbikes idle to a stop near you, and seeing the faces of said young men drop when they see a man walking with her gets old quickly. All this because Emma had bare shoulders on a hot day. I've never seen idiots more in need of a nudie mag in my life, and I have a newfound appreciation for what women go through.

Idiots aside, we walked for an hour or so through Brahmapuri, the oldest section of the city, before grabbing a Tuk-Tuk to the Clock Tower, where a bazaar marks the center of town.  Here we had two masterstrokes of luck: we walked into a small lassi place and had easily the best lassis of my life (they had the taste and consistency of Key Lime Pie filling), and afterwards found the Omelette Man, a figure of myth and legend and Lonely Planet recommendations who goes through 1000 eggs a day making the best Omelettes in India. Emma had heard tell of this man, but had heard he was by the gates of the citadel, so we weren't expecting to find him, and maybe that's why we did! I now know why that rat ran across my foot. I now know why that bull nuzzled me with his head. This was our fate, our Karma, and proof that God loves us. At least until Daisy (the truck, not our kitten) gets jammed in an archway again ...

Jaisalmer Nights (part II)

This is our ninth (?) day in India, and we're already well behind on blogging, which I'm going to blame on a combination of being too intimidated by the intense level of detail on Patrick's last entry, dodgy WiFi, and this bloody tablet deleting half of what I wrote last time I sat down to do this. Alors, we pick up in the desert, where Patrick left you, dear Reader, post camel ride.

In short, we woke with the Friday dawn and watched the sun rise from a sand dune, cosy in our sleeping bags, before pulling ourselves together over a hot cup of masala chai. Jeeps took us back to the city of Jaisalmer, stopping en route at the "ghost city" Kuldhara. We spent a relaxing afternoon back in the city, returning to the Sunrise Cafe on the ramparts for a ridiculously scenic lunch, before a genuinely pleasant shopping experience with Pappu, and chilling out in the hotel's oh-so-comfortable beds. We finished the day with dinner with most of the group at a delightful "Italian" restaurant built into the fort walls. We were also able to look down on a wedding procession, and after dinner Patrick was head-butted by a very affectionate cow, which we all declared excellent good luck. Saturday morning we hit the road for Jodhpur, stopping once on the way on purpose (to meet the girls and women of the Sambhali Trust) and once not on purpose when the truck got stumped by an arch, adding a few dozen km to the journey. It's now Sunday and we're entering night two at the gorgeous and verdant Mandore Guest House, having spent the day in Mehrangarh Fort. Phew!!!! See - we're too damn busy doing stuff to write about it!

Worthy of further discussion is Kuldhara. A few stories exist about how it came to be deserted, but the favourite seems to be that some sort of despot demanded to marry a teenage girl from this city in the 1700s. Rather than let him have her, the entire population of the city up and left as one, all abandoning their homes in an act of solidarity. To make the story even juicier, they left a curse on the village, and no one has ever moved in to resettle the dozens of abandoned stone homes. I googled it when we returned to the hotel, and the first result discussed how the Delhi Paranormal Society got all kinds of strong ghost readings. I can't claim to have felt any eery disembodied hands on a sunny Friday morning whilst clambering up to rooftops, but it was fascinating to see the crumbling original buildings whilst labourers continued to restore a few of them. I certainly recommend further Google and YouTube investigation.

I've always wanted to experience an Indian wedding, and watching a street procession from atop a fort wall was a pretty tame introduction. It was led by a truck with 2-metre high speakers blaring what I can only assume were Bollywood favourites, as the army of colourful sari-wearing women following it were very coordinated in their dance moves. Less choreographed were all the men bouncing along in the parade too- I think more than a few probably weren't connected to the wedding but just wanted to join the party! Bringing up the rear was a resplendent white horse, very richly decorated, being ridden by the groom, who was apparently emulating some sort of royalty, given his towering turban crown and all the jewels. I think getting married must be quite profitable for Indian men because as I watched from the ramparts, most passersby came up to the slowly marching horse, circled a rupee note in an always identical figure 8 in front of the groom's chest, then handed the cash to one of the two attendants on either side of the horse, who were collecting their friend's money so he could remain holding the reins in a stately manner.

After leaving Jaisalmer Saturday morning, we spent the afternoon at a really special place that Dragoman supports- the Sambhali Trust, for the empowerment of Rajistani women and girls. Boys and girls from 4-15 years can come to the centre after school to learn additional skills, such as English and hygiene, and do arts and crafts. Older girls, and women of all ages also use the centre to build skills that allow them to earn an independent income, mainly sewing bags and clothes. It's separate from the local schools, but completely free for those who wish to attend their classes, as it's supported by various foreign organisations. The three teachers that were there told us a bit about themselves - they were mostly young, and "graduates" of Simbhali themselves! Puja told us about the project and both our group and all the children shared names. They sang some songs and we were invited to do the same- the best we could come up with was "the wheels on the bus go round and round," so the kids definitely have us beat in their cultural skills there! After a very tasty lunch prepared by Puja, we spent the afternoon playing with the kids. An impromptu turban-tying competition was arranged, a football was kicked around with Vincent, Ida's long blonde hair was admired and braided, Patrick and Sophie got far too competitive in some sort of Red Rover field game, and the girls all wanted to practise henna on us. It's a really fantastic place, and the joy of the girls is really evident.

Though we don't have too much to compare so far, Jaisalmer was easily my favourite city in India - not just because of the marvelous sites, but because there is so much less hassle and hustle! Tuk-Tuk drivers may ask if you want a ride, and shopkeepers may ask if you want to look at their wares, but they accept a polite no, without pressuring. Pappu - who we bought some textiles from - certainly understood how much this is appreciated by tourists! In fact, he was the first local I've had a proper conversation with- he told me about growing up in the fort (born and raised!) and asked about where we live in London. When I asked about his children, he told me about them, then asked all about the cats (which I said were what we have instead!). All this was post sale, when he could have easily been back outside the shop drumming up more business. Lucky Patrick got to hop on the back of a motorcycle for an undoubtedly thrilling ride through the tiny alleyways to find an ATM.

We have many fond memories of Jaisalmer but now- Jodhpur!

(Patrick here; yes. The motorcycle ride through the twisting streets of an ancient fort was thrilling indeed. Credit goes to Rohit, who didn't kill anyone in the process, despite many, many opportunities.)

Jaisalmer Nights (part I)

Patrick here. We're lying in our beds on a warm desert afternoon, comfortably recovered from being stranded in the Thar desert Wednesday unexpectedly, and then being stranded in the Thar desert last night on purpose.

First, let's talk about how to drive in Rajasthan. Driving etiquette differs from place to place, and I'm not one to get hung up on tiny differences. In South Florida, where I'm from, it's considered a mark of dishonour to use a turn signal - you drive by intuiting the whims and needs of other drivers before they know themselves, like a Jedi or psychic. In London, where I cycle, it is de riguer to grumble mentally while not quite running cyclists off the road. In Rajasthan, you accelerate in an inappropriately high gear into oncoming traffic while passing slow-moving lorries before weaving back into your lane with no more than one foot to spare again and again and again. For four hours. In the dark. And there are cows on the road.

So, you know, Vive la Différence!

We got in that night to what must be the swankiest hotel I have ever stayed in. The building is gorgeous, there is a lovely pool the temperature of ice, and an exceptionally wonderful shower. The next morning, we had a lovely breakfast before hitting town. And here we see our first regional difference in India. In Rajasthan, when you are walking down the street and a Tuk-Tuk driver asks whether you want a ride and you say no, he drives on. In New Delhi, Tuk-Tuk drivers are made of sterner stuff, and will follow you for at least another three blocks.

Jaisalmer is more laid back, and dominated (economically as well as physically) by its massive fort: part ruin, part living city neighborhood. Inside lies a warren of alleys, shops, restaurants and hotels geared towards the tourist trade. The view from the top is fantastic, and best taken chai in hand, as we did. We had wandered up to The Surya's rooftop serving area, not realising it was private, and were told that chai was R40 a piece. We had only R20, but were told to hang on - the waiter returned with two lovely cups, which we drank in the sun and breeze. We went back the next day to pay the difference and have lunch, but that's a Friday story.

At three, we all met in the lobby for our camel trek into the desert. Emma, who had been jonesing for a camel ride since Morocco, where her indisposition thanks to a dodgy salad had kept her from fulfilling her destiny, was understandably psyched. The jeep ride out went through a wind farm, and the juxtaposition was incredible - tourists passing through a symbol of the new India in order arrive at a symbol of the old. We also passed another symbol, equally telling: gigantic, luxurious hotels in the desert in the form of fake forts, complete with crenelated walls, cannons and guards. In addition to characterising the tourists inside as an occupying force, these mega-hotels are responsible for causing damage to the actual fort in Agra, thanks to their rapacious demand for water. It doesn't exactly speak well of capitalism as a rational system of development that investors would pay masses of money to slowly destroy the source of their own profits. Maybe that's a problem for future people, and screw those assholes, obviously.

As an aside, 2015 was hotter than any other year by a wide margin. Just saying.

Camels are big - much bigger than you'd think. Getting on board is easy, staying on board while the great beasts lumber off their knees takes a bit of skill. We were led by slightly bored 12 year old guides through scrubland towards proper sand dunes, where we got off to set up camp. The sand was cool, despite the bright sun, and we watched the sun set as far as we could before it disappeared into the haze a few inches above the horizon. Around us, at a distance, jeeps took customers over dunes, one white dude was being galloped on his camel across the sand by his driver sitting behind him, and a group of musicians was setting up back at our campfire.

After dinner, cooked by our drivers, they began to play and dance. The drumming was cool, and the pipe must have been designed similarly to a bagpipe - there was no way the player was using a single breath to play for 5 minutes at a stretch, so there had to have been a reservoir somewhere. The dancer was more interesting in scoring some of our rum, which she helped herself to liberally when given the opportunity, than in dancing, but since we were more interested in dancing drunkenly than in soberly appreciating art, I figure we're square.

The rest of the night was spent drinking communally, talking smack, and watching the constantly replenished fire burn. It was, in other words, ideal.
We slept that night beneath more stars than I've seen,  enough that I could make out what must be the entirety of Orion, the only constellation I can recognize consistently. One night like that makes up for many months of stress, and the trip is already worth it all.   

Rats and Rocks

Wednesday 10th February

Hands and feet very sanitised with wet wipes, antibacterial handgel and dettol-filled water, we're now a few kilometres past Karni Mata Temple- famous for its 20,000 sacred rats! These are no horrifying New York subway rats, or the biting rodents of Winston Smith's 1984 nightmarish torture. They are more milk-drunk, coconut-stuffed, happily squeaking mice, very assuredly content with their place in the world. We walked barefoot around the temple complex, hoping to feel the tickle of rat feet scurrying across our own, which signifies good luck. The kabas (holy rodents) are reincarnated dead storytellers.

Our 14'ish hours in Bikaner made for a pleasant stopover. Though its famous fort was closed, we admired it from the outside during yesterday's sunset and then took a meandering dusk stroll to the old town. The train was coming through town and the closed barriers (which we ducked under to run across the tracks, sorry mum) created total chaos as the hundreds of Enfield motorcycles and endless tuk-tuks backed up further and further on either side. Hunger and exhaustion (we'd been up since 4am) may have contributed, but I think carbon monoxide poisoning may have been the main factor in how dizzy I felt when we finally sat down to eat in a cheap diner with two Australian retirees, Robert and Stephen. In restaurants it seems to be a crapshoot whether what you order will arrive and when.

Back at the hotel, we enjoyed a quick drink on the rooftop before a hot shower (only available between 6-10, am and pm, when a man is stoking the fire) and an early night!

The 400km drive yesterday and 385km today offers plenty of time to get to know our fellow travellers (representing England, Netherlands, Denmark, Germany, Switzerland, Australia and Spain) over cards and storytelling, read (I've already finished Wolf Hall, and a travelogue of Kerala to Kathmandu, and have now started my second reading of Shantaram, in preparation for reaching Mumbai in 2 weeks) and stare contemplatively out the window. The Delhi to Bikaner road was miles of desert, broken up by the occasional glimpse of a working camel or extravagant roadside temple. We often had to slow down as we passed through endless bustling towns - sometimes less than towns, just small collections of entrepreneurial roadside businesses and homes. Everywhere we went, our truckload of the 21 white people attracted a lot of stares, but many smiles and waves too- especially when we passed dozens of children heading into the Catholic school for the day!

We'll now spend the rest of the day on the road, safe in the hands of our trusty Dragoman drivers Dutchy and Laura, heading southwest to Jaisalmer.

(Patrick's addendum: we each had rats scamper across our feet. Not scurry, but scamper. The bastards are adorable.)

Evening update: It may be a desert mirage playing tricks on my eyes, but the Golden Haveli in Jaisalmer may be the most beautiful hotel I've ever been in. It's 9.15pm and we left the rats at 10am. We spent the last 5 or so hours squished 7-9 people per van into a caravan of vehicles (driven by maniacs) sent to rescue us. About 90 minutes after leaving the rats, we heard a delicate smashing as the entire windscreen disintegrated into Laura and Dutchy's faces, courtesy of a flying rock. They safely navigated us to the side of the road, then everyone sprang into action cleaning wounds and sweeping up broken glass. After the initial flurry of activity, there was nothing to do but sit and wait, about 4 hours. In true Dragoman fashion, everyone took the situation fully in stride, setting up camp chairs and enjoying the desert air. We had frequent visitors as passing vehicles often stopped, as the sight of 20 stranded foreigners was too exciting to miss! 

Rajasthan Ho!

Dawn is breaking as we bump along the roads out of Delhi, the start of a day-long 400km drive to Bikaner. We won't have WiFi for a while so, dear Reader, cast your mind back to Monday 8th February, when our story unfolds. The day breaks in the supremely comfortable bed in our penthouse suite, the like of which I expect we shall not see again. Unfortunately, due to our jetlag-addled sleep schedule, we were up before most of Delhi, but were able to look down at a deserted city and breakfast in the open-air rooftop restaurant in relative tranquility. Eventually we had to say our fond farewells to the comfy bed and hail a tuk-tuk to shove our bags in for the 2.5km journey from Hotel Sai Miracle to the Florence Inn. Getting into the thick of the pounding traffic energised us for the day, and after checking in we finally sat down with a borrowed copy of the giant lonely planet India guide and made a plan for the day.

We clipped the zips of our bag together, put our game faces on, and headed for the New Delhi metro. Judging by the construction all over the city and the many stations missing from the 2007 lonely planet, this seems to be a relatively recent addition to the city. Though imagining the thousands of metro passengers on the roads instead shows how necessary it is. I'm a bit of a public transport connoisseur and will happily debate the merits and drawbacks of the systems in London, New York, Paris, Rome, LA, DC, Brussels, Moscow, Berlin, Miami, etc. Suffice to say, Delhi came out well. More efficient than Miami, cleaner than nearly all the rest, and about 15p per journey. Screw you, expensive Oyster card. Despite the warnings of rampant pickpocketing from tuktuk drivers trying to dissuade us from the metro, the same level of awareness and common sense necessary on the Tube seemed adequate. There were several carriages reserved for ladies only, but the women travelling co-ed didn't seem at all bothered.

We alighted at Janpath, in order to walk through the Tibetan market leading up to Connaught Place. The goods in the market were certainly colourful and shiny, but catering to the white-people-with-dreads backpacker crowd. The lingering smell of joss sticks in my hair was the only souvenir I took from the market, and I alas remain lacking in shiny pink elephant tote bags and baggy cotton harem pants. Closer to Connaught Circus, the market shifted to street sellers focussing on the locals. We braved our first street food, paying 20p each for some tasty stuffed bread items. The fabulous thing about India is that I can be far more adventurous with food- nearly everything is vegetarian unless specified otherwise. Next on our amblings, we wandered into the wonderland of Wegners, a famous old bakery- and also perfect example of Indian "efficiency." After making a circuit of the shop, we decided on a few sweets and savouries. But can one simply point at a a biscuit, pay Rs.30 and be handed the biscuit? No! One q for ordering savouries and one q for ordering sweets. Each makes a print out of your order. Then you join another queue, bills in hand, to pay. Finally, you take your receipt the sweet counter to collect your fig tart and\or savoury counter to collect your mushroom pastry. Still- worth it!! And clearly most of New Delhi's middle class agrees, the place was packed! As we were in the queue to pay, a middle aged man in a suit took it upon himself to tell us the illustrious history- apparently in 1947, the founder Mrs Wegner up and left the country. The man who took the reins was the grandfather of the current manager, who we saw dashing about in the back.

We continued our circuit around Connaught Place, trying not to stop moving, because the touts would immediately swarm. All browsing at book titles and observation of western influx (nandos, wh smith, Costa, dominoes, starbucks, etc) had to be done without stopping. But, our constant motion couldn't prevent Patrick becoming the victim of one final Delhi scam. We were walking around the Inner Circle, by Central Park, when Patrick felt the squishy impact of a big pile of steamy, slimy shit on top of his shoe. How does one get shit on top of a shoe? By having it flung there by someone looking to create a need for their work. Sure enough, like magic, in a matter of seconds a very sympathetic shoe-shiner was on hand - rag, stool, cleaner, brush in hand - to save the day. The alternative being to continue walking with faeces seeping into his shoe, there was little choice but to follow. Other touts soon followed, most memorably a man brandishing cotton buds, which he proceeded to wiggle around in Patrick's ears, which he insisted were very much in need of a clean. The ear-cleaner was told off, the shoe-shiner laughed at when he tried to insist on the equivalent of 15 quid for cleaning off his friend's poo, and we decided that it was high time for a drink. I was in peals of laughter while Patrick shook with rage, as we started on our draught Bira at Cafe Immigrant, which had lots of feminist posters on the walls. Patrick found his good humour in the bottom of the pint glass and was ready to face Connaught Place again - though only to go as far as a cool rock n roll bar called Regents Blues. As we sipped our Laphroaig 10 year, I glanced at my phone, which refuses to give up GMT (incidentally, adding 5.5 hours to a time is trickier than it sounds). I noticed it was 9.30am on a Monday and we solemnly raised our glasses in sympathy to those starting the work week back home.

Our next metro journey took us to JLN Stadium, where the 2010 Commonwealth Games were held. It was pretty dead today though but we found a solitary cycle rickshaw to take us to Humayun's Tomb. As his powerful calves pushed our milkshake and beer filled bodies to the site, all I could think was "honey badger don't give a shit." Perhaps I'm being unkind and he suffered a sort of colour blindness that didn't allow him to see red because there was not so much as a pause as we approached huge intersections with red lights. This wasn't going to get in the way of him crossing or making a right turn! We miraculously arrived and were left to marvel at yet another 16th century Mughal tomb. Two British women behind us in the queue behind us were complaining at having to pay the "foreigner's ticket" for Rs250, instead of the Indian price of Rs20, because they'd been forced to give up their Indian passports decades ago.

The tomb was no Taj, but it was magnificent and held 100 coffins! Despite being quite central to the city, the grounds were very peaceful, with acres of parkland and greenery surrounding the dome and red sandstone gates. (Patrick's interlude: We walked around the grounds, seeing an old tomb from the Lodhi era, climbing up to the tomb proper, and drinking in the fact that dead Mughal emperors knew how to repose better than just about anyone. There was also a cool, if tiny, exhibit on the site, complete with an oddly affecting quote about Humayun from his sister, to the effect that he was a nice guy, maybe not realist enough for an emperor. 'Even a child learns to distrust fire after being burnt,' but not Humayun, apparently.

Not long after, we had to head back, making it just in time for the Dragoman group meeting. Names were stated, interesting personal facts related, and past Dragoman trips expertly referenced and surreptitiously bragged about. That's how status works in the group - who's an old hand, and who's a noob. At least, I hope that's how it works, since we've got one previous trip under our belts. Then we headed off en masse for a group dinner, where we actually started to get to know each other.

We sat near two lovely Danish kids, Annette and Patrick, who were clear that they were not a couple, going along to Mumbai, Dominic and Sarah, two unconnected but instantly inseparable Schweitzers,  and another Dane named Ida).

TBC!!

Update: Fingers crossed the WiFi in our beautiful hotel in Bikaner is up to the job of uploading. We've just dressed and packed whilst listening to the call to prayer and we're about to get on the road to Jaisalmer- stopping at a rat temple end route!

Agra-vation

(TLDR: Emma and Patrick's adventures in Agra: touts, tat, and the Taj.)

Back in New Delhi, after a not-entirely successful attempt to sleep through the night. Basically, we've reverted to old-school sleep patterns: four hours asleep, 2 hours awake, 4 hours asleep again. This because we keep getting crazy sleepy around 6, (wo)manfully staying up until 8, and then waking up at 6am the next morning. This is not virtue, my friends - this is Sparta.

Wait, no, sorry, this is jet lag. It's easy to confuse the two when you're Sparta'd beyond recognition.

So - the Taj. Where to start. It is absolutely as awesome as you've heard: inlaid gems mimicking paintings in the white marble walls, outrageously detailed bas-reliefs that are of one piece with the 25 foot marble sheets beneath them, absolutely perfect symmetry in everything regarding the layout of the complex, not just the mausoleum itself - it does your head in, is what I'm saying.

We got up at dawn and headed down to the office to get tickets, and once again got scammed - this is getting to be a leitmotif - but in a way that's hard to be upset about. A man showed us his government issued card while we were in line, and offered to stand in line for us before acting as a guide for the Taj for R1000 (£10). He did this because foreigners pay R750 each, but locals pay R20 - he pockets the rest. It cost us nothing and we got to sit instead of stand, so everybody won. OK, not the government of India, who lose out on, seriously, tens of thousands of Rupees a day, but I'm trying not to dwell.

We walked from there to the eastern gate, stood in gender-segregated lines for security pat-downs, and had the fun of listening to a group of suspicious Canadians convince themselves that the men would be let in first, since women have no rights under law in India, and cannot even get credit cards in their own names. The fact that they almost certainly flew into Indira Gandhi international airport was not discussed.   Emma also got shat upon by a pigeon, and literally everyone in line announced this to be good luck, before discussing why it was good luck, and finally determining that it was good luck for the rest of us, as we had not been pigeon-shat.
 We met up with Pavel on the inside. He of course had a photographer who would take pictures for us for what ended up being an outrageous fee (although the pictures actually are very good - the man had experience, is what I'm saying) and he gave us an informative tour, telling us all about the architecture, history, and just a little bit of good old fashioned hokum - Built to resemble paradise or no, I do not belief that the canals were actually filled with water, honey, milk and perfume. Honey is way too viscous, the milk would curdle and stink, and the perfume river would kill everybody coming near it.  Logistics aside, though, that is exactly the kind of thing Emperor Shah Jahan would have installed. Let's just say the man had expensive tastes.

After our tour, Pavel took us to a tourist shop where we were importuned to buy marble objets de tat, which gave me a nice opportunity to practice haggling - I bargained a R3000 piece down to R1700, so not too shabby.   It's almost certainly not actual white marble, nor handmade, but it is pretty and worth the price. Just not worth £30. We also got to try some local sweets called Petha, made of pineapple, but once the guy let us know the price was R500 a box, we made our excuses and ran like hell. Agra is not cheap. Basically, if you ever want to see a land of unfettered markets and entrepreneurial spirit, go to Agra and be horrified/impressed.

After a lovely Indian breakfast (Aloo parantha, puri bhaji and sauces), we met up with our driver to go to the Red Fort (the centre of Mughal power for a century or so) and then Akbar's tomb. Both were impressive all to hell, but probably more so if you haven't just been to see the Taj Mahal. In neither place was our enjoyment diminished by not hiring a guide, although getting past the hordes of guides was a feat in itself.  The Fort was a mix of red brick buildings, built by Akbar, and white marble outragery built by Shah Jahan - when I say expensive tastes, this is what I'm talking about. Akbar's tomb was amazing as the man himself. Gigantic garden with a mausoleum in the center, decorated on the outside with Muslim, Hindu, Christian and Jewish motifs. Akbar, fittingly enough for emperor of such a diverse realm, created his own religious philosophy of tolerance and syncretism called Din-i-Ilahi - God's Path. He cemented this by marrying wives from different religious backgrounds, and is still remembered today as a wise and just ruler.  The inside of the tomb is incredibly austere - a huge and plain chamber with a domed roof that creates unspeakably beautiful acoustics, and an unadorned white marble sarcophagus in the centre.  The gardens surrounding it have been marked by the British Empire - Lord Curzon, who restored pretty kuc  Finally, we got back in the car for a quick 6 hour drive back to New Delhi.

At which point our hotel claimed never to have heard of our so-called reservation.

After 15 minutes of panic, searching for and presenting documentary proof of a booking confirmation, and suspicious looks from the owner, we ended up getting the penthouse suite, since that was the only room left available. And it's lovely! Lovely enough that we both collapsed into the massive comfy bed and slept right through dinner.

And that brings us full circle. Today we check out Delhi itself and then meet up with Dragoman for the actual tour. First stop, Rajasthan!

P

Sheroes Hangout Acid Attack Survivors Cafe

We made it to Agra late afternoon today, thanks to a punctual and reliable driver, Yograz. But even though our hotel, the Tara Palace, is just a short walk from the Taj Mahal, we hailed a tuk-tuk heading the opposite direction. The sunset over the Taj is supposed to be legendary, but our evening became far more meaningful. A few months ago I had happened to see a news article about the frequency of acid attacks in this region of India. They occur every few days, but until recently the problem wasn't talked about much and the victims (usually women, but occasionally children) are so shamed by their disfigurement, they stay inside. Thus the idea of Sheroes was born- a cafe staffed and run entirely by acid attack survivors, to empower these women and give them pride and independence. It's been open since 2013 and growing more successful as word spreads - they hope to have the resources to open similar cafes in other cites in Uttar Pradesh region.

We arrived shortly after a small tour group of American retirees and were able to surreptitiously listen in on the documentary, presentation and Q&A they were given. Many of the women featured in the documentary were working in the cafe today. It was hard to equate the agonising stories they shared in the film with the confident, smiling, independent women working in the cafe. Their stories were truly horrifying- gruesome attacks at the hands of husbands, cousins, even a mother. Two of the women we met today were a mother and daughter, who was only 3 when the husband attacked them for the wife not providing a son.

I'm happy to report that there were many Indian men in the cafe, sharing their support. In fact, the whole idea was dreamed up by a man, who Patrick spent some time talking to. When asked what inspired him, he said "being human." In a country somewhat infamous for violence against women, it is heartening to see signs suggesting the opposite. We've seen many taxis (driven by men) bearing a bumper sticker promoting respect and safety for women.

Sheroes is an incredible space and testament to positivity. Various artists have donated work, sales of which benefit the project. One of the women, Rupa, is training in fashion design and sells her garments in the cafe. Look out for upcoming photos of me modelling one of her beautiful dresses, because I'll be wearing it a lot!

When I first heard about the cafe and shared an article on Facebook, Patrick's mother was really moved as well and sent us a donation for them. We're happy to say your donation was really appreciated and you'll be getting a little something from Sheroes when we return!

Social media has been vitally important, not just for this individual cafe, but also for increasing awareness about the prevalence of acid attacks, leading to stronger laws (most of the attackers served no jail time, or were released in a few months).  So let me add a voice and say that if visiting India has crossed your mind, ensure you stop by Sheroes for a masala chai and some snacks to support this sadly necessary project.


http://sheroeshangout.com/

http://www.stopacidattacks.org/2014/10/cafe-sheroes-hangout-sheroes-here-are.html

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Izw48p_dm3s

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Sheroes-Hangout/593003917488083

https://www.tripadvisor.in/Restaurant_Review-g297683-d8087058-Reviews-Cafe_Sheroes_Hangout-Agra_Uttar_Pradesh.html

New Delhi Impressions

Over the past week, we have packed the bags, had multiple farewell-dos with friends, swept the floor and wiped the counters too many times, welcomed our lovely Welsh tenant, tried not to cry when we cuddled the kittens good-bye (or when getting out of our comfy bed for the last time for a few months) and spent some late nights bonding with our Netflix account prior to deactivation (sorry to all those who have been using my password). Now we're lying in bed at Hotel The Class listening to the cacophony of New Delhi traffic. At the insistence of many a Facebook friend we starred watching "Mozart in the Jungle" a few days ago and maybe it's put the idea in my head that the urban noises form a sort of symphony. During dinner we both couldn't stop ourselves constantly staring out the window at the violent ballet of cars vying for precious road space.

Unfortunately we broke the golden rule of travel and did the worst thing you can do when getting off the red eye - spent all day fast asleep! Our plan had been to get off the plane about 9am, head to The Class (booked specifically for its proximity to the airport), have a short restorative nap, explore the city a bit, and get an early night. Naturally our taxi driver had other plans in mind and seemed to think he could elicit a higher fare if he drove into the centre of Delhi - all the way to the very colonially named Connaught Place - and claim he was lost so took us to a travel agent office who tried to talk us out of our booked hotel. Not having it! So he had to turn right back around to damn near where we started - 2 hours in the back of a taxi for a 10-minute journey. And no, he didn't get the higher fare he was trying for because keeping me away from a nap does not make me feel very charitable. Needless to say, once we hit the bed in the early afternoon, we were unconscious till 8.30pm. Whoops. We went in search of food and found a very fine palek paneer (spinach with cheese), black dal (lentils), garlic naan and veg pilau which is fairly identical to what we would order on Brick Lane.

Now time to try out Indian telly, get some proper nighttime sleep, and hope all goes according to plan tomorrow morning when a car should be coming to drive us to Agra!

E