Day 25-27: Amritsar

---

"To all intents and purposes, my Auntie Winnie's house"

We arrive at Mrs Bhandari’s guest house late. Of course we did – we’d taken the train ; -) But even though it was 10pm the chef had stayed on to make us vegetable soup and toast. This ‘taste of home’ was just one of many which engulfed us in this frankly delightful gated (it was in a old military cantonment) guest house. Floral embroidered bed spreads, net curtains, original Victorian era floor tiles that sell for a fortune in Fired Earth now and more hot water bottles (even though the temperature had dramatically warmed up as far as we were concerned post Shimla). It was to all intents and purposes my Auntie Winnie’s house - just without an outside toilet (hers) and with buffaloes in the garden (Mrs Bhandari)… 

As well as everything we’ve seen and the folks we’ve met so far, this was a person we didn’t get to meet whose story we loved a great deal. And she deserves some recognition in this little diary. Mrs Bhandari lived until she she was 101 and her guesthouse which we spent a few days in felt like it was paused in time, Victorian time to be precise. 

She was a teenager during the Amritsar riots of 1919 and her wonderfully warm obituary suggests she was the first Indian woman to run and own her car and one of the first to study for a Masters in the Punjab. 

Mrs Bhandari’s formidable, fearless approach to life and love never ceased and when both her husbands died prematurely she was forced to take family matters into her own hands and turned their palatial villa into a guesthouse to ensure a better life for her four children. 

The tribute to her which hangs in the gardens of the Homestay ends with ‘she is deeply missed by her loving family, her devoted friends and the thousands from around the world who enjoyed her hospitality over more than 50 years at the guesthouse which will continue to bear her name.’

Mrs. Bhandari

Amritsar had two draws for us – the Golden Temple – not least because of the admiration we’d developed on our travels so far for the Sikhs we’d met - and the Wagah Border Ceremony, excitement which had been building for years since seeing Michael Palin come to spectate in one of his  his televised journeys around the world.

The golden temple was an serene a place as we’ve encountered. Having been guided on the  religious customs to observe during our previous Gudwara visit we were prepared for the feet washing, hair covering and clockwise journeying around the temple complex. We must have completed a half dozen circuits without thinking round and round the central lake, the golden temple itself seemingly floating in the centre. All adding to the unerring peacefulness of the place. 

During our laps we were stopped much to our delight by a group of 4 elderly Sikh men with hugely impressive grey beards who wanted a photo with us. A photo we of course would have jumped at the chance of having but would have been to scared of offending to ask for. We also paused to read the thousands of names etched beautifully, black on white marble, commemorating those men from Sikh regiments lost to various wars over the last centuries.

For two hours the symmetry only added to our untroubled enjoyment of the site, that was until we tried to remember which corner we’d dropped our shoes at... then unchallenging uniformity became our enemy : -)

We saw both of those things and had our excitement rewarded and then some but it was our visit to two things not on our to see list which affected us the most.

Amritsar is also the site of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre – one of the most despicable acts by the British and in Churchill's words “a monstrous event“. Now it’s a park with tributes to the dead throughout and walls pitted with bullet holes – where men, women and children were penned in and shot. The museum there also had articles about the other atrocities inflicted on Indian people during this period such as every citizen of Amritsar having to crawl on all fours (actually their stomachs) down a street after an English woman was pulled from her bike there. History says that post this all Indians were united against the British for the first time, solidifying national support for independence.

So with emotions running high already we then set off for the museum dedicated to Partition at Amritsar’s Town Hall. The recent 70th anniversary has obviously brought a number of accounts and very personal stories of the impact this catastrophic cartography had on so many millions and because of the wide reporting of it I’d wager most British people my age know more than they ever have about it. The museum which opened on the day of the anniversary is the central repository of stories (shown on TV screens and as oral recordings, first hand accounts often), newspaper articles and other source materials relating to the aftermath of division. The trauma of it was palpable at times not least in one room with a well at its centre. Women and children all across Punjab threw themselves down wells like this to avoid being raped and abducted by rioters, with some having only injured themselves from hitting other bodies below them, then climbing out to try again. 

Wagah was inevitably quite the juxtaposition and as crackers and overblown as we’d hoped. I’ll leave it to Jacko to regale you with tales of our border adventure – including I hope him being turned away...

But we leave Amritsar genuinely more enriched by learning more about this country’s past (and present) and happily rested thanks to Mrs Bhandari (in spirit at least).

In that we got on the wrong one… it’s possible we might be a bit blasé by train number 12 ….

It went something like this. Got on train, celebrated the fact we seemed to have a berth to ourselves, unpacked, set up for our trip picnic (tripnic??), filled out our form saying what good service we’d experienced – only to have a rather perturbed looking inspector tell us we were on the wrong train. Cue concerned faces and the prospect of being stranded at the next train station overnight when we should have been at the Taj Mahal.

Turns out Beas, the stop we were heading for next was also a stop for our actual train and we could get off and wait patiently and thankfully for it to arrive. The inspector came and got us when we were pulling in to Beas, took us to the right platform and wished us well. Fast forward to our next ticket inspection on #therealtrain and it turns out our previous inspector was a mate of his and had phoned ahead to let them him know to expect us. “The British couple who had caught the wrong train”. Incredible India as the slogan says.

And whilst I’m here … on the other side of the train tracks…

We love getting trains, generally, and so far in India. But undoubtedly the worst things about getting trains here is standing around on the platforms beforehand.

I understand curiosity and the potential interest in seeing new faces but the ‘held far too long from a metre away from you’ staring is getting very tedious. Sometimes when meeting said stare there will be apologetic side or downward glances but more often than not men, and I’m very much talking about men here, will just keep on looking which I don’t think is just a bit of forgivable cultural relativity I should come to terms with. Not least after I’ve had a few conversations with older Indian men now who think this type of behaviour is well past it’s sell by date and just an excuse for a leer which they’re fairly confident they won’t be called on.

"Another day of contrasting emotions"

"CAN YOU FEEL! THE ELECTRIFYING ENERGY! OF INDIA!" howls the hysterically grinning man as he enthusiastically pumps my hand with both of his. I certainly can. We're at the Wagah border ceremony watching the cream of the Indian army beat the retreat as the border is closed for the day and the flags lowered. It's quite an event. Thousands of cheering Indians are gathered to watch in the purpose-built grandstands  by the gates, the tannoy blasts martial music and the hyperactive MCs get the crowds whipped up into a patriotic fervour. This is repeated twenty feet from where we're sitting on the Pakistan side and the two crowds compete to out-shout each other. It's deafening.

The ceremony itself is comically overblown. The honour guards of both armies are resplendent in dress uniforms, boots shined, wearing sashes and braid and with fan-like headdresses sprouting from turbans. The Indians wear khaki and white, the Pakistanis black and red. Both forces clearly pick their burliest and hairiest troopers for this confrontational ceremony and a lot of time is spent glaring at each other across the border, chests puffed out and beards bristling.

So that neither side loses face, the ceremony itself is choreographed with perfect symmetry. Both sets of soldiers take the same number of paces to the gates, bugles ring out in time and the flags are lowered at the same speed so that they cross each other precisely in the middle of the gates. Confined by these restrictions, the guards try to outdo each other by the aggression of their marching which leads to the absurd sight of a dozen macho warriors high-kicking like a chorus line, their ankles at head height, and smacking their boots back down into the flagstones with a crash that would make a chiropodist wince. All the while their opponents over the border mirror them exactly. More glaring, eyeballs like organ stops and veins popping in neck and temples, a stagey readjustment of rifles and kit and they're off again, almost throwing themselves off their feet with the force of their marching. Somewhere in the middle of all this, the border is closed. A blink-and-you'll-miss-it handshake between opposing officers and the gates crash shut. It's compelling theatre.

Somewhere behind all this display, something serious is happening. India is increasingly confident and proud of itself. Independence is a very recent memory and the country is keen to present itself as strong, bold and not to be underestimated. "Don't mess with us." Wherever we've been, across the North of the country at least, it's impossible to ignore how militarised it is. The army presence is huge and inescapable and the police are so paramilitary as to be indistinguishable from the soldiers. Nationalism and patriotism are on the rise and the flag can be seen everywhere. Lurid recruitment posters scream from billboards; "Honour! Valour! Sacrifice!" and "May God Have Mercy On Our Enemies For We Will Not!" Tanks and field artillery pieces take the places of statues outside municipal buildings and on roundabouts. It's hard to square this belligerent, cocksure tone with our interactions with ordinary Indians whose patriotism presents as simply wanting us to be comfortable and leave with a good impression.

That said, underneath the posturing and bombast, the border ceremony couldn't happen without good-natured cooperation between the two countries. The last official Indo-Pak war was only eighteen years ago and the conflict in Jammu and Kashmir simmers on. Memorials to the dead are much in evidence but craning our necks behind the scenes at the border ceremony, we could note squaddies at ease from both sides, chatting through the fence like work colleagues.

It's hard to say what's just for show and, even if it is for show, what the impact of that is - certainly the people who came to watch were taking it seriously.

Our trip to Wagah capped a day of contrasting emotions. It began at dawn at the Golden Temple. Helen has touched on that so I won't repeat her save to say that, as in the gurudwara in Delhi, we're made very welcome and spend time sitting and soaking up the peaceful, pious vibe. Hard to believe that Indira Ghandi attacked the place with tanks only thirty years ago. Perhaps no wonder many Punjabi Sikhs consider themselves a race or nation in their own right. 

Perhaps unnecessary to say that the Temple is entirely beautiful and unsurprisingly, very gold.

More strong feelings surface right next door to the temple at Jallianwala Bagh, the site of and memorial to the 1919 British massacre of an unknown number of unarmed pilgrims, likely more than two thousand. It's hard to feel quite as comfortable here as a British person, though there's no animosity at all from the Indian visitors who, like everywhere, are keen to chat to us. The closest we come us when a teacher, there with his sons, pointedly asks if we know what happened here and if we understand it was a crime. I answer honestly and that satisfies him, we chat and they take selfies with us before wishing us well.

From there to the Partition Museum. A heartbreaking and detailed record of the horrors of 1947 and the founding of three new nations. Almost 15 million people were displaced and dispossessed with violence, hunger and disease taking between one and two million lives. The museum is more concerned with telling the stories than laying blame but doesn't shy away from apportioning responsibility to the British, Jinnah, Nehru, even Ghandi, and anyone who raised their hand against their brothers. It's deeply affecting.

Even staying at Mrs. Bandhari's wonderful guesthouse, I'd struggle to say that Amritsar is the place I've enjoyed the most on our journey so far - enjoyed would be the wrong word. It's the place I've felt the most, and somewhere I'll remember for a long time.

Mrs. Bhandari's kitchen, comfortably familiar..

---

---

Day 23-25: Shimla

---

"Our train, the Himalayan Queen, certainly came round quite a few mountains"

I think it's true to say we'd been looking forward to Shimla, the hill station at the foothills of the Himalayas. And in a similar way to the Britishers who'd retreated here in the 1800/1900s to escape the heat, we too were hoping for some lungfulls of slightly cleaner air.

With an altitude of 2200m and strung out on a ridge packed with pine trees and cedars, it's the journey up that we'd read most about. Our heads had been turned by the romance of the narrow gauge railway which wends its way, well, for a while. She - our train, the Himalayan Queen - certainly came around quite a few mountains and over 864 bridges and through 107 tunnels, for 5 hours.

During which both of our phone batteries died, meaning we arrived in this sprawling town without access to the exact address of our hotel... The Shimla View Home ("I wonder how many guest houses and hotels might be called that here..." A stop at a roadside cafe for chai and use of a plug socket followed, chauffeured by a helpful taxi driver (safe in the knowledge a decent tip awaited him for rescuing us from frostbite had we been unable to locate our hotel and were forced to sleep in the forest - have I mentioned that it's quite cold here...?) Shimla is high and as we climb higher and higher in our cab we realise our home for the next few days is pretty much at its top. And our room, let's call it a penthouse... also at the top of that. And by god it's cold. My geordie genes have deserted me and I sleep in three layers under two blankets and a hot water bottle brought to us by our too kind for words host. The same people who brought us breakfast in bed and gave us a lift into 'town' the following day.

Shimla is spotless, which undeniably sets it apart from the India we've seen thus far. But as well as bins and recycling bays everywhere it's also had a ban on smoking since 2010. They've also pedestrianised many of the streets so as well as the absence of pollution, there's no noise! So we decide to walk the length and breadth of 'the ridge' on which Shimla sits.

The British architectural influence is of course everywhere - mock Tudor police stations, churches, a theatre where Kipling staged his plays and the amusingly named Scandal Point, where locals still gather to have a chat. But the highlight was something altogether more Indian - in the form of an 108ft high, Orange idol of Hanuman, the monkey god. It sits 2455m up on a hill as part of the Jakhu Temple and of course is also surrounded by actual monkeys - these ones redder faced (and actually angrier) and with much more fur - compliments of the climate.

Big orange monkey god

I write this from our home stay bed (once again with a hot water bottle) at 8pm on a Friday night - largely due to the climb up to that temple and the 6km walk home. Just doing our bit to keep this excellent place just as it is. And I don't mean that in a colonial sense.

Pics: tumble down Arts & Crafts houses ; The Gaiety Theatre where everyone from Kipling to Felicity Kendall has performed

"A market town in the Cotswolds rather than a hill in Northern India"      

Funny little place, Shimla. 6,000 ft above sea level rising to a lung-bursting 7,000 at its highest point, the 80ft bright orange statue of Hanuman that erupts through the fir trees at the top of the ridge, his monkey face grinning down mischievously on the valley.

We're in the Himalayan foothills here, the air is a little thin (and clean!) and it's properly cold; zero degrees at night. The family running the guesthouse we're staying in kindly bring hot water bottles up to our unheated room on the fifth floor - it's not a town for those with vertigo.

The sudden plummet in temperature and the dizzying drops to the bottom of the gorge aren't the most surprising things, though - it's the fact that if you squint, you could be persuaded you're in a market town in the Cotswolds rather than a hill town in Northern India. In 1864, the British declared it the summer capital of India, desperate to get away from the sizzling heat of Calcutta. The Viceroy set up shop and the place gradually filled with Britishers, bringing with the style and architecture of home. It's a tudorbethan model town, all exposed timbers, slate roofs and cast iron lampposts. The cottages and lodges would look more at home in Marlow or Tetbury and the Gaiety Theatre ('The Albert Hall in miniature') and the promenade at Scandal Point make it easy to picture the idle British aristocracy at play. Legend has it that Scandal Point gets its name as the place where the Viceroy's daughter would secretly meet an Indian prince with plans to elope. Today it is where Indian Society meet to read the morning papers in the sun and gossip.

Henley-On-Thames or Himachal Pradesh?

Part of Shimla's appeal is the joy of actually getting here. The Himalayan Queen is known as the Toy Train; it's tiny, the furnishings and interiors are wooden and it chugs uphill at a 1:3 gradient for nearly six hours at a gentle 15 miles an hour and under. The journey takes you through more than 100 tunnels and over 800 bridges and the views are stunning. Climbing into the mountains, the air cools and the forests turn from squat and leafy trees to soaring firs and pines on one side with dramatic ravines dropping away in the other. A note about the construction: Indian history is full of stories like this; the longest tunnel on the route is the Barog tunnel, named for (and haunted by) the British engineer who oversaw the build. Colonel Barog, trying to get ahead of schedule, ordered that the tunnel would be bored from both ends simultaneously, to his own calculations. But his calculations were incorrect and the two digging parties failed to meet in the middle for which, rather than sacking him, the British government fined him the humiliating sum of one rupee. Disgraced, the colonel walked to the unfinished tunnel and shot himself. As a final insult, Barog was buried at the entrance of the tunnel that drove him to suicide and so is said to haunt it to this day.

The pace of life here is slow and stately, the town is spotless, cars are banned and with the distant horizon framed by the white peaks of the Himalayas proper, we we take some well-needed rest and head back to the plains fully recharged.

---

---

Day 19-23: Delhi

---

"Flush with young love"

As some of the more avid among you will know from chapter one, Delhi didn't exactly charm us on our first visit, so we approached the return leg not expecting to be massively impressed. Hard to do much about the 25m plus people inhabiting a city in the three weeks since we'd been gone and that's really the crux of it.  That gives rise to the cars, pollution, rubbish, noise, aggro - all the things we baulked at around New Delhi station - our previous home - but as it happens, of course, that's not the sum of Delhi's parts.

In fact, what we found this time, when we had the time to look further afield, were quite a few little villages and enclaves - mostly on the yellow line of Delhi's v shiny and efficient newish Metro - all (ok, most) of which made us love Delhi a little more.

Lodhi Gardens - an oasis of calm

Certainly one of the most delightful was the discovery of so many free places for people just to find some peace. Lodi Gardens in the South, or as we call it 'the best bit' left a lasting impression for a few reasons. To start with it was our only evidence thus far that Delhi can be quiet and more importantly it was the first time we'd seen boys and girls hanging out together - romantically (the place might have been spilling over with old temples but it was also flush with young love) - and also just chatting and laughing as mates. It had become quite noticeable that in most if not all other places we'd visited in Rajasthan, recognised as more conservative, that really hadn't been the case. In fact it had been quite lads, lads, lads with groups of men chatting, playing cards, drinking chai and generally holding court on most streets but never with women.

The site of the magnificent Qutab Minar, a victory tower erected in 1193, was also beautifully manicured (we saw some gardeners cutting the topiary with scissors) as well as being studded with other monuments knocking on for a thousand years old.

Across our three days we also made our way on foot (nearly 70,000 steps) or courtesy of frenzied tuk tuk drivers (often reluctant to take us quite all the way to where we wanted, mostly because of the horrendous jams - maybe they would have been more accommodating if they'd known how far we'd walked already...) to ...

The Gurudwara's kitchens: cooking at scale

Purana Qila (stunning); the Red Fort (disappointingly plain but unquestionably red); Humayans Tomb ( basically a floating - optical illusion - mausoleum) Jama Masjid (India's largest mosque and a privilege to have seen) and last but best, the Gurdwara Bangla Sahib (an astonishing Sikh Temple which also happens to feed 25,000 people's day of all faiths and fortunes).

On a more selfish note Delhi also rewarded us (me) with great wine. Wine so good in fact we bought a vineyard. Not really, just checking you were paying attention. But we have booked a trip to the Nashik Valley where it was made. 

We also consumed some cracking cocktails -Haus Khas, Delhis Dalston - which housed some achingly hip bars; had some soul feeding dinners including poppadoms served with what can only be described as curry beer (delicious); and a well worth the extended walk through Old Delhi to the institution which is Karim's.

And lots of love actually in the form of circa six dozen requests for selfies and photos everywhere we went and a very amusing mobbing by hundreds of children on a school trip. 

We still bloody hate Delhi station though. And bearing in mind that it's the first and maybe only thing that visitors see of the capital I really hope it gets some kind of Kings Cross makeover and the government at least try to address what we heard were the near same population living in shanti towns around there as inside its actual houses.

"Contradictory and complicated"

We’d been left pretty unimpressed by our first impressions of the capital when we passed through here three weeks ago but, as we had only been passing through, decided it was hardly a fair judgement so were determined to give the place a fair crack this time around.

Delhi repayed us in spades, overwhelming us with both the good and the bad. As a result, this entry is a long one - sorry.

First, the bad. New Delhi station was the scene of our first, unpleasant introduction to India; scammed, hassled and generally mucked about. It was no better this time around. Swarming with people, impossible to navigate, beset by scammers again (they got short shrift this time around, Helen reminding me that people can speak enough English to understand the ‘F’s and the ‘C’s), I can honestly say it’s the place I hate most on Earth. Thankfully it’s not at all representative of the city or the country – it’s just a rotten way for many visitors to get their first experience of India.

The air, famously unsafe, has much improved since we were here last but it’s still a bit grim. I understand that facemasks have sold out but that the government is doing something – I’m not sure what but it seems to have had an effect.

The poverty is something else. Visible everywhere in the country but moreso here, it can be very distressing. Particularly the kids; beautiful, smiley, filthy and sick, poor to a degree that’s inconceivable in the UK (hardly a utopia itself). It’s desperate. We give, of course, but inconsistently, torn between the guilty, gutless stock response of “well you can’t help everybody” and knowing that we absolutely can help some people. We know the reasons why there’s such deprivation; India is a developing country of around 1.3 billion people that has grown by a billion since independence in 1947 with an infrastructure that can’t hope to cope. The government is spectacularly corrupt and the enormous wealth that’s washed through the country in recent years is confined to only a handful of people. I don't know what the answers are. Perhaps there is nothing that can be done. Either way, complaining that their poverty makes us feel bad rather misses the point, it’s particularly one-eyed and egocentric – it’s not really about us, is it? The best thing I heard about it was that it doesn’t go away if you close your eyes. So, we don’t turn our heads away or move from sequestered hotel to gated resort in cars with tinted windows. That doesn’t make us heroes – again, it’s not about us – but I think it’s probably a more honest way of moving through the country. Not sure where I’m going with this or if I have a particularly profound point to make but it felt appropriate to touch on something that is present, is real and is saddening. You don’t see it in the tourist brochures or the enthusiastic, positive pieces on the news magazine shows and it would feel fraudulent to pretend that, on this extraordinary trip we’ve taken, we haven’t seen the harsher, more painful side of this remarkable place.

I’m not sure I’ve articulated this particularly well; it’s complicated and hard to process. Something to think on.

On a happier note, we tried to wring Delhi dry in the three days we spend here and covered many miles on foot and by metro to experience as many different sides to it as possible.

On our first day we visited Qutub Minar, a large, beautifully maintained complex of Mughal tombs and mosques and were thrilled by the beauty and scale of the momuments, including the towering red sandstone minaret, rising 240 feet into the sky.

Trying a different type of cultural experience we spent the evening in Hauz Khas, a small, super-trendy pedestrianised district of bars and coffee houses crammed into every corner of every floor of the sketchy-looking buildings with little regard for what we would call Health and Safety. We sank into a corner booth in The Social, next to a pair of good-looking Sikh boys in turbans and sports casual – a couple – and drank potent sugarcane cocktails while moody dub played through the speakers and watched cool, cosmopolitan Delhi kick back and relax. Ignoring our daily budget we spent a few happy hours here drinking and appraising the sort of effortless hipster chic that places like Dalston try so hard to achieve. A great evening that left us buzzing.

The intimidating size and hectic crush of the world’s second biggest city leaves little room for peace and tranquillity so we were surprised and delighted to find exactly that in Lodhi Gardens. This public park is in the heart of the city but you could easily forget that strolling down the well-kept paths through manicured lawns and hedges, around follies and fountains. We weren’t the only people to think so, clearly, as boys and girls holding hands and cuddling by picnics abounded – something we haven’t seen before in our travels through the conservative North.

Much of our last day was spent back at New Delhi station changing some of our later train reservations and adding new ones. We’re cutting short some of the time we’d planned in the cities and taking some more trips into remoter areas. I’ll draw a veil over the detail, save to say that it took hours and hours and required us to dig deep into our reserves of patience. The worst place in the world, remember?

Helen reminds me that I’m being unfair. The actual staff, when we eventually found them, could not have been more helpful which was a good thing as the process for booking train tickets is impenetrable and frustrating beyond words.

Without too much time left after that, we resolved to fill it. Braving Old Delhi to seek out the famed street food of Chadni Chowk, the warren of streets that make up the bazaar and Spice Market, we got horribly, inevitably lost (Google Maps is next to useless in a place like that) but eventually made our way to Karim’s. Time magazine calls it one of the Top 10 restaurants in Asia and Rick Stein had some good things to say about it, too but no five-star fancy eatery, this. Karim’s family trace an unbroken lineage of chefs going back centuries to the Mughal’s caterers and long have occupied a grotty backstreet in the bazaar, dominating it with a café, restaurant, takeaway hole-in-the-wall and hotel. The place is heaving full, grimy and atmospheric and, negotiating smiling cooks and surly waiters we ordered a mutton curry (her) and the mysterious Karim Roll (me) for a handful of rupees and were not disappointed by the first full meat meal we’ve had in nearly a month. The Karim Roll, it turns out is basically a kebab and it was bloody delicious.

Delhi’s number one attraction is the famed Red Fort, acres of tombs, palaces, mosques and castle keeps, surrounded by impossibly thick high walls. For all that, we weren’t too impressed. Perhaps we’ve become jaded after the wonders of Rajasthan or maybe it's possible to get Fort Fatigue. We’ve seen more beautiful, interesting and impressive sites in our journey so far and were left a little nonplussed.

No matter, what we experienced next will live long in the memory. Our last excursions had quite a devout feel as we visited both Jama Masjid and the Gurudwara Bangla Sahib, Delhi’s largest mosque and Sikh temple respectively.

Jama Masjid; manages to be both solemn and welcoming

Arriving at Jama Masjid during prayers we waited respectfully on the huge steps for a time before entering, barefoot and bescarved and joining the throng of the faithful and curious in the expansive marble plaza. Whatever the feelings in the current climate and lingering after Britain’s clumsy nation-building resulting in Partition, the long story of Northern India’s religious communities is a complicated one but full of acceptance and tolerance. The Islamic Mughal emperors held sway here until the mass arrival of white chaps with guns, money, sideburns and manifest ambition and they were often quite progressive when viewed through modern eyes. Akbar The Great deliberately favoured his three most special wives, one muslim, one hindu and one Christian and built them identical palaces so their equal status couldn’t be doubted. We’ve seen that theme of acceptance in a lot of their legacy and here in the mosque, too, where the faithful enter from one arching gate while an identical one is reserved for Hindu visitors to this holiest of places. Among the devotees we meet, people are pleased to see us and we’re made to feel very welcome by a congregation from all over; India, Pakistan and further afield, Iran and Africa. The place is vast, admitting 25,000 worshippers for prayers on high holy days and the four minarets that reach into the sky from each corner cast long shadows across the marble. For those that believe, it must be a special place to to engage in faith.

I'm often reluctant to go into working places of worship, partly because my own beliefs don't easily align with the religion I've seen but also because I dislike being a tourist in other people's personal devotion. I feel intrusive (and in places like The Vatican, pissed off and mean-spirited) but there's less of that here.

The Sikh temple is equally welcoming and entirely wonderful. Sikhism is built around principles of equality, of caste, gender and even religion, without judgment. It's late and the gurudwara is packed with people praying and paying their respects before official closing but cheerful volunteers take the time to explain how the place works, how we should behave and the significance of what we're seeing. The principles of equality and compassion are most evident in the dining hall. 25,000 free meals a day come out of the cavernous kitchens, prepared by volunteers (giving back is important in Sikkim and it is expected that Sikhs, regardless of their wealth or station, dedicate time to preparing food, cleaning dishes, polishing shoes left by people at prayer, or by working in the free clinic or the free rooms. People of all creeds and backgrounds eat together in the dining rooms and likewise, all are welcome in the temple's other facilities. Once again, we're made to feel welcome by people at prayer, who are keen to talk and have us there, with no obligation or expectation. 

Two very different places left us very touched and, in the case of the gurudwara, well prepared for our next town, Amritsar, the birthplace of Sikkim and the Golden Temple (which serves 100,000 meals a day, for those keeping count.)

Returning to our hotel for the last time, we quickly and easily drop back into the less spiritual, more secular world. Having politely complained about the noise at night (the place was hosting parties) we're invited to the bar we couldn't afford to drink in (trying to stick to that tight budget) to enjoy complimentary drinks by way of apology. We graciously accept and climb into a couple of gins and reflect on our time in this weird, contradictory, diverse and complicated town.

---

---

Day 18-20: Bundi

---

"He passes the stick to us like a baton"

Bundi is admittedly a bit off the beaten track and not yet that much of a feature of many tourist’s trails. So that coupled with the prospect  of seeing where might have inspired a few chapters of The Jungle Book was reason enough for the detour. 

Bundi is tiny in comparison to many of our stops to date but across the two days we spent here I think at least half of its population must have said hello to us. Not 'hello can I show you my silver/silk/massage skills' - just hello and a smile. 

Taragarh fort is hewn into the hillside the town crouches at the bottom of - with its ramparts creeping all the way to its peak, the setting for a Saturday afternoon walk to be remembered.

Bundi boasts some of the finest examples of Rajput art in Rajasthan and as we wander around the palace and gardens with barely a handful of other people, it feels quite unjustly ignored. The place is clearly in a state of some decrepitude and whilst this definitely adds quite a lot to our experience - the romance that we’re discovering something few other eyes have looked upon - there’s also a concern that in 50 years the still bright turquoises, reds and blues won’t be there to see.

The raja's armies on the march

In its day the fort was renowned for its tunnels - now inaccessible to visitors and actually, more curiously, fairly inaccessible to past rulers... It's said that there's a labyrinth of catacombs (Chitrashala) in which the state treasures are believed to have been stored. Each ruler was allowed one visit but when the last guide died in the 1940s the secret of its location was lost! How exciting.

As we approach the path to the fort we see a man with a big stick on the way back down. He passes the stick to us like a baton - “is it terribly steep we ask”, “a little yes, but this is for the monkeys” Ah, ok...

The monkeys guard the pathway in like the worst wedding guard of honour ever. Teeth are bared for a moment during which time my second thoughts arrive and then thankfully depart because the 40 minute stride to the top was worth the momentary monkey agro.

I’ll let the picture gallery below do the talking, but I will admit to singing the Rocky theme (out loud) as we made our final eye popping ascent.

Dinner was spent by the lake enjoying some of the best and cheapest food we’ve eaten. The smells eminating from the kitchen were so saliva inducing that I asked if I could pop into the kitchen for a quick look. Our host was also the chef for the evening, not a regular occurrence he informed us but his wife, the head chef usually, had gone to visit his sister upon the birth of a new son. He didn’t let the side down though! He told me he was frying the spices and making the gravy for our cashew nut curry from scratch (unlike other nameless places...) and my goodness was it worth his efforts. As we were his only guests he pulled up a chair next to us for a post prandial chat - where we learnt about his family, heard about the long time lack of rain and his recent journeying to the south of India - including recommendations we’ll take up ourselves.

As it went Kipling didn’t feature that much - although we dutifully visited a pavilion he stayed a night in and Jacko is half way through Kim... Bundi does rather well on its own.

"The friendliest place"

Every city, town and village we've visited in Rajasthan has been unique, with its own specific attractions, flavour and vibe. In that vein, I can confidently say that Bundi is the friendliest place we've visited. Small-ish and unfussy, a bit tatty but attractive in its own way, it was an ideal place to relax, recharge and say goodbye to Rajasthan before revisiting Delhi and points north.

Bundi's architectural and historic charms are a little forgotten and faded but no less impressive for that. Highlights include the many stepwells so essential for a town that has suffered its share of drought in the past. Of these, the Dhabhai Kund was a remarkable surprise. Barely signposted and hidden behind the bazaar, you have to go looking to find it. Unusually, there were no attendant staff or signage explaining its history so we weren't able to learn too much about the place except what we could see - and what we could see played tricks on the eyes. The well is an enormous inverted pyramid, with steps zigzagging this way and that down every side, creating symmetrical fractal patterns that bring to mind M.C.Escher.

Bundi is seemingly beneath the notice of Rajasthan's busy Department Of Archaology & Museums so its monuments are quite uncared for and there's no better example than the Taragarh Fort. A formidable 40 minute uphill walk up a steep incline, the ancient paving long deteriorated, brings you to the remains of what must have been a very impressive fort. Now it has been entirely reclaimed by the jungle and is garrisoned only by monkeys. With no other visitors around we were left to ourselves to strike out through the trees looking for the ruined bastions and gatehouses whose battlements poke out through the leafy canopy. Climbing crumbling stairs to collapsing ramparts, watched with suspicion by the resident macaques, it's easy to see how Bundi inspired Kipling to write The Jungle Book.

Ruined fortresses peep out of the jungle

If Bundi's neglected monuments are charming, its people are more so. Stopped every few paces for a hello and quick chat or offer of chai with locals, we quickly shook off the cynicism we've built up expecting every greeting to be followed with a sales pitch. Here people genuinely just want to say hi. It's refreshing (though a little exhausting in its own way.) One friendly passerby cheerfully reminded us that being a tourist means more than "walking in straight lines, looking only ahead" and we have tried to take that to heart, slowing down and enjoying the opportunity for conversation and a bit of mutual understanding.

There's not too much going on in Bundi and that seems to be how the locals like it. We liked it too

---

---

Day 16: Sawai Madhopur and Ranthambore National Park

---

"TripAdvisor didn't lie"

Tripadvisor didn’t lie. You come here to see some tigers, that’s it. And we can confirm that is it. 

Sawai Madhopur is the road to Ranthambore National Park basically. And we arrive to said road being resurfaced more or less cancelling out any benefit to our little lungs of being in the ‘country’ air. 

Nevertheless we board a Jeep an hour after our arrival - who would have thought just being a bit higher up in a car could be so thrillling - and head further into the park to have a gander at ... you’ve guessed it, Ranthambore Fort and more monkeys than you could shake a stick at (we didn’t do that).

There’s a pleasing touch of the abandoned to it and we wander around for a few hours, along with bands of locals there for a special festival honouring Ganesh.

The evening brings a couple of drinks in a posher hotel than our own before squeezing in some Stranger Things before getting our head down in advance of our first 6am tiger alarm call.

Jacko has been talking about watching The Jungle Book for days (ahead of our next trip to Kipling country - Bundi) and as we board our ‘canter’ (think M.A.S.H) I have the songs on loop in my head. As it goes we don’t actually see any tigers this time but but do see antelopes, dear, crocodiles, monkeys, mongoose, boars and birds - vultures, cormorants, egrets and kingfishers; just the bare necessities.

Ranthambore is mapped into zones - some of which you’re more likely to see the fated tiger in than others. Day one was zone 4 and 5. Day two - 3, where we’re told a lady tiger and her cubs have been recently spotted. (These whispers travel with speed through the park’s grapevine - more to keep everyone’s spirits up I think).

Day two’s tiger search similarly sees us, head on a swivel, surveying the plains and tall grass for the merest tuft of tiger.

Our guide was sure he’d heard other animal warning calls so we waited engines off in near silence (aside from the chatter of some Germans desperately in need of the loo). But it wasn’t to be. We have two more national parks in the plan though so all hope is not lost, but we saw none of the 62 in this one.

NB. One further spectacle we did see though was the frankly eye widening addition of what I can only describe as bags of spiders hanging from many of the trees above us... weaved, webbed pouches suspended from branches which we were informed contained thousands of spider eggs. Righty ho.

Post the brief tiger disappointment, rather than wait a further 5 hours in a place where there’s nothing to do but not see tigers, we decided to try our hand at getting an earlier train. Straightforward yes? That would be a no.

Two sets of snaking lines - at the reserved and unreserved counters and flagrant queue jumping abounded. When we eventually reached the front we left with a ticket but only a very lose grasp of what was actually agreed and what ticket we had. 

Not massively up for a two hour journey in the general allocation carriage (the sardine class) we tried our luck in a coach which had seats and where we definitely didn’t have a reservation. I am pleased to report 1) we were unbothered by conductors and 2) we discovered Indian dark chocolate Bourbon biscuits. Bourbons before Bundi.

Day 13-15: Jodhpur

---

"Holy bat, man"

Another day, another fort (and another chemist as it happens as we struggle a little to shake our Delhi coughs). 

But this one is a whopper. Red rocked Mehrangarh fort towers over the city and you can see why so many location scouts have it in their little black books. (I’ll leave it to Jack to talk about Batman. But I will talk about about the actual bats at some point).

Rajasthan's second largest city didn’t feel half as sprawling as Jaipur with its Venice reminiscent narrow lanes and the best street of bazaars and box of delight-like shops yet. 

We’re still on the edge of the desert but this place is far more colourful than its J town predecessors - truly Brahmin blue. (Note, this is less to do with any reverential bow to Brahmin and more to do with a decorator's solution to a termite problem intent on attacking the city’s brickwork). A happy coincidence nevertheless.

Our early morning train got us in around 9 just in time for an unashamedly western breakfast of peanut butter on toast in the beautiful cushioned balcony of our Haveli. 

As I unpacked, Jack went to investigate a suitable smoking location which led to a phone call five minutes later imploring me to stop whatever I was doing (washing knickers) and ‘come upstairs’. Upstairs was actually five flights of various levels of precariousness ... but the view from the top was worth the lactic acid. Blue and white cubes as far as my eyes could see on one side and the imposing fort looking down on us from the other. And overhead... circling birds enjoying the thermals. It’s worth also declaring at this stage of proceedings that Jack and I have become unexpected and howllingly amateur twitchers... Entirely owing to the fact that rather than pigeons (although they do have exotic looking green pigeons) India’s skies are full of well, where do I start - eagles, kingfishers, many varieties of magpies, mynas and the 'laughing' thrush.

Post composing ourselves after our rooftop surprise we venture into old Jodhpur. The city is surrounded by a huge wall with 101 bastions and seven gates / pols inscribed with the names of the places to which each of the roads beneath leads. You’d think that kind of ingenuity would make it easier to navigate but our search for the ‘Batman jail location’ on foot soon makes us realise our mistake and we hail an auto-rickshaw to manage the remainder of the incline on our behalf.

While the fort itself is as gasp inducing as you’d imagine, many of which emitted by Jacko in Batman related relish, it was the discovery of the ‘secret’ lake tuck behind a tiny wooden door which really wins the day. 

Our evening was spent on another rooftop, our watering eyes and the fogged up sky prompting us to Google to the news that Jodhpur is more polluted that Delhi... a recurring theme and one definite blot on India's copybook. But once dusk had been and gone and the dark  night rises.... wait for it... our evening's entertainment is a sky full of bats! Indian flying foxes are not uncommon and are absolutely enormous, with their wingspan often reaching one and half metres. Holy bat man...

Day two was spent on foot, in spite of the fumes, revisiting Old town’s Main Street and the colourful terrace of box size shops which run its length. Including visits to the state’s best sweet shop, omelette purveyor and lassi merchant. Another first included me being bumped out of the way by one of the enormous cows that have free rein of the streets here. Gentle but firm. They know who’s Raj. 

The evening's call to prayer - a five-times-day joy which floats through the air from the minarets of the mosques wherever we’ve been - was also a belter at sunset - with this muezzin sounding intriguingly like a mystical Tom Jones.

Jodhpur gave us one final gift in the form of Nirvana restaurant owner, Ravi, with whom we spend the rest of our night chewing the ghee.

Topics (most at his suggestion I should add) included arranged marriage - 99% of them still are in Rajasthan, gender inequality - he’s worried india's young men are lacking in more modern education in this respect and the chasm between the GDP and the GNP which is  belying India’s actual grassroots progress.

A fantastic, big hearted man.

Now the jungle awaits! And probably a one in ten thousand chance of seeing a tiger.... we’ll be sure to let you know....

"Why do we fall?"

Rounding off our colourful tour of Rajasthan's 'J-towns', we disembarked from another overnight sleeper train before 8.00am in stunning Jodhpur. Straight up to the roof of our hotel, the sun rising behind us over the ninety bastions of the huge fort, high on steep ridge. The light streams down illuminating the town, lying in front and below us and we're taken aback. The Blue City is exactly that; blue. The Old Town in particular, where the sulphates used in construction have turned the buildings the same colour as the sky. It's remarkable to see.

Throughout our couple of days here we spent our time snapping photos every couple of minutes as each switchback through the labyrinth of narrow streets brings another delightful view. I doubt our pictures will do it justice but the effect in person really is striking.

The long, uphill journey to the fort is rewarding, doubly so for me as parts of The Dark Rises were filmed here, notably Bruce Wayne's metaphorically heavy-handed emergence from The Pit in the desert. "Why do we fall?", indeed.

Without much of a plan for Jodhpur, we were happy to meander around, never quite lost but not always with a clear sense of where we were. Leaving the Old Town, we pushed our way down the main market street, a wonderfully crowded mile of tiny shops crammed together, each dedicated to a speciality; spices, turbans, copper pots, umbrella repair, trumpet repair, incense, wedding accessories, slippers. Colours and smells assault the senses as throngs of locals go about the noisy business of commerce.

Enthused and emboldened by a couple of weeks here without gastric incident, we eat in the streets, starting with candies. Tooth-bendingly sweet, treacly galub jamun and milky, sweet-sour barfi. A handful of rupees for a sugar high so good, we sought out the same tiny concrete hole in the wall the next day. Then the famed makhanya lassis by the clocktower, a refreshing, lemony, custardy milkshake - delicious. Finally, Helen, braver than me (or hungrier) makes a bee-line for the best omelette in India, allegedly. Served in the middle of an unlovely street by a laughing grease-wallah, his tiny stove and single, crusty skillet hidden between precarious six-foot high towers of eggs, the omelette is presented between two slices of sweet fried bread and eaten sat on an upturned plastic crate between the ruminating cows and the autorickshaw stand. Helen confirms that it might not be the best egg sandwich in India, but the whole world. We mess up the change and tip about double the price of this simple meal. "Worth it," says she.

Goo goo g'joob

Two days later and I'm still consumed by food envy.

We report no ill effects and are committed to eating whatever looks and smells good from now on, regardless of the surroundings. It's a decision I'm sure will have consequences but there's joy in discovering new flavours and we're reluctant to miss out.

With contrasting towns, cities, country and desert behind us, next is a thrill for the Kipling fan: the jungle..

Jodhpur trains, swell chaps with ginger beards, intrigue, mystery and Victorian Freemasonry by Kipling:

““But about my friend here. I must give him a word o’ mouth to tell him what’s come to me or else he won’t know where to go. I would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction (Jodhpur), and say to him:— ‘He has gone South for the week.’ He’ll know what that means. He’s a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. You’ll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a second-class compartment. But don’t you be afraid. Slip down the window, and say:— ‘He has gone South for the week,’ and he’ll tumble. It’s only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a stranger — going to the West,” he said with emphasis.
“Where have you come from?” said I.
“From the East,” said he, “and I am hoping that you will give him the message on the Square — for the
sake of my Mother as well as your own.””

— Rudyard Kipling, The Man Who Would Be King

---

Day 10-12: Jaisalmer

---

"Stories exchanged, advice shared, firm friends made"

Another city, another contrast. From the train window we see the landscape change from red and rocky to uninterrupted stretches of golden dust as we approach Jaiselmer, tiny and remote in the Great Thaar Desert. The local joke, oft-repeated, for any journey longer than the end of the street is "What, we're going to Pakistan?" There's nothing but sand dunes between us and the border, a couple of hundred miles West. There's nothing but desert a couple of hundred miles in any direction.

Its remoteness and inhospitability (finding water has always been a challenge) has been instrumental in helping Jaisalmer thrive over the centuries. With easier, more accessible targets elsewhere in in Rajasthan, the town was less troubled by the Mughals. Jain people settled here. Wealthy, peaceful and pious, persecuted by the Mughals they found refuge in the fort town and repaid the maharaja, Jaisel, by commissioning a large and impossibly intricate temple complex, guaranteeing good employment for the town's army of renowned stonemasons for three generations. Carved and polished sandstone reliefs cover every inch of every storey of the temple and havelis, inside and out and all the gods are represented in microscopic detail. Predictably, we find ourselves referencing Indiana Jones a lot and no more than here where we could be on the set of Temple Of Doom.

The Golden Fort dominates the town, high on a ridge and as the sun sets and brings out the colours of the yellow brickwork, its name seems justified. The town is attractive and pleasant, the people charming and the air warm, dry and clean (I'm no longer coughing like the consumptive heroines of Victorian novels) but it is the desert that intrigues us.

Excitedly we share a jeep into the dunes with an aid worker attached to the American State Department and a Chilean family, the kids in the last weeks of their year-long global adventure, the mother flying out to join them. Stories are exchanged, advice shared and firm friends made.

The sand rolls unbroken to every horizon and the mercury climbs, though the locals wryly assure us - sweating as we are - that this is the cool time of year. We visit an eerie ghost village, abandoned over three hundred years ago, drifts of sand collecting in the corner of silent rooms and unattended shrines. The story is that a local noble, catching sight of a beautiful lower-caste villager, demanded her for his own and rather than give her up, the 80 families of the village packed their houses overnight and melted into the desert.

Happy Hump Day!

From there to an oasis, quiet and peaceful, the surface of the water only disturbed by frogs lazily breaststroking in circles.

Not long after this we exchange our rattling jeep for a more traditional mode of transport. Camels. Side-eying us diffidently, yawning and snorting, exposing teeth like cracked and yellowing piano keys, the camel wins no prizes for natural beauty. Flaring nostrils, slow-moving with a shambling gait, feet like dinner plates and a contrary attitude, any comparisons with the author will be treated with disdain.

I liked my camel. Doubt he thought much of me.

“Camels have a very democratic approach to the human race. They hate every member of it, without making any distinctions for rank or creed... They long ago plumped for a lifestyle that, in return for a certain amount of porterage and being prodded with sticks, allowed them adequate food and grooming and the chance to spit in a human’s eye and get away with it.”

— Terry Pratchett, 'Pyramids'

Plodding across the sand on weirdly-articulated legs, soundtracked only by the camel bells (and camel digestion) it was a serene experience and one we'll hold with us for a long time. As the sun set, we dismounted for chai and pakora and chatted as the shadows lengthened. A little sad not to be spending the night under the stars like some of our companions (scorpions notwithstanding) we climbed back into our jeep for the long, boneshaking journey back to the fringe of civilisation. Any whimsical serenity we may have built up was swiftly wrecked by our driver blasting bhangra Elvis covers as we hammered down dusty roads at 70 mph. Fun, though.

As enthralling as our time in the Thaar desert was, another moment has left a lasting impression. With an hour or two to kill before our next early morning train (eventually leaving at 3:00am) we strolled through the nighttime warren of streets in this small town with no particular destination in mind. Spotting a sign dislodged a half-remembered recommendation from the back of my mind and we entered an empty haveli and made our way up to the roof to be met by Lalla, the bashful young owner of the charmingly appointed guesthouse. Offering us a menu, he mentioned that if we preferred we could follow him round the high roof’s crumbling parapet to a special seat. Intrigued, we did and were astonished to find a single table and two chairs on their own nestled amongst the sculpted spires and beautiful minarets of the temple we had been in that morning. We sat quietly until near midnight, lit only by candles and sipped cold sodas while taking in the extraordinary vista, invisible from anywhere else. A Jain himself, Lalla lets backpackers sleep on the roof for no fee, pleased and proud to be able to share his secret view. A lovely moment.

"Make sure you don't freak out at the same time"

Our third pit-stop in Rajasthan and once more its different again from the place before and in turn from the place before that. 

This time we're in the middle of the desert and everything is the colour of sand. 

This one, unlike the other forts we've seen is a working fort, with dozens of havelis - sandstone mansions reflective of the prosperity which Jaisalmer once had during the days of the Silk Road. But in addition to the lingering sunset views and what I think has been our best meal to date (stuffed tomatoes) Jaisalmer was really all about the camel (and quite a bit of sitting on silk cushions reading on our hotel terrace).

A woman in Rajasthani dress in a haveli window

The Jeep ride into the Thar desert proper (away we're promised from the 'toursits' - ha and toward the dunes) was enjoyable in itself, joined as we were by an American in India (working in Delhi for the Embassy - responsible for foreign aid and also a week away from welcoming Ivanka Trump...) and an extremely joyful Chilean family.

After visiting the ghost town of Kuldhara - ghosted both in the ancient and more modern sense... The story goes that all its villagers abandoned it one night rather than give over one of its young women to the then prime minister who had taken a'shine' to her. But back to the camels and pretending to be Lawrence of India. 

After some initial 'hump' orientation the following few hours were packed solid with vistas I've never seen before - sand dunes and blood orange sunsets.

Our guide even brought beers in a cool box and cooked pakoras on an open fire and we sat drinking in both the beer and the first in four decades sights (less sounds, it's pretty quiet in the desert). And we also left the desert with an invitation to stay over in Chile when we're there in 2019!)

The evening saw us follow the guide book to two places absent of first gin (once a hotel now closed up) and then people so we followed our noses instead to a very pretty converted Haveli where we my Geordie radar led us to a couple from Ponteland, celebrating their sixtieths with a month long tour.

Our 12.45am train was only 3 hours late this time but Jaisalmer boasts the prettiest station we've seen so far so why complain. As one local put 'the only thing about Indian trains you can rely on is the punctuality of their lateness'.

Onto our final J town in the series - Jodphur. This one is blue.

PS. Some advice from the Chilean couple we met who had been travelling together for 6 months. From her: patience and from him: make sure you don't freak out at the same time.  

Uploaded by james jackson on 2017-11-14.

---

Day 8-10: Jaipur

---

"Only the best impressions"

So this is Jaipur, the Pink City.

It's a little hard to love immediately; big and sprawling, a working city. I'm reluctant to be too negative about crowded, dirty places - after all, we knew what we were getting into in coming here - but at the same time there's little sense in wide-eyed insistence that every place is wonderful. The air is unbreathable here and it's done a number on our lungs, we're hacking and coughing for days afterwards.

The place is sort-of pink, though.

However, a bit of determination was more than rewarded with a few memorable highlights. The 16th century Amber Fort is rightly acclaimed for its scale and architecture and we spent a day strolling around the Tiger Fort and Floating Palace, too - all very interesting and impressive monuments to the Maharajas' wealth and need for thick walls and high ramparts: Rajasthan means 'Land Of Kings' and the 200 or so maharajas seem to have been in a near-permanent state of war with each other as well as the Mughal invaders.

A standout site is Jantar Mantar,  built in 1735 to accommodate the Rajput king Sawai Jai Singh's obsession with science and astronomy. It's a large open campus full of towering stone structures, deep marble bowls and cantilevered iron gyroscopes designed to identify and track the movements of the heavens. It includes the worlds largest sundial, 90 feet tall and tells time accurate to two seconds over 300 years. Make no mistake, this is a place for nerds. I couldn't be happier.

The thing I'll take away from Jaipur most, though isn't the stunning buildings or the choking air but the fleeting friends we made; an Indian couple, farmers from Bangalore, who were on a short vacation after a good year. Despite having not much language in common we spent most of the day with them, splitting tuktuk and fares and sharing bilingual tour guides. They went out of their way to ensure we felt comfortable and welcomed in India,enthusiastically proud of their country and insistent that we leave with only the best impressions. It's a small thing but was a great reminder that the constant hassling, hawking and incessant sales pitch is of course, a completely unfair representation of an entire people. 

Jaipur not a place to linger. A quick stop here and we're off again, our midnight train only three hours delayed. Jaiselmer next, the Golden City. Exotic, no?

"Let me say four people in the back of a tuk tuk is no mean feat"

Much like the landscape, our limited experience in India has been a bit undulating.  The baptism of mystical fire in Pushkar, the serene, often-time silence of Udaipur and now the inescapable and unbreathable tumult of Jaipur.

I should begin by saying that our trip to Jaipur has been bookended by train timings of an inconvenient kind. A 6am arrival and a 2.30am departure; but in between times and in between bouts of uncontrollable coughing NB. We either have TB or are reacting poorly to the pollution, Jaipur gave us some pretty memorable moments.

Its clearly a city growing fast and like much of India that has led to an enormous and unavoidable pollution problem. Jaipur sights are scattered around much more than Udaipur’s and as such we fond ourselves in the back of rickshaws far more, with eye watering and breath taking results.

The air is dense and hangs heavy, blurring the skyline; and even when up high, as we were at both Nagargh and Amer Forts, it can play fast and loose with your lung capacity. (As we write this, news reports tell us Delhi is in a state of alert with schools closed and a national shortage of anti pollution masks. Its estimated that a day of breathing in Delhi’s dust (dust plus) is the equivalent of a 50 a day habit. I’m going to say this is a 50 a day Superkings habit). And it feels not dissimilar in this capital.

But some happy poked through the pink haze in the following forms.

Having shunned Uber in London, our reluctance to expose our lungs to any more of this particular air, saw me download the app (Jacko fell over from the shock) and digitally hail us a cab up to Nagargh (or Tiger) Fort. A few centimetres on the Uber map is actually a very long and winding 45 minute drive (reflected also in the long and winding fair...) but we were rewarded in kind by some higher altitude views, funny monkeys and a (stop being cynical and suck up the 30 rupee donation) informative guide around the Queens (note the plural) palace.

FACT: The King had nine Queens in total, all with separate living quarters and secret passages for him to get to each sans any awkward late night jealousies. Most fascinating was a whispering arch, circa 6 metres end to end which servants would use to speak across rooms so as to not wake their sleeping mistress.

Two hours later, our taxi driver has waited to take us back down the big hill and onto the floating palace (actually ‘onto’ isn’t really a fair description as you can’t actually get anyway near it so onto wasn’t an option). Which left us mulling on the roadside a further trip to the ‘must see’ Amer Fort. As we deliberated by an auto-rickshaw stand we took the same as a nearby Indian couple to opt for the out of town sunset option and take the back seat of the tuk tuk. After a brief ‘discussion’ it was agreed we’d share a ride, jeep up the fortifications and subsequent guided tour – splitting the costs 50/50.

Let me say at this point, four people in the back of a tuk tuk is no mean feat – not least when one of you is 6 ft 2 – so needless to say we soon became close! Our companions for the next two hours were from Bangalore (Bengaluru), in Rajasthan for a 10 day break and intent on taking in the sights much like us. Clearly their English was much better than our non existent Hindi and we learnt about their sons and their studies and his trade as a fertiliser salesman and shop owner.

Shared smiles and moments of mutual appreciation of our special surroundings followed and we left agreeing to also share an autorickshaw back into Jaipur, for them to continue their tourist trail to the City Palace and for us to wend our way (if such as thing is possible in Indian streets) back to the hotel to ready ourselves for our late night train (now 3 hours later than advertised).  As we fondly said our goodbyes and went to pay our driver for our share – what happened next brought tears to my eyes and not this time because of the off the chart levels of pollution. Our new friends from Bengaluru wouldn’t accept any money from us, insisting they pay as their guests in India.

I know that moment will stay with me and Jack long after we leave Rajasthan.

I write this as we trundle on train tracks through the Thar desert to our next stop  - Jaisalmer – where another fort awaits, this one perched on a hilltop and encased by hundreds of havelis (noble merchants houses of old). I have a feeling I will be happy to call this home for the next few days.

---

Day 5: Udaipur

---

"Wandering and gawping"

Knowing nothing of Udaipur, after an easy six hour train journey (second class, cheek by jowl with our fellow passengers) we were stunned by the contrast with what we had experienced so far. Pushkar's dusty, narrow streets were full of teeming humanity; gnarled tribesmen in huge rainbow-coloured turbans and desert-weathered womenfolk in vibrant silks, their silver jingling on wrists, ankles, nose and ears. Being constantly alert for young guys bullying heavy Royal Enfields and battered  Honda crotchrockets through the crowds. The sounds and smells that accompany it all. Udaipur is a paradise by comparison. 

Set on Lake Pichola, at a little altitude, the air is breezy and pink chrysanthemums grow wild between buildings. Everywhere are pagodas, courtyards and minarets and doors and windows have scalloped lintels, giving it an exotic, fantastical feel. Udaipur is given over to art and every wall, even in the most modest streets is emblazoned with bright murals of elephants, horses and camels, signifying luck, strength and love respectively. An ancient town, it was the seat of power for the maharajas of the Meewar, permanently at war with (and seemingly, never victorious against) the Mughals who ruled the northern subcontinent for centuries.

Historical trivia: 

the Meewar fought on horses, the Mughals on elephants. Tired of losing all the time, the Meewar had the bright idea of putting fake trunks on their horses so the elephant cavalry would mistake them for baby elephants and not charge them History does not record whether this was successful.

The Meewar were sun-lovers so everywhere you look are depictions of the sun, moustachioed and smiling benignly, in paint, brass, silver, glass and mirrorwork. The news reports tell us of torrential rain in Chennai and the south, our destinations later in the month but here it is pleasantly warm and the pace of life seems accordingly slow. 

In such a relaxing place, it has been easy to change down gears and fall into a comfortable state of tourism, wandering and gawping at our own speed and without the coterie of hawkers, hustlers and graft-artists we've become quickly used to. The City Palace is as grand a building as we've ever been in and its superbly maintained, sprawling museum easily invokes images of ancient rajas, dripping with wealth, taking court on cushioned floors in perfumed halls.

Independent and resistant to British influence, Udaipur lacks many of the obvious trappings of Empire and so feels authentic. Rajasthani traditions are fiercely protected and we have been pleased to experience puppetry, dance and art. Though we did have lunch (all-you-can-eat thali for about two pounds) in what was the maharaja's car garage, next to his vintage Morris minors.

Relaxation has been the watchword. I'm writing this in a corner of a massage room while a spry old Indian masseur contorts Helen into pretzel shapes. I dunno, it doesn't look relaxing to me but we'll see what she says about it. For me, I find my bliss elsewhere. The discovery that Udaipur serves alcohol (rare in this part of Rajasthan and completely prohibited in neighbouring Gujarat) has meant icy cold Kingfishers on the roof of our hotel and by the beautiful lake. We're watching the pennies and not having long boozy sessions but a single beer every now and again is very welcome.

Edit: I was persuaded to have a massage after all. Excruciating. Absolutely excrutiating. In fairness, my neck and shoulders now move more freely than in years but by evening I felt like I'd gone ten rounds with Anthony Joshua. With eight hours in a narrow bunk on the sleeper train tonight it to look forward to, it was probably a good idea but still, I think I'll do my relaxing in the bar from now on.

Smilng here with our masseur but look closely and you'll see the agony in my eyes.

So, we leave Udaipur refreshed, relaxed and pleased to have seen the more tranquil side of India. Next up; Jaipur and back into the madness.

"Art bought, leg lifted, palaces gasped at, gin consumed"

As well as numerous other (more unmentionable) things, Jack and I could smell the anticipation of the 12992 to Udaipur’s arrival; understandably based on our first abortive train experience. I’m sure we’ll get the hang of it but the train booking and reservation system is astoundingly complicated. Today we are seats CNF/B1/53/MB/GN – deciphered that means – confirmed/coach B1/seat 53/Middle bunk/general allocation…

It was only half an hour late and after the stern train conductor had scrutinised our tickets we relaxed into the journey – with the 4 other people sharing our ‘compartment’.

This particular train journey - 5hrs 30 – was a snip – and the lovely people at Hotel Pichola sent us a email whilst aboard to let us know they were also sending a car to collect us. Did I mention Udaipur isn’t a dry city…

We’ve spent two days in Udaipur and my goodness what a unrelentingly outstanding time it’s been. The city of the sunrise – replete with the sun’s image owing to Udaipur’s early rulers worship of it – is a beauty. All the guidebooks describe it as the Venice of India and following the slight culture shock of Pushkar, Udaipur is a different speed altogether.

Our first day was unapologetically touristy. Temples visited, art bought (leg lifted potentially but we love it nevertheless), palaces gasped at, sunsets seen, lakes crossed and gin consumed. Every corner turned was a wonder – which is also probably the reason why our daily budget also got busted…

The morning was spent at the City Palace which we happily wandered around for a good few hours – with every new room filled with beautiful mirrored tiles and coloured glass, hand painted horses and elephants on most walls and more carved stone deities than you can shake a trident at.

NB. Just a few things about the photos below: The silver on the horse's bridal and indeed the carriage which they're pulling are made of solid silver and also made in Birmingham! The marble carving is of Vishnu (he who protects and sustains all that is good in the world). In this depiction he is holding two of his main attributes - a discus and a mace.

Lunch was a short tuk tuk ride to the Garden – a thali restaurant located in the Maharana’s old garage. This being India though it was just a little more exuberant than your everyday Esso… Vintage cars were on show and we sat with locals to enjoy a £1.75 luncheon.

The rest of the day saw us traverse the lake and then take in some Rajastani folk dancing at Bagore ki Haveli – and both featured 71 year olds. A man we met on the Lake crossing undertaking his first ever backpacking trip and a woman who danced with around ten porcelain bowls on her head – both fairly incredible (for wildly differing reasons).

Side bar: whilst Jacko is still receiving daily plaudits for his beard… today was my turn for some local love – mostly owing to my earrings! It’s also a pure delight to have little kids run up to us asking what our names are and if they can have their picture taken with us.

Our second day saw us breakfast by the lake and then get turned inside out by a very impressive Master masseur at the Bharti massage school. Interestingly Jacko was asked to 'sit in' in case of fears of impropriety - of which there were none of course. Difficult to know who was most uncomfortable! To add confusion to contortion I then sat in on Jacko's bending and stretching session after he changed his mind about getting involved - all very amusing until I was informed that I am more imbalanced than him.... 

Next up – our first overnight sleeper train to Jaipur – the Pink City and Rajasthan’s capital. Back to the bustle if the guides are to be believed.

---

Day 2: Pushkar

---

"We found some camels"

Now in Pushkar, we've only been in India for four days and have already lost track of what day it actually is. That could also be something to do with the 5.30am finish that the town had last night as it celebrated the holiest day of their festival. It should be noted we didn’t have a 5.30am finish – we had ear plugs and a lie in until 11. And as such we woke up this morning to the sounds of our first Saturday in India – the same bustle and hubbub as normal in spite of their all-nighter. (Those words really come into their own here – hubbub, throng, tumult – like their meaning only rings true when said about India.)

On the eve of the holy day we began with what is I think the healthiest and thank Krishna – quietest breakfast I have ever had. Off the main drag in Laxmi Market an oasis of ‘wellness’ welcomed us which manifested itself as beansprouts on brown bread for me and a concerned half hour for Jacko when served his lemon soda… with ice (!) (Spoiler alert – he has survived).

We ate rightly

Sated and ready to find us some camels we then spent the day wandering a little further afield (is there a desert equivalent?) to seek out the so far elusive stars of the show… (Imagined conversation upon our return: “so how was the camel festival you were banging on about?” “We didn’t see any camels” “Oh…”

But fear not we found some camels! And they made a real effort for us too – dressed up to the nines in the kind of colourful crochet which would make even Ann Geoghegan (family in joke) double take. (Re: the camels you see in the picture gallery below - the one on the right is a Bikaneri camel - distinguished by its tawny colour; the camel to the left is a Jaisalmeri. The first known for its strength, the second for its speed), You're welcome!

The wander around the festival also continued to highlight some of the cultural differences / nuances, if I’m being kind, I’ve been experiencing to date which is largely linked to everyone assuming Jacko is the boss… and his is the only opinion that counts… “How was your meal sir?” “Can I have your reservation sir?” “Would you like anything else sir?” But maybe it’s less about gender bias and more about Jacko’s more than passing resemblance to Thor. Apparently. According to the seven locals who asked him for selfies. NB. His head will soon be taking part in the upcoming hot air balloon festival ;- )

Sadhus, pilgrims and other holy men descend on Pushkar for the Kartik festival

Post siesta (we had been awake since 5am) we took a walk around Pushkar lake’s many ghats – including where Ghandi’s and Nehru’s ashes are scattered. The story goes that Brahma appeared here, dropped a lotus flower and the lake rose up -  which would more than explain why so many thousands are here now, with us. Magical in more ways than one.

The evening seemed an altogether more local affair. And whilst we did briefly venture out to try and get a glimpse of Pushkar’s pilgrims bathing themselves at midnight in the holy waters,  something for the first time just didn’t feel right. It felt like we were interlopers; gate-crashers maybe – so we trusted our instincts and headed back to the hotel – only to be greeted by a group of wonderfully dressed young women on the roof opposite our room waving and smiling, readying themselves for the big night. Ten minutes prior, a scene from India’s version of The Lost Boys with screaming motorbikes and ‘enquiring eyes’ (admittedly the first time I’ve felt a bit uncomfortable as a woman) and then this. Never a dull or unsurprising moment.

So to recap:

• I am enjoying being a vegetarian again. (All of Pushkar is vegetarian and dry).
• Horn beeping – (our soundtrack) isn’t an aggressive ‘get out of the way’, it’s a helpful prompt… and Indian drivers prompt every moment of every day.
• I have a near constant inner monologue about whether I’m sufficiently covered up.
• India has thus far been a series of interesting guesses.
• I am to date succeeding in not treating travelling as a new job… Much to Jacko’s relief.
• I bloody love Indian music!

Next up, we’re heading south to Udaipur, which if the guide books are to be believed is one of the most breath-takingly romantic settings in all of Rajasthan.  And also one of the settings for Octopussy!

Lake Pichola’s – its centrepiece – name means ‘the backyard’.

Our new backyard. Fingers crossed we get on the train this time ;- ) Too soon, Jacko?

Day 1: Delhi

---

"Heart in mouth"

Wow, this place can make you work. It's always worth it, though. Day 1 was brilliant.

 Landed after 8 hours without really sleeping on the flight (watched Baby Driver; bit overrrated. Note to self: perhaps branch out into movie blogging - that's what the internet is missing) then nothing is straightforward.

• Getting money out. Only Indian people can bring rupees into the country apparently so we have to deal with criminal airport exchange rates.
• Getting SIM cards. Beauracracy and cost. This is a common theme of India. I still don't understand our tariffs and we're probably burning cash every time we open Google Maps, which is often.
• Heat, noise, filth. Won't go into detail about this here as it's hardly new news but seriously, it has to be experienced to be believed. Traffic and driving. Just wow.

Delhi in summary; more than 25 million people living in each other's pockets. Better writers than I can describe it but the place boggles the mind.

It's not that any of this is particularly challenging individually, it's just that without any familiar points of reference you have no idea if you're doing things the right way and whether your instincts are correct. It'll come with time, I know but for now we're working hard to manage our naiivity and make sensible decisions. This is something that will get us in trouble shortly but I'll come to that in a bit.

Get to the hotel, The Prime Balaji Deluxe, picked for its proximity to the train station as we have a 6.00 am train the next morning. It's neither prime nor deluxe but that's as expected. We're not precious. Then, there's only one thing on the itinerary. We're in town for less than 24 hours and there's an international cricket match on.

For weeks before leaving I tried and failed to source tickets to the India vs New Zealand 1st T20. How hard should that be? Very hard, it turns out. One route requires an Indian mobile number. Another requires an Indian bank account. The rest seemed too dodgy to trust sending money to. In desperation, I turned to the Ploughmans CC message board, my former club ("C'arn The Plough!") and in a couple of days, our good, old friend Ashish ("Puffy", right arm fast, strike bowler, metronomic fourth stump line, legend) had done a job for me. Ash messaged to let me know that he'd got hold of a couple of tickets as a gift for my 40th birthday. Amazing. All I had to do was collect them from Rajat, an old classmate of his, all the way across town.

Leaving Helen to get her head down, I braced myself for a trip across the most alien place I've ever been. Turns out, I shouldn't have worried. After a twenty minute walk to the Metro station, stepping over unmentionable street horrors and choking on the smoke from burning trash, crossing the packed, Grand Prix startline roads arms up as if in surrender and eyes out on stalks, I descended into the bowels of the Delhi Metro. Which is brilliant. Modern, efficient, an absolute breeze. I could have been in Toronto or Copenhagen. Take that, bullshit Western preconceptions. After an hour of easy travel, I met Rajat in HUDA City, a shiny business district on the outskirts of the city. When you see The news profile Delhi as energetic, ambitious and forward-looking, its places like this I think they mean. Pick up the tickets, back to the hotel, quick turnaround and we're off to the cricket.

The hoary old cliche is that cricket is like religion in India. Yup, that's true. For context, India are a great short-format team but have never beaten NZ, arguably the best in the world. Adding extra spice, tonight's game was the farewell match of veteran left-armed Ashish Nehra, a native son of Delhi. This match is taken seriously..

The heart-in-mouth tuk tuk journey to the ground in early evening was quite the terrifying experience. There's no accompanying video as all our hands were occupied just trying to keep inside the rattling death trap while our driver leaned on the horn and rode the clutch through the busiest, most lethal traffic I've ever seen. Our journey ended abruptly a couple of miles from the stadium as some roads were closed and we were directed to duck through a fence and find our way through unlit streets following the sound of the crowd's cheers as their heroes were announced. Joining the thronging thousands, hooting and hollering, we crushed our way into the ground and through security. I knew the rules and hadn't brought water, recording devices or any of the other million things on the banned list but hadn't expected to be told my bag wasn't allowed either, even empty. "What do I do with it?" I asked and a short-tempered soldier indicated the rubbish-strewn pavement. Ok, then. Won't see that again.

Swept inside, clinging onto Helen, we and about a thousand others were turned away from our seats in the lower tier as it was too full. Trying to stay afloat in the human tide, we raced up three tiers of crumbling concrete stairway to the top level to find a couple of furious policemen shutting the gates against the screaming fans. Spotting an opening, Helen ducked under an arm and span past them and I followed, only to run into a soldier who laughed at our impudence and waved us on.

I'll leave my thoughts on T20 as a format for another day but in brief, India won handsomely under the floodlights and the crowd roared themselves hoarse throughout. We were on our feet for most if it, singing along with the infectious chants in the frenzied atmosphere; every mis-hit six and streaky four jubilantly celebrated as if we were watching a batting masterclass (we weren't.) The biggest cheers of the night were reserved for Hardik's incredible diving catch in the deep, coming moments after my wise pronouncements on how India are usually sloppy in the field. Typical. 

Watching India in India was a real thrill and I'm hugely grateful to Ash for making it happen. We certainly finished our first, exhausting day on a high.

Which was fortunate as Day 2 would begin far less happily.

---

Day 2, in which we're stupid enough to get scammed and (just) smart enough to fix it.

We're doing most of this trip by train. We love the pace of travel and the people you meet. India's railway network is a monster, sometimes referenced as the biggest employer in the world. Millions of people rely on the huge rail network and it's vital to the running of the country. It's also complicated, creaky and - as with everything here - very bureacratic. Rail passes, reservations, PNR numbers, local quotas, foreign quotas - there's a lot to manage. We've done the research. We're prepared.

Up at 5.00am to leave plenty of time to catch the Shatabdi Express, our 6.00am train into Rajasthan. Walk to New Delhi station, weighed down like pack animals with all our gear (of course we've packed too much) and are held at security while an official checking tickets tells us the train is cancelled but in 40 minutes there's another from Old Delhi station. We should try to catch that but need to go to head office to have our rail passes and reservations amended. So far, so inconvenient but still pretty plausible - every account we've read of Indian train travel features delays, cancellations and hanging around in offices replanning. We're directed to a taxi rank, licensed government cars not unlicensed tuktuks. You can probably guess what's going on here but in our defence, it's early, dark, we're tired, can't get phone signal and time is against us if we want to get to Pushkar. It's a major religious festival and tribal fair and we already know that the trains are packed - reservations sell out 100 days before travel.

Even so, this doesn't feel right and Helen goes to get more information from a completely different ticket checker who tells her the same thing. Disappointed but partially satisfied we head to the office where a very helpful travel manager brings up the rail website and shows us that every train is fully booked for the next week. Again, we know this is true so have to be open to other options. Other travellers arrive and confirm train cancellations. We settle on a car and driver to get us the eight hours to Pushkar at the cost a couple of hundred pounds. It's annoying but what choice do we have? We have a hotel booked and want to go to the festival. Payment is in cash, we don't have enough, we go to a cash point, forms are drawn up, we haggle over the cost and we're away. 

Sat in the back of the car, we try to convince ourselves we've done well to rescue a bad situation and our journey is back on track but still it doesn't feel right.

A couple of miles down the road my data kicks in and I do some Googling. First result: "New Delhi station scam."

Mugs.

I'm fuming. Helen's fuming. I start to get... assertive.

"Turn. This. Car. Around."

A short time later we're back in the office which, now it's getting lighter, I see is more a travel agent than anything official. I spot the helpful manager, our eyes meet and the crafty bugger ducks into the public toilet opposite. I send one of his boys in to get him, and march into his private office to wait. I'm not particularly proud of what happened next but there was some glaring, some threats, some knuckles-on-desk looming and after a brief but tense encounter we've got all our cash back and are high-tailing it out of there.

True story: I should have twigged something was up when I said I was from London and was met with "Lovely jubbly!" Delhi Boy Trotter may have stitched us up but we emerged unscathed and smarter for the experience.

Directed by some genuinely helpful locals, we ended up at the official government tourist office and, although our train was long gone, arranged a car and driver at a perfectly reasonable price and with lovely Mantup behind the wheel ("I can drink a litre of whisky in the evening but never before driving. Only beer") we arrived at the stunning, airy Inn Of Seventh Heaven in the holy town of Pushkar by mid-afternoon. Our reward for an eventful day.

"The dos and do nots of Delhi"

Day one – Delhi. Here is a city that takes no prisoners. If the aim was to venture a few steps into the unknown and abandon ‘the norm’ then I can safely say Delhi delivered.

Our ‘driver’ to Pushkar (where I now sit on the rooftop of our hotel, writing this first update on day 4) said to us ‘nothing is easy in India, anytime, for anyone’ and I would be inclined to agree based on our first 24 hours in Delhi.

To be fair to us and indeed India’s capital – housing 25 million permanently and then another 10m who come to work here – we knew we wouldn’t exactly be easing ourselves in gently, beginning as we did ‘up north’. But I suspect our mind-blowingly mixed experience in New Delhi, which four days on I now reflect upon ‘almost’ fondly… might well be the tale of quite a lot of our trip here. Because now I couldn’t think of a better page one of our journey.

Half a dozen hair raising tuk tuk rides (not necessarily to our chosen destination), my first rat sighting, the discovery of an excellent new snack and, thrillingly, an epic trip to New Delhi’s cricket stadium to see the 20/20 courtesy of our very generous friend Ash (himself from Shilong and indeed Jacko’s cricket club, Ploughman’s CC); which saw the home side hammer NZ for the first time ever (I’m reliably informed). And where I witnessed the best catch I have ever seen live – and you know I watch a lot of cricket ; -)

Hardik catches Guptill, to the crowd's delight

Day two – well day two was more mixed – with our first scheduled train journey on the famed Shatabdi Express morphing into a nonetheless eventful seven hour ‘taxi’ ride to our destination – Pushkar and the annual Camel Fair. As you know I am no stranger to a taxi but even this was a bit of a stretch for me… But I’ll let Jacko wax lyrical about that particular detour as at this point those early AM, New Delhi annoyances are a distant memory. And I am happy to keep them that way.

Thoughts on blogging

---

"Pompous and wordy"

I'm not quite sure how this will turn out. My plan (for my part if it, at least) is to have a record of where we've been, what we did, how we felt - it's for us alone, a diary, really. When planning this trip I was struck by how little I remembered of my last trip to India ten years ago and I'm keen not to lose anything from this time around.

Beyond that, I'm conscious of how much I'll miss friends and family. Less that a week in and I'm already feeling it, despite Facebook, texts, Whattsapp, Snapchat (kinda) and all the other ways we keep in touch. Having a record of our adventure here is a way of staying connected to our nearest and furthest away. Like anything; something happens to you, you want to tell your mates. That's what this is.

I know what it won't be, though. It won't be shots of impossible, staged yoga poses at sunset, motivational quotes written in the sand and close ups of henna'd hands. We're not #doingitforthegram. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's just not very me. I mean, can you imagine? 

It also won't be particularly original. We're not the first people to go on a long trip so will probably repeat things you've heard and read a thousand times before. Sorry about that. It's new to us.

The one thing I can guarantee is that it will be a bit cringy. My bits at least. I've tried writing before and tend can get a little pompous and wordy. Helen's much better. I direct you to her contributions for the good stuff. Maybe I'll get better with time. Maybe it'll be reams and reams of deathless prose, paragraphs without end and metaphors that don't really work. Either way, be forgiving if you read this - it's really just a diary.

Disclaimer: all inarticulate ramblings are author's own. Helen's perspective will be different. 

"Photos and feelings"

Perhaps slightly concerningly for someone who was about to embark on a trip of an undetermined timeframe (and in turn start a diary about it…) I have to date found it fairly hard to articulate just what my thoughts are on the matter; about leaving London and my lifelong career… about not seeing our wonderful friends and our family and about coming first to India without any real sense of what’s to come – aside from that very detailed itinerary ... So I suppose what I really mean is what lies ahead in actual experience terms.

And with that in mind – this is a diary written from both Jack’s and my perspective – mostly to pin down some of the already madly, here-today-gone-tomorrow memories and also, if you’re so inclined, give you a little look at what each new trip chapter brings.

Photos and feelings from me – densely packed prose and the dirt and all detail from him!