OUR INCREDIBLE INDIA TRIP

 

Day 1 - Departure Day - Sydney International Airport - 7th September 2016

 

Well, after about nine months of planning for our Mega Indian Adventure, we are getting our Bollywood on.   We have worked very hard to get to this place, and feeling somewhat weary, are finally here at the airport.  Blessed with many frequent flyer points and a generous husband, we are sitting in the smart business class lounge at Sydney airport. 

 

We spent last night with Les and Barbara in Sydney, Cino's foster parents, who absolutely adore her, and with whom she has spent many holidays.  She gets treated like The Favoured Child and is allowed to sleep on their bed, which Gerald refuses to allow in The River House.   As we drove along the adjoining streets to their house, Cino started to whimper in happy anticipation of a reunion with her Sydney Mum and Dad, clearly recognising her surroundings.  She was in raptures to see them, sobbing with delight, which is pretty much what they do with her too.  We took a walk though the golf course to familiarise Cino with her old/new territory, and then shared a delicious dinner of boned leg of lamb, grilled on the BBQ by Les, and a huge tray of roasted root vegetables with garlic, mushrooms, and capsicums, cooked and carried lovingly up from Shoalhaven Heads by me.   Much wine flowed and lots of laughter and sharing of stories - perhaps some which could have remained untold - (but what is shared in the Banner Household stays in the Banner Household) - and some detailed planning of Barbara's 70th birthday in a couple of months time.

 

This morning, Uber escorted us to the airport in record time, driven by a young Brazilian man, Rodrigua.  I had hoped he may turn out to be The Sugar Man, but alas he was not, although he was handsome and charming.  The airport has streamlined its check in process, and we had checked in, been whisked through the Express Lane of Immigration, and purchased our litre bottles of gin at the bargain price of $22 a bottle - the whole process took us 35 minutes, unbelievable!   Drinking tea and coffee, we are sitting in the lounge, arguing with our technology.

 

Les and Barbara telephoned to inform us that Cino has met up with Buffy, one of her romantic interests, had a walk, had some drops in her ear for the sea or sand she keeps trying to shake out, is staring out the door looking for us and feeling a little sad.  Joshua has called to say goodbye, and we have had many Bon Voyage messages.  I am feeling a little weepy leaving our little girl and our family and our land for six weeks;  I am tired.

But nothing diminishes the sense of excitement we feel, heading to India, a country Gerald has been longing to show me for many years.   And how privileged we are to travel this way.  We will be meeting new people in a new culture, adapting our ears to new languages, our tastebuds to delicious food, our eyes to the sights, our hearts to India, and our stomachs to who knows what - both thrilling and confronting.

We shall keep you informed.  

 

 

Day 2 - 8th Sept 2016 - Kolkata - The Oberoi Grand

 

WE ARRIVE IN INDIA 

 

After some confusion with baggage at a surprisingly empty airport, we were met by Jai and arrived here at midnight.  The drive took 45 minutes and the roads were ordered confusion, the sights very similar to Nepal, lean to's and spaghetti wiring, stray dogs, mounds of litter, whole families asleep on 'pavements' atop a piece of fabric, the construction of an underground walkway, and buildings falling down or being erected.  Despite the late hour, there were many celebrations occurring for a particular festival featuring Ganesh, and a lot of 'very drunk men'  Jai says, ‘behaving badly’.  “Similar to Australia Day at home”, I comment, but Jai doesn’t understand.  We see a brand new landmark, a tribute to London by the current Mayor, who wants Kolkata to 'be like London' – so they have built a 'Small Big Ben'.  It’s awful, and I don’t know whether to congratulate or commiserate, but Jai is very proud of this new landmark. 

 

There was no indication we were nearing the luxury of The Oberoi Grand, only many metres of grubby white wall, and then a large fort like gate, manned by a smartly dressed officers, and our vehicle was ushered through.  Staff appeared like magic with cool cloths and water, Jai explained our documents, and after an awkward 'how much do I tip you moment', he left and we and our luggage were escorted to our room by a  handsome, impeccably dressed guest manager who was to 'take care of our details'.  

 

The room is large and luxurious and smells mouldy;  it  is the end of the monsoon season, and Jai says only yesterday it had rained so heavily the water was knee deep on the streets. There are artfully arranged fresh flowers and fresh fruit.  Lamps glow softly, there are twenty foot ceilings, lots of polished dark wood, mirrors and art work, a pot of hot chocolate, an enormous bed piled with snowy white pillows and a padded and panelled head board which matches the walls, all tastefully coloured in hues of pale green and blue.  I want that bed, it makes my heart sing just to look at it.  We do a minimal unpack, Gerald plugs in our technology, we take a blessed long hot shower in a marbled Colonial bathroom, and collapse into 'that bed' at 1 am.  We have been awake for 21 hours and travelling for twenty.  

 

Today at 5.30 am we are awake,  Gerald draws the heavy curtains from a  floor to ceiling, double glazed window – and we take our  first daylight view of India, of Kolkata.

 

This is what we see, three floors below.  Grubby but gracious Colonial buildings, a long stand of palm trees, a small forest of green park, mouldy domed buildings, a sea of orange and blue plastic covered lean to 'houses', mounds of garbage, dogs roaming, one car, a man-powered rickshaw, people asleep on cloths on top of temporary beds structured from a piece of board between a couple of Conbloks, some of which have already disappeared since we woke up.  Right across the road is a facility "Pay and Use Toilet, Kolkata Safai Welfare Society" and a never ending queue of barefoot men and a few women, carrying towels, snaking in and out.  An hour later, a mobile kitchen is set up at the front door, and those people who were asleep are now prostrate but awake, using their I phones.

 

At breakfast, our smiling young attendant is Akshit.  Oh no, I think, this beautiful young man’s name is Akshit?  Probably his name means something noble in his language, but  I wonder if any westerner has ever told him how many jokes are made about his name.   He has huge almond eyes, which sparkle when he speaks.  Never have I seen so many handsome men gathered in one spot, good looks run deep in Indian blood.  What a selection of fruits, bread, meat, drinks, and cheeses, plus every kind of hot food you could want.   The service is outstanding, and there are almost as many staff as there are guests.  Gerald sticks to a fairly traditional but Thai inspired breakfast, but Akshit enrols me into the 'Indian Breakfast'.  Hey, I am in India! Give me an Indian breakfast!  Bring it on!  I start with a golden light puff reminiscent of a dandelion with a fragrant sauce, followed by a potato dhosa, so fine I can see through it, more sauces in tiny stainless steel pots, and another of vegetables in a complex, fiery sauce.  Akshit is determined Gerald shall have a taste of India too, and brings us both a small Indian pancake.  Half way through this, I have to give up, I fear I won’t be able to stand if I eat any more.  He wants to serve us again tonight at dinner, and tomorrow at breakfast.   His sincerity is touching, and tells me I can never get fat here, the breads are 'too light'.  I have my doubts.  And we  will probably see Akshit tonight, as the only other restaurant locally I have seen is the one directly outside the "Pay and Use Toilet" which we will not be frequenting.

 

A tour of the beautiful hotel brings delight.   The ancient lifts are small and carved of dark wood with  fine inlaid fretwork and flowers, the window panes are bubbled with the distortion of very old glass, classical music soothes the weary traveller, the pool is  elegant and surrounded with lush greenery, and the foyer!  It is an astonishing space adorned with antique furnishings and  a thirty feet high arrangement of fresh orchids, blinding crystal chandeliers, a grand piano, a checker board floor, and more handsome men in turbans.  I could sit in this foyer for six weeks and be happy.

 

Back at the hotel after our first tour day, I am exhilarated.  My mind is clamouring with images, emotions and experiences, yet the sudden silence and comfort of our air conditioned room and a cool gin and tonic has suddenly reminded me of how exhausted I am, a combination of pre holiday rushing, jet lag, and Day One in India, and I decide I have to write it down.  Where do I begin?

 

Today in the Flower Market -  where they sell a minimum of 1500 square metric tonnes of flowers each day, roses, marigolds, orchids, and others I do not recognise, and all grown in West Bengal - a bare chested old man in a short checked nappy like sari smiled and gave me a water lily.  The streets around the markets have many of the ‘unliked/unloved boy/girls’, trawling the streets asking for money, and if you don’t donate, you get cursed.  I  learned that they generally ignore old people like us who are ambivalent about such curses, and prey on pregnant women and young couples with new babies, who will give them whatever money they have to fend off  the storm trooper tactics of those unhappy souls and  prevent their infants being cursed.  Instead, they want their infants blessed, and pay them to do so.   Girls require less money than boys to be blessed.  As the traffic inches along, the ‘unliked/unloved boy/girls’ beg for money at car windows; as this was explained to me, I felt distinctly uneasy about denying them a donation.   Apparently, they live together in barracks, with others like themselves, and rent is negligible, so if they earn just 200 rupees a day it provides them with food, and 300 rupees is also 'OK'.  I turn my gaze out of the opposite window and ignore them, hoping a random curse doesn’t land on us. 

 

Note:  During our time in India Rupees 500 = approximately Aussie $10

 

There is a street here which sells nothing but books, and millions of books both old and new are sold each year.  There are over a thousand stalls set alongside a prestigious university, each tiny tarpaulin lined stall overflowing with tomes of every kind, and all in English.  I have never seen so many books, towering piles, on heads, roof tops, bicycles, backs, rickshaws, shelves, and the ground.  Close by is the Indian Coffee House, it has been one for 75 years, and is the Indian Coffee Workers Co-operative Society Ltd. outlet.  We go here so I can do a wee, it is so noisy I can hardly hear myself speak, and  packed with mostly young people and a smattering of 'old intellectuals' - all smoking, drinking coffee, and being served by men who take no notes, but somehow everybody gets their perfect order.  They wear peculiar white caps, with a frill like a cockatoo.   The men have coffee, I am brave and have onion fritters, and Shu eats a chicken Snitzel and potato.  The bill is the equivalent of Aussie $3.  There is a woman with a small child begging on the steps, I have already seen so many, a few come right up and put their hands in my face, and Shu ignores them, she is just not there in his world  and keeps on talking whilst I am squirming with guilt and privilege.  There are so many people who have little or nothing.   Today is my first lesson in understanding that I cannot give everybody something, and it’s distinctly uncomfortable, I am holding back tears for much of the morning. 

 

We visit a place called Kumartuli, where thousands and thousands of  sculptures of Gods and Goddesses are created to be used in the hundreds of  festivals held annually, and in particular for the Durga Festival and the Kali Festival.  The artists operate in narrow, dark, cramped spaces sitting cross legged or balancing precariously on planks in freezing temperatures, floods and heat waves.  The sculptures range in size from several metres tall to a few centimetres, each intricately created from 'pure' grey clay from the Hoogly River, moulded with rice husks and fabric, wet and smoothed, wet and smoothed, for weeks on end, taking around four months to complete.  The weather is a tyrant;  If it is too dry, they have to stop it cracking and keep it damp, if it is too wet, as in this last week, they have to make a fire and keep it warm.  They are then hand painted, dressed in glittering robes and 'jewels' and become  the centre of the celebrations, after which, they land up back in the Hoogly River, where they dissolve once more to nothing - until next year.  

 

The Queen Victoria Memorial still casts a powerful shadow over this city.  It looks suspiciously like the Taj Mahal and is known to the locals as "The Taj of the Raj". It is a vast, domed, regal construction, atop it is a moving angel, which spins and follows the wind.  It is is teeming with Indian visitors, so many people everywhere, all the time.  We find out the answer to Gerald's question "Where do lovers go for privacy?".  To Queen Vic’s Peace Park gardens.  Dozens of young couples sit with arms entwined, some on the edge of the pond, their  feet dangling into suspiciously dark green water.  They sit under trees, cross legged and gazing at each other, they hold hands and lean into each other, and they  take selfies, so many selfies. Shu says “This is the one place the parents will not find them” he says.  Yes, but surely everybody knows about this place, I ask?   He nods sagely “But they will not find them here having a tryst.”   Really?  Why? 

 

 Shu is a  very knowledgeable guide and knows so much about so much and particularly his culture.  His attention to detail is astonishing, when we ask a question, we get a really comprehensive response, with far more detail than we anticipated.  My brain is reeling with facts and anecdotes and figures and myths and Gods and Goddesses already, and its only Day Two. He delights in explaining things.  For example, at  eighteen years old you can get your personal drivers licence within fourteen days and it takes only four months to get  a commercial licence.   The streets are a gridlock of buses, auto rickshaws, cars and motor bikes, and a constant screech of hooting, and so many 'missed by an inch' moments, and I notice I am already becoming accustomed to the chaos and the noise of the traffic.  Astonishingly, we see not one incident of road rage.

 

I see a single shoe a dangling from beneath the front end of a bus.   It looks gruesome.  Did somebody get run over and they forgot to remove his shoe from the bumper?  No, says Shu, do not be alarmed if you see a shoe hanging off a truck or a car or a bus.  It is a symbol of good luck and "Travel Safe" rather like a St. Christopher's medal.

 

In a street dedicated to selling musical instruments, I see the word MAHBOOB repeatedly.  I like that word.  It sounds a bit like “My Boob”, not that mine are notable, in fact I don’t have any, my sister always referred to my ‘chest’ as an ironing board with two raisins on it. Confusingly, the word has many meanings:  Mahboob  is a certain sort of music, and the word 'Mahboob' means 'Love', and 'Mahbooba' means 'Female Lover'.   I am Gerald's Mahbooba.  Mahbooba.   I like that. 

 

Shakespeare Road is filled with upmarket stores like Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Prada, jewellery stores and expensively dressed people carrying lots of expensive shopping bags.  It is where most of the expatriates reside, it is also much, much cleaner than anywhere else we have seen so far. You could be in Double Bay or Fifth Avenue here, except for the traffic and the heat and the people.

 

I see the name and face of Dada J.P. Vaswani everywhere, someone I have never heard of.  He is the Spiritual Guru of contemporary India, he has a smiling, happy face, which adorns many walls, fencing, and electricity poles with sayings such as "A smile is worth more than gold”. Later, I look him up.  According to one report on google, he is a universally acclaimed  humanitarian, philosopher, educator, acclaimed writer, powerful orator, and messiah of ahimsa.   The term Ahimsa is an important spiritual doctrine shared by Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism.  It literally means ‘non-injury’ and ‘non-killing’.  It implies the total avoidance of harming of any kind of living creatures not only by deeds, but also by words and in thoughts.   He is a  non-sectarian spiritual leader, and has apparently captivated the hearts of millions worldwide.  He is the spiritual head of the Sadhu Vaswani Mission and for forty years has been spreading the message of love and peace all over the world.  Through him, the joy of faith and peace flows out to many.  In him, thousands of faithful devotees behold the image of their Beloved.   Really?  There is so much I know nothing about.  

 

On several streets, there are foul smelling, brown and yellow stained outdoor latrines at the side of the road where men stand in a row, backs to the traffic passing a foot from their buttocks, having a wee.  Other merely stand at the side of the road and wee, seeming oblivious to the humanity around them.  There are so many idiosyncratic sights - a man on the back of a van, one hand up his sari, scratching his balls with evident satisfaction whilst picking his nose with the other.  I see an unfortunate auto-rickshaw driver bathed in perspiration, whose vehicle has broken down.  He is hauling it single handedly with a very overweight sari'd lady sitting inside, who is speaking animatedly on her phone.  I can imagine her conversation "So I TOLD this guy, hey, I am NOT getting out of this rickshaw till you deliver me to my destination!" This guy is busting his arse and she appears oblivious to his discomfort.   How?

 

We reach the Howrah Bridge.  It is a miracle of engineering skill and crosses the Hoogly with majestic mastery.   1,000,000 people walk across it every day, to and from work, impossibly heavy loads on their heads and backs, dragging rickshaws, and heaving bags.  Today there were 100,000,002, as we walked it too. I carry just a handbag but am drenched in sweat, crushed by people, and throughly worn out.   I am the object of great curiosity, despite my modest attire, lack of jewellery, and crushed old hat - many men stare so boldly, I feel revealed, but it is the women run their eyes top to toe and back again, taking in my every detail.  I am an unusual sight.  I have only seen two other European women today.  

 

Gerald asks Shu if he thinks the people are happy here, Gerald thinks they look that way.  Shu says no, he thinks they are resigned to this 'bad life' - they believe this life is their penance for doing something bad in a previous life and they have to live through it.   I think I understand what he says.   To me, most people look miserable;  but few ignore me when I make eye contact, some nod their head in acknowledgement, a few  respond with the most brilliant of smiles, and others wave with the enthusiasm of a small child.   I saw two older ladies today, one in a purple sari and one in an orange sari and I tried to make a connection with them by pointing out the orange sari and my orange shoes and hat, as in ‘Look its's my favourite colour too!' - but she did not understand until her husband explained in rapid fire Hindi.  Then all three faces split into enormous grins, and the women grabbed my hands,, we were having an incomprehensible conversation in Hindi and English, laughing and smiling and posing for at least ten photos, on my phone an theirs.  We all hugged when we said goodbye.   What a moment.

 

There are signs forbidding many activities, such as spitting or smoking or not stopping your vehicle, but nobody takes any notice.  Smoking is on the rise and it's the young ones and the women who lead the charge, but smokers still seem to be the minority here.

 

Dalhousie Square was the administrative centre for British India, surrounded by majestic Edwardian architecture, and a Writers Building, a massive Gothic structure dating from 1880.  The Brits sure left their mark here.  I recognise some of these buildings from this morning, we appear to have done a few wide loops of the city today, I feel like I am in one of those telescopic toys where colours and shapes constantly tumble as you turn the tubes.  The noise and the heat and the constant crush of people have sucked my energy, my head aches and each time we return to the car, I feel the cold sweep of the air conditioner and a rush of relief and gratitude. How do people live and die on these streets?  I have been here two days and am exhausted.

 

Our last stop is what was Mother Theresa's Mission until two weeks ago, when she was canonised, and it is now Saint Theresa's Mission.   Supposedly closed on a Thursday, Shu hopes it will be open because of the celebrations.   And it is!   

 

It is a nondescript building, the home of the Missionaries of Charity, and we enter via a small side street, where vast posters of her hang from its walls..  There are smiling young nuns at the door wearing their customary white cotton sari with a wide blue stripe, and just inside is a  statue where people are queuing up to take photos of themselves, apparently being 'blessed' by her hand which is outstretched in such a way that you can sit beneath it.  I sit under her hand for Gerald to take a photograph and feel a well of emotion.  I look around, and there are other people similarly moved.  There is a sign on the wall, something St. Theresa of Calcutta once said:

 

“By blood, I am Albanian.  By citizenship, an Indian.  By faith, I am a Catholic nun.  As to my calling, I belong to the world.   As to my heart, I belong entirely to the Heart of Jesus.”

 

This tiny woman of unshakable faith, invincible hope and extraordinary charity made such a difference to India, to the world.   I wander about thinking of her small feet walking these same floors, reading clumsy hand made signs and watching people pay homage, some praying, some weeping, many selfies being taken.  Gerald  introduces me to an old man he has been talking to.  “Your wife?” The old man asks.   Yes, says Gerald.  "Are you a Mother?" he asks, and I reply yes.  He unbuttons his shirt and shows me his skinny scarred chest, he has a pace maker fitted and has come here for a blessing.  Will I give him a Mother’s Blessing?  I panic.  Me?   Can I?  I am not qualified, am I?  So we talk as much as our different languages allow but there is so much more being said here than mere words. His eyes are intense and hold fast to mine.   I rise to leave and clasp my hands in namaste, he grasps them with surprising strength and lays them upon his bowed head in a blessing, then carries them to his heart with such reverence and humility, I weep.  I lean in and kiss his hands holding mine, I see his eyes are shining with tears.  We have touched hearts, us two small and insignificant people.  I feel blessed by Him, and have to sit down and  take a minute to integrate what just happened.

 

Close to where we are sitting is a grotto with a riot of flowers and creepers in which a stands statue of St. Theresa, and a small, makeshift museum with items of her clothing, personal letters, photos, simple wooden furnishings and items of family history.  In the room next door is the tomb in which she is buried, and there are perhaps thirty people sitting on chairs, some in prayer, some asleep, others taking photos and one man, prostrate on the floor.  There are many nuns praying and the atmosphere is one of a church – that is until I am discovered by two delighted Indian ladies in saris, who demand their photos be taken with me.  I am happy to oblige, when an Indian Matriarch ‘demands’, you follow instructions. They speak at the top of their voices, they are glad I am Australian, as one has a daughter who works for a bank in Melbourne.  They  issue commands, take my hand and lead me to different spots and direct my poses with each of them individually, then they ask someone to take several more of us together.  All of this is punctuated with a rapid fire running family commentary of the Australian side of their family and questions come thick and fast..   Do I know the bank?  Her daughter?  Do I know Melbourne?  Where do I live?  What hotel are you staying in?  Hmmm, expensive hotel?  Where is my husband?  Children?  Mercifully they are called to rejoin their tour, and the room returns to a church like state.  A rope sections off one half of the room, and on the other side, mass is being celebrated by three priests, two Indian and one European.   If I had planned this myself, I could not have done better. II rummage through my bag for my parents rosaries and holding one in each hand, find a seat and attend the mass, which is being said in English. As I receive communion, I feel such a rush of humility and gratitude and love and discover my cheeks are wet once more with tears.  When mass ends, I return to the patiently waiting  Shu and Gerald, who holds my hand without saying a word.  Shu too is silent and respectfu and we sit quietly for a few minutes.  Later, he says quietly to me “Some things cannot be explained.”  Indeed.

 

 As we leave this humble place, the foundation of so much good, there are two young nuns standing at the door farewelling guests.  I ask if I can their photograph.  Their faces split into huge grins and they shake their heads vigorously “No!” Their faces shine with an inner glow, a peace, a joy which lights up the space around them.  One asks me, where are we from?  Australia is a long long way away, and clearly earns me a few brownie points, as she reaches behind her and hands both Gerald and I a small picture of St. Theresa, and two tiny medals of her image.   I feel those tears flooding up again and I hug her;  she delights me by hugging me tightly back, and we kiss on both cheeks.    I feel so blessed, so grounded, so loved.   

 

We get back to the hotel at 6 pm and I am exhausted. We give Shu a tip of R900 ($18.70) and Goody the driver R750 ($15.62)  - the amounts advised to by our travel company. They are clearly delighted, wide eyed, almost in disbelief.  Is this too much?   Are we overdoing it?  Are we creating ‘a problem for other visitors to India’ as some have suggested?   We have been looked after so well and they have been so kind to us. 

 

Back in our room, we check what’s happening below us.   The "Pay and Use" toilet/kitchen has been transformed in our absence, and is now a bustling market place selling shoes, suitcases, saris, jewellery and food.  And the "Pay and Use" still very much in demand, with long queues waiting to get in alongside vats of hot oil where bread is being cooked, vendors are selling bowls of food, vegetables being purchased and clothing being tried on. Such resourceful people.  There are so many diverse things happening here in such a small space, and this is just one tiny pocket of India!   My mind does back flips.

 

Too tired to leave the hotel, we shower and head downstairs to the same restaurant we ate in this morning, and Akshit is still there.   He has been on duty since 6.15 am, with four hours break this afternoon, and will finish at 12.30 pm tonight.  There is no sign of fatigue however, he smiles and chats generously about his life.  He has completed his Bachelor of Hospitality, Tourism and Management, and is studying for his Masters.  He has not a trace of injustice in his voice that despite this fine education, he is waitering.  In fact, he feels incredibly privileged to have this job in ‘this fine establishment’.  Try telling that to our young people in Australia.   He tells us he has a cousin in Auckland who owns a restaurant and he has a plan to  join him in two years time. He gives us an unbelievably delicious meal, some of which is not even on the menu, and we are treated to some of the finest service we have ever had.  He wants to be my Face Book Friend.   "Tomorrow, Sandra" - says Gerald.

 

It's 10 pm and way past my bed time. Vibrant, colourful, emotional, full on sensual assault India, I am swimming in it, drowning in it, I want to take a breather to process and understand before diving back in again, but that is not going to happen.   This is our Six Week Indian Adventure, and we don’t want to miss a thing. 

 

Start writing Sandra. 

  

 

 

Day 3 - 9th Sept 2016 - Hoogly - (sometimes Hugli) River Cruise

 

DIAMONDS ON HER EARS

 

Shu, our guide yesterday had warned us that the day ahead would be a busy day, and "Just do as much as you can."  It certainly was.  We managed to do it all, although I was very emotional and we were both tired at the end of it.  

 

But today is a very different day. 

 

It is 12.20 pm and we have just set sail from Kolkata on a voyage on the ship ABN Sukapha, Bengal Dispatch 1 "The Historic Hugli Upstream".  Our itinerary says we sail up past the old Danish colony of Serampore to Barrackpore, where we will land and take a walk through the cantonment past the Semaphore Tower, Government House, the Temple of Fame, and Flagstaff House, whose garden houses many of the British statues removed from central Calcutta (Kolkata).

 

But already we have had a morning's worth of colour and excitement, perhaps a day's worth.  Up early, we swam in the hotel pool, the only ones there, and observed three yoga devotees being led through a series of military manoeuvres, by a 'yoga teacher' who is yawning, scratching his balls, checking his watch, and oblivious to the physical damage his students are doing to their bodies.   With his finger buried deep in his nose, he chants monotonously "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.  Stop.   1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Stop." We are both missing our regular yoga classes, but this is a class we can do without.

 

Breakfast is another Indian Festival of Food.  Most of the Europeans around us are eating blueberry muffins and muesli, but we are devouring a feast of broken wheat with cumin and carrot, Marsala omelette served with Tara Parantha, steamed rice dumplings, Dhosa,, a South Indian crisp rice and lentil pancake filled with curried potatoes served with coconut chutney and sambal, masala uttapam (a rice and lentil pancake with tomato, onion and chilli), aloo paratha (wholewheat Indian flatbread filled with potato served with plain yogurt and pickle) and medu vada (deep fried lentil dumpling with coconut chutney and sambal).  And of course, dragon fruit, papaya, pineapple, star fruit, yogurt, and pots and tea and coffee. I told you it was an Indian Festival of Food.  Harmeet is our chef, and stands proudly alongside our table making suggestions then creates dishes for us 'not on the menu.'  We are so important to him and so desperate to take of our food intake that his face contorts in anguish when he discovers we are leaving in a couple of hours, that his opportunity to further force feed us is almost over.  Undeterred, and with the Indian nod he presents us with a Tupperware container filled with cookies he has made himself “for your journey Maam”.  The only female in a platoon of staff tells us that unfortunately Akshit is ill with a fever.  Her face lights up when we send him our love and please tell him we are disappointed not to see him.  

 

Many of the male staff wear pin stripe grey trousers with knife edge creases, black jackets and highly polished black shoes, straight out of the Raj, I can imagine them in an English club, sitting in leather chairs in front of a fire, holding a brandy goblet and a cigar.   A few are in Royal Bengali tunics and wear turbans, some with a matching black chin band which hides their beards - their skin glows, their teeth flash, their eyes are alight with curiosity.   Their interest in our well being is fervent, they are truly anxious for us to be well, to be happy, to be served, to be rested, to be fed, to be cool - "Your car has not arrived.  Do not walk out into the heat until it does."  Not even my Mother this solicitous about my happiness and well being.   Arriving and leaving is such a celebration at this hotel, as there are at least eight people who bow and smile and ask where we are going, whether we are enjoying our activities, concerned it may rain and perhaps we would we like an umbrella, hands clasped in namaste and “heartfelt wishes to you Maam" and “have a successful outing, Maam”. What IS a successful outing?

 

A successful outing beckons us, and we pack in minutes and head out to the New Markets which surround our hotel - we want an up close and personal perspective of the "Pay and Use Toilet" which we have only seen from an aerial view is from our room. 

 

Walking into the heat is  like being blasted by a hairdryer and we are sweating before we reach the gate, a thirty second walk.  Our first foray without a guide is prophetic;   we are chased down the street by an aggressive salesman in a blue shirt.  Gerald has committed a fateful mistake, he has made eye contact, and responded to the question "Where are you from?"   Now he has us in his sights, and whilst I am avoiding all eye contact with passers by and determinedly striding through the crowd, this man has attached himself to Gerald like Velcro.  "Come to my shop!" He demands, Gerald says "We are just looking.”  "And what are you looking at?"   "People." responds Gerald "Why are you looking at people?" Gerald raises his eyebrows in exasperation.   I can see this line of talk will get us nowhere, and make a mental note never to answer questions from aggressive Indian salesmen. Velcro Man doggedly chases us down the street firing questions,, but we discover how persistent we too can be, and keep walking, and eventually find our way to the "Pay and Use Toilet".  There is so much going on here, we don’t know where to look first and both of us are soon snapping photos.  The man in the blue shirt is momentarily mystified and stops shouting at Gerald.  Sensing a chink in his defence we attempt to escape and dart across the road and turn a corner. I glance back, and see he is still in hot pursuit.  Then I see at the side of the 'park'  a small, dusty woman - actually two women – standing, their faces lined with dirt and despair and defeat.  They live here on these few square feet in the squalor of rubbish, plastic tarpaulins, and half naked children.  My heart skips a beat as my eyes lock with one of the women, she peers at me intently.  I don’t know what to say or do, I feel guilty, obscenely privileged and way too clean.  So I smile.  I sense Gerald and Velcro Man have stopped behind me, both now silent.  The woman closest to me in a red sari regards me hostilely, I bow and  open my bag and offer her a gift.  She looks puzzled, but I smile and offer it again; she hesitates, then takes it.  I feel no joy, it  is so meagre, just toiletries and fruit, but its all I have brought. Gerald and I turn to leave, it’s suddenly raining hard and we run for cover under an awning.  The man in the blue shirt shelters too, but now his face is wreathed in smiles, he nods an Indian nod at us and stops asking questions.  Something just happened here.

 

Back at the hotel, we are greeted by Som, the man who will take us to our vessel.  It's almost lunch time, and we are leaving the hotel for the last time and the staff are clearly heart broken.  I swear I see the glint of tears.  They are bowing, namaste-ing, taking photos, carrying bags, holding umbrellas, anxious about the rain, our health and our journey.  One young man, Shashank Kapur (Assistant Manager, Front Office his card informs me) - is 23, and has been here just a month.  He speaks Oxford English, is elegant, handsome and thoroughly professional;  his name reminds me of  the film "Shawshank Redemption". Making conversation, I tell him so and ask if he has seen it.  His beams enthusiastically and recounts vividly every detail from the scene in which  Morgan Freeman finally escapes.   His hands flutter over his heart, and his eyes shine when he says "And when the rain began to fall ..... I get goosebumps just thinking about it now…. I have seen that film many times.  Many times.  And you, tell me Maam, what did you think of it?"   Who would imagine I would be having a conversation like this in Kolkata with a 23 year old Indian film buff?  He and our son would get on like a house on fire.  

 

We bid a sad farewell;  it’s a sombre occasion for the staff.   We drive a short distance down a wide avenue which was used as a runway for war planes during World War 2 towards the wharf.   As we arrive, six men are waiting to take our luggage and escort us across the railway line to the river where our tender waits.  The railway line is something I have seen often in films and on social media, it’s lined on either side with families living in the poorest of circumstances, but the children look happy, playing and smiling and chasing each other, there is washing hanging to dry, women are cooking, and babies are crawling everywhere.  I shudder at the dangerous prospect of a baby or a child on the railway track with frequent speeding trains.  The driver tells us they know when the trains come, they can hear them and even the youngest babies know when to keep away from the tracks.  I find this incomprehensible and am filled with amazement at the resilience of human beings, but surely there must be terrible accidents?  He gives an Indian nod.  

 

Amongst these families, I am walking towards a ship where there are 21 staff to take care of just five guests on a seven day cruise down the Hoogly River. The injustice of this hits me square in the chest and my eyes spill over.

 

Just an accident of birth.

 

The five guests meet at the dock and introduce ourselves.  There are two aristocratic English women Jane and Irene, travelling together who are a little older than us, and Philip, who is 81 and looks like a fit 60 year old, who immediately tells us he has travelled the world and been to India seven times and is coming back in November.  

 

The tender is a ramshackle wooden long boat, but the staff are smiling and hefting suitcases and laying down gangplanks with a makeshift but effective handrail.  After laying planks between the shore and the boat, two men stand on each side holding a long piece of bamboo between them for a handrail.  Simple and ingenious.  The women urge me to go first, the ladder scares them, and I show off (just a little) by nimbly climbing down backwards, the way I have been taught to by boat faring friends.  Once at the ship, we alight after men manhandle heavy wooden steps into place and hammer in wooden chocks with strong fists.  The piece de resistance is the rope - two flimsy lengths which hold everything steady. Also ingenious.

 

Within minutes we are at the Sukapha, I expect to be piped aboard, and am not disappointed;  we privileged five guests are met by all 21 smiling staff, waiting for us with cool cloths and iced drinks.  Even the Captain and the Chef are there.  Every single one is introduced formally, and we are welcomed and led to one of the twelve cabins on board;  we are utilising only four of them.  We are in Cabin 1 which has two single beds.   This will not do for my Beloved and I, a problem which is quickly rectified.  In minutes, we are re-installed in the much bigger Cabin 12 (which happens to be one of our lucky numbers!) in the Honeymoon Suite, with a huge king size bed, two big windows which overlook views of the river bank on one side and the river flowing behind us at the very back of the ship.  I need a place to write, and assistance arrives in the form of Sanjit, a helpful yet strangely silent young man who has found two small tables to create a makeshift desk for me.  There are bedside lamps, drapes, and a large en suite shower with plentiful hot water plentiful and strong water pressure.  Thank you Dhurga.  

 

I learned yesterday that in the Raj era of India, in the 1700's and 1800's, when wealth for the privileged was vast and unimaginable, where the landlords lauded that wealth and lit their cheroots with paper money, equally unimaginable poverty existed.  Whilst wealthy families of four could have as many as 120 staff to take care of them, the highest wage per month was around 4 rupee ( 5 cents) and they often were not provided with food.  Whatever could you need that many staff for and pay them so little, I gasp?  "One would light the candles, one would open the windows, one would wash the feet, etc. etc.".  Now onboard our little ship, Jane has already worked out we have about four staff a head on this ship, and I wonder who is the foot washer. 

 

The water on the Sukapha comes from the Hoogly (oh my, really??!) and is filtered onboard, not clean enough for drinking sensitive Western stomachs,  but for showering and teeth brushing.   There are  bottles of water everywhere for drinking - which we use to brush our teeth with.  The only fish served on board also comes from the Hoogly, here Gerald and I exchange an anxious glance.   It is catfish because it is easy to fillet and not strongly flavoured.  Is it two headed?  Gerald murmurs in an aside to me.  I wonder. 

 

There is a welcome letter in our cabin, and it  is a beautiful thing.  In old fashioned and perfectly articulated English, it welcomes us as 'well-travelled guests from around the world' and tells us of their commitment to their people and the environment, advises that their staff come from regional areas and are untrained and are being trained from scratch, they seek our assistance to 'overcome temporary rough edges if any.'   They request we advise them of 'any shortcoming we have noticed' - and ask that we tread lightly on our environment and on tours to not give the children anything, not even a water bottle.  I am already charmed, but their last sentence enrols me:  "Two things we are absolutely confident of are the beauty of Bengal and the charm and welcome of its people."  I know we are in good hands. 

 

We set sail with little fanfare, down the orange/brown Hoogly where twigs, branches, dead fish, plastic bags and garbage of every kind float past.  Gerald suggests a large item nearby is a body, but it's a log, and anyway, I remind him loftily, the dead are cremated here. The Sukapha sails gently, she is a small but proud vessel, and whilst not five star, or even four star, she is comely, even attractive.  Well designed and furnished, she has bamboo walls, floors, and furniture,  heavy cream Indian cotton drapes and cushions, an old fashioned library with desk, a large and light dining area, a large comfortable lounge and bar, and even a ‘beauty salon’ where we can have a massage.

 

Lunch is around a large rectangular table which seats eight and conversation is difficult;  I am going deaf, and our Indian hosts are not loud speakers.   The lunch is a buffet, with eight men standing behind as many steamers, each one filled with a different spiced dish from Bengal.  The aroma is heavenly;  definitely, yes, this is heaven.  A ship and a grand expanse of water in unknown territory,  great food, my Beloved - and even wine!  What more does one require?  The wine list is small;  I am surprised to see Indian wine, Sula, and even more surprised to see Australian Jacobs Creek;  there is Kingfisher beer, Haywards beer, and inevitably Coca-Cola.  We have already cracked open the duty free and shared a celebratory bon voyage (a good enough reason for a noonday tipple) gin and tonic in our cabin, so after sampling several delicious curries and of Aussie chardonnay, I am ready for an afternoon nap.

 

Our wide windows provide us with an extensive view of both river banks. We could choose to sit on the top deck in lounges, but the heat is sapping.  I love sitting on the edge of the bed in the air conditioning and gazing out at the daily activities of the local villagers, the fishermen in boats and others repairing nets,  people bathing with their dark skin highlighted by masses of white soapsuds, shampooing their hair, washing their babies,  with a continuous reel spooling out like an old fashioned film of buildings in disrepair, with minarets and domes, black and green with mould, overgrown with tangled jungle green, abandoned broken down factories -  have they been bombed? - which turn out to be apartment blocks in which people are still living.

 

At 3.30 pm we are ferried ashore in the tender boat, just Phillip, Gerald and I, where we spend a pleasant hour wandering the verdant, mercifully peaceful streets of Barrackpore.  Here we are definitely ‘off the beaten track’, a brief Viv filled to perfection. We whites are an oddity here.  These were the military barracks during the 1700 - 1800's and now it is where statues to the ‘Glorious British’ abound.  "There were many atrocities committed on both sides" says Udit, our guide.  The lack of bitterness or resentment our guides have astounds me, how unlike Africa this is  - rather than feeling oppressed, there is a very great pride in their English colonialism and the many good things it provided.  I attempt on a couple of occasions  discover something otherwise, but no, with a thoughtful nod of the head, it is all Hail Britain.  Perhaps I am cynical, but maybe our guides have been trained to respond this way?  I think we  will be here long enough to find out.

 

We witness many young couples meeting illicitly under umbrellas, on motorbikes, and in the park.  Love is in the air, definitely, and there are boats for lovers to hire.   They have a private canopy sheltered by curtains,  and a discreet sailor who looks determinedly elsewhere whilst sailing them around the river, as they go about what is coyly referred to as 'Lover's Business' - uninterrupted. I am charmed and curious.  Surely the parents know?  How do get away from protective parents?  What happens if she gets pregnant?  Do they keep the sound down whilst they make love?  Do they rock the boat?   Gerald thinks these questions are way too personal, and I refrain from asking our guide.  

 

Negotiating the planks and the bamboo hand rail, we clamber back into our tender and  sail past a series of miserable, neglected looking buildings which were once part of  a Danish colony with a thriving community of 300 people. It is now a college of some repute.  Really?  It doesn’t look at all like the kind of place where one would be inspired to learn.  I have been to Denmark and marvelled at their architecture and style and grace.  It seems that this is all that was left by the Danes to mark  their presence here;  there appears to be nothing reminiscent of Danish culture, food or language.

 

Back on board and greeted with more cool cloths and cool drinks, and exhausted by the heat, I take a nap and then write, sitting at my strange little ‘desk’, stark naked.  I do not notice the time tick away when I am sitting writing, and hours pass.   Dinner is preceded by a briefing in the Saloon, with Udit our guide, the knowledgable and affable man who took us ashore today, Baba, the naturalist expert, shy and retiring, with a quick sense of humour, and Bumar, our general manager, charming and handsome.  Jane and Irene and Phillip complete the group.

 

These three English are articulate, outspoken, well travelled, intelligent, the women are elegantly attired – and all are clearly accustomed to service.  They got to the bar some while ago and the gin has already loosened tongues, the conversation is in full swing.  I decide to just listen and I learn a lot.  

 

Jane and Irene have been next door neighbours in Kent for 20 years, and have been travelling the world together for 18 of those years since they lost their respective partners to death/divorce.  Both attractive women, Jane reminds me of a young Maggie Smith, there is an imperiousness about her.  They are determined not to shop on this trip (peals of girlish laughter) but Jane loves jewellery, and often says, according to Irene "I have enough.  I need no more!"   We all laugh at this.  But then yesterday, says Irene, whilst out on a walk, Jane could not resist, and bought one thousand pounds worth of diamonds at a tiny jeweller, two minutes from our hotel.  Really?  "How did you know it was the real thing?" I splutter.  "I didn’t, I just liked the ear rings.  I will show them to you."

   

Jane avoids the English winter and lives six months of the year in Florida, where she has two gay friends who 'changed her life forever'.   She likes gay people.  Her children, she says, are actually not her children, they are her husband's children and grandchildren as she never had any of her own, and they never visit her there.  Here she pauses dramatically and adds with a disgruntled sniff ‘as they are too poor to afford the air fare'.  We all consider this, and I make a quick calculation of the cost of her jewellery she is wearing and her purchase yesterday.  She confides she never rises before 8 am, which I think could be a problem, as breakfast is at 7.30 am and we leave on our shore tour at 8.30 am.  Irene speaks far less than Jane, and she listens intently, as if she is going to be quizzed on what was said later but I can tell she enjoys her role as support person.  The duo are an upmarket Ab Fab, they know each other well, finish each other's sentences, laugh at each other's jokes, and clearly revel in each other's company.

 

Philip is 81 and he reminds me of curious a ten year old child playing his favourite game, he laughs a lot, makes challenging statements, and contributes much to a conversation which is  humourous and informative. He is a veteran traveller but he tells us no one in his life knows where he goes, or what he does.  Back home in Yorkshire he plays cards regularly with a group of 12 men, who never ask him questions about his travels, and he never offers to tell them anything.   What about your kids, I ask?  No, not them, neither, he says in his strong accent.  He is a mystery I shall discover more about.  He has few upper teeth and I wonder why he hasn't seen a dentist, yet has enough money to travel extensively and often.  Perhaps for the same reason Jane doesn't fly her husband's children to visit her. 

 

I would like to hear more from Irene, but she announces she needs a place to smoke and leaves to find one. 

 

By then, the rest of the table were into a story Bumar was telling of an eccentric English rich 92 year old widow, who flies once a year to the Lake Palace in Udaipur (where we will shortly be staying), although she keeps an apartment there all year round, ‘just in case’. This is one of the best hotels in the world and the cost must be exorbitant.  When she comes she brings her chauffeur and her 1932 silver Rolls Royce on the plane with her, and when she departs, both fly back to the UK with her.  We are in disbelief, this has to be just a story.  Gerald and I are guffawing at the outlandish extravagance of this, and I suggest that possibly the Rolls will conk out before she does.  Gerald says “Either the Rolls conks out before she does or the money does!”  Jane, seated to my right, says softly but audibly enough for me to hear "That's my problem!  Perhaps she was just lucky enough to have a husband who invested so wisely, that will never happen."  

 

Dinner is served, and I am happy that my suggestion of seating us in square for eight - two facing two facing two facing two, rather than the long table, has been adapted, it makes it so much easier to converse.  Phillip acknowledges that this was a good idea, he too, is somewhat deaf.  Irene doesn't eat, and I ask why, perhaps she doesn't feel feel well? - but she just shakes her head. The beautiful meal is consumed over a conversation that is always tedious to me, politics, in particular English politics and politicians I have never heard of and confess am not at all interested in, Brexit, the mistakes of the USA, the stupidity of Europe, the superiority of the English, and of course, Trump,  The Brits are having a fine time announcing their views about pretty much everything, both in England and internationally. I can scarcely stifle a yawn, this is so tedious, and at 9 pm I leave Gerald to it.   I excuse myself and carry a cup of chamomile tea to our cabin to write this.

 

I like this rare time alone; it's quiet and peaceful, we are moored in the dark on the Hoogly River, I have a big bed, tea, and the prospect of my husband joining me shortly.

 

All is well in my world.

 

  

Day 4 - 10th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

 

ORSON WELLS AND A RICKSHAW RIDE 

 

We are awake at 5.30 am as the sun is already high in the sky.  Jane is going to have to change her ways.  Oh, the indulgence of waking up with nothing else to think about, but clamber out of bed and reach for this little I-pad and write.  Gerald brings tea from the lounge, and we crank up the air con, as at 24 degrees it feels like Antartica in here, so now we are pleasantly warm at 27 degrees.

 

Our itinerary tells us that today we will sail to Chandernagore, a French possession until 1950, and visit an 18th century church and Duplex's House (?) which has a small museum.  Father Orson Welles lives here, he is a Catholic priest, and apparently it is his real name.  I am already interested.  Udit says "He is jolly and was once dressed by Mother Theresa."  Really?  I am looking forward to meeting this man.  We will sail past the Old Dutch settlement of Chinsura then land to visit the imposing Imambara, a great mosque, after which we leave behind the urban sprawl and sail into the wilderness.  Sounds good to me.

 

Our travelling companions are well dressed in expensive linen and silks, but I fear, somewhat inappropriately for a Hoogly River cruise in monsoonal India. For India, full stop.  The women's jewellery is expensive and lavish, with lots of gold and diamonds, perfect for the Amalfi Coast but ostentatious in this environment. Am I feeling a little plain?   I have left my 'good jewellery' at home, and am travelling with plastic ear rings and bracelets, and my carefully thought out wardrobe consists of my $9 on sale from Rivers cotton pants, my two for ten dollars canvas shoes, a bargain buy from Ezibuy, a selection of $2 Vinnies cotton tops, and two squashable cotton hats.  Definitely not fashionable, definitely not the elegance I normally strive for, but cool and functional.  Just as well there is no full length mirror in the room. When Gerald emerges from his shower, he takes one look at me and bursts out laughing, tries to speak, laughs again, and announces 'Very Indian.'

 

Gerald and I devour an Indian breakfast. Jane has made it out of bed, and she and our companions opt for boiled eggs and toast.   I feel embarrassed - well, just a bit - as to how many times I return for the chick pea puffs and spiced vegetables;  Gerald notices their stares, and explains that despite my size, I eat a lot.   Irene who went to bed without dinner last night and is late to breakfast, is still not feeling well.  She has a heart condition and feels a bit dizzy, and will not join us on our outing.  So just four of us leave the ship, it is so much work for so few people, but Barun informs us that on the previous trip, there was just ONE passenger, and the whole itinerary still went ahead.  

 

I understand the meaning of the word 'languid' sailing on this lazy brown river, where the heat shimmers and perspiration oozes. The 'country boat' takes us ashore and we walk the streets of Chandernagore, a charming town with a wide river side boulevard, the buildings often in disrepair and so evidently French.  This place is the opposite of languid.  There are emaciated cows eating garbage, foul smelling water oozing underfoot as we try to avoid squelching through it, cow poop everywhere, there are dogs lying in the middle of the pot holed roads, bells and hooters hollering, women in rainbow coloured saris shopping, children going to school, children coming home from school, rickshaws and bicycles and bicycles with wooden trays at the rear (a clever mobile shop), shops made with four bamboo poles and a sheet of plastic for a roof, people walking with umbrellas, people riding bikes with one hand and an umbrella in the other, men cutting hair, men repairing tyres, chickens in tiny cages, meat hanging on hooks, auto rickshaws, human rickshaws, cars and people everywhere.   Despite this chaotic description, it is a peaceful place when compared with Kolkata, and people look happy.  Children smile and wave, people gesture that they want their photo taken, so that soon I am beaming and calling out "Hello!" Every single person responds with a smile or a wave.

 

We walk to the Church of Sacred Heart, run by Fr. Orson Wells, who only a came here three years ago, aged 64.   He wears a long white robe over a sizeable stomach, has gaps in his teeth which you notice immediately as this man smiles all the time.  The church was constructed in 1690 to look after the needs of the French and Portugese traders, and in 1753, over 4000 Catholics lived here.  It is in disrepair, but much less so than it was when Fr. Orson came here.  He invites us to sit but Jane declines, and is heading out the side door when in a subtle but practised move, he engages her in conversation, and steers her 'into the fold' (rather like Mother Theresa, I imagine). She sits lips pursed, stiff and unyielding.  He explains that after many battles between the French, Spanish, Portugese, Danish, English and I forget who else - the church was considered too 'precious' to be open to the public - and was kept locked every day except Sundays, when mass was held.  As a result, the humidity destroyed much of the plaster work, paintings and the confessionals, and the woodwork was eaten by termites and white ants.  The grand organ lies almost in pieces, a testament to the white ants.  He is a great raconteur and I sneak a peak at Jane, who is now listening intently.

 

Fr. Orson talks a lot, his background is Anglo Indian, hence his name, and he is surrounded by people waiting to talk to him, but his attention is with a little impeccably dressed Hindu girl, who visits the church every day for a blessing.  She is a very spiritual child he says, and she and her mother are here now in distress, as her father is in hospital for surgery to his hip.  He strokes her hair as he speaks to the mother, his compassion evident.   When he turns to us, I feel I am in the presence of a Good Man, a Holy Man.  His smile is high voltage, his eyes connect and you are the centre of his universe.  He shares the history of his church with us, and tells us that recently they had a huge procession through the streets, which took over an hour in torrential rain and over a thousand attended.  As a result, there is a new statue which was donated to the church of Saint Theresa, and he proudly displays her to us.   He tells us that the first thing he did when he came here was to open the doors - now the doors to the church are open from 6 am to 8 pm and later - every night, and he welcomes Muslims, Hindus and Catholics all of whom gather here daily.  "Everyone is welcome in this church" he says.  Gerald and I relay the ugly story of the fire and brimstone mass we attended in Ireland last year led by Fr. Dooley and he shakes his head, genuinely upset.  "We cannot preach hate.  Only tolerance and love, and unite all people.  We are all the same." He goes each week to visit the religious places of both the Hindu and Muslim community - but says, "Really, we are all ONE community here."  My heart swells, this is truly what religion is meant to be, about acceptance and tolerance, love and generosity, compassion and understanding, resilience and faith and good humour.  We are in the presence of a very good man, a true Man of God.  Fr. Ronan would love him.

 

Barun and this shipping line have had a major influence on him and this community, as it was their idea to start to restore the church, and they have helped to raise funds as they bring their passengers here and have lobbied the French and Danish governments to donate money to restore and repair the church. Fr. Orson and Barun are eager to show us the renovations that have been done, and explain in detail their plans for the future.   They have a very affectionate and easy relationship, they know each other well and poke fun, they speak in rapid fire Bengali and revert to English just as easily, and laugh a lot.  I ask if I can take their picture, Fr. Orson says "Let's hold hands and people will imagine we are gay, huh?"  I ask about Mother Theresa, "Well," he says "I come from a family of nine, and another Anglo Indian family in the house next to ours had five children, and I think Mother Theresa thought she would hit many birds with one stone with our families."  She would visit when he was just a child, and help the mother to dress the children, (hence Fr. Orson was dressed by Mother Theresa) and at school these kids would make paper packets for medicine for her charity out of old exercise books, something they were very proud of.  He met her many times over the years;  she visited several of the projects he was working on, she followed his progress to Rome, and has visited this church too, but long before he came here.  I ask if he will bless the rosaries of my parents, and he beams, genuinely delighted. He places one hand upon my head, the other makes the sign of the cross, and he says "Lord, bless the departed souls of the parents of this, your child, and make them holy."  I do not remember what else he said because I am swamped with love and my eyes are full.   

 

Our tour takes us into the sacristy where there are cupboards from the 1700's, all kinds of religious icons, a huge cross, a relic of a wardrobe with secret panels, and a spiral staircase leading up to a gallery, which Barun has visited, but suggests I do not, the stairs are so steep and there are several spirals.  Yes, to this vibrant young man, I am old.   But he is wise.  They are steep.  Instead we walk through the gardens, to a grotto of the Mother Mary, and a mis-spelled sign which says "Sacred Place - Maintain Santity" - someone has placed an arrow and a 'c' to clarify it is meant to read "Sacred Place -Maintain Sanctity".  I ask Fr. Orson to pose in front of the sign, saying "Please maintain your SANITY and pose in front of the sign!" He guffaws as if it is the funniest joke he ever heard and invites Gerald to join him and  'maintain your sanity too'.  I notice another sign which prohibits photographs being taken, but Fr. Orson waves it aside, saying "Ignore that." 

 

I do not want to leave this place, nor this man, but our guide says it is time to leave and Jane has had more than enough Catholicism for a day.  Or a lifetime.  We walk down a dusty road, back to the shore, along a once handsome promenade lined with once glorious homes.  There are two enormous bronze sculptures facing each other on either side of the road, a symbol of harmony.  One is of a Hindu heaven whilst the other depicts Allah and the Muslim people.  Around the corner is a handsome statue of Gandhi behind a small fence, but the gate is open, and there is a metal ladder alongside of him.  Gerald points and says "Get your photo taken with Mr. Gandhi."   I think how considerate it is of the mayor or whomoever to provide this little ladder for a photo opportunity and climb up and pose alongside of the Holiest Man of India.   When I cross the road a minute later, Udit our guide hisses "SANDRA! - you can't do that! If the authorities had seen that we would be in BIG trouble."  

 

Our country boat awaits and we are back on the Sukapha only 15 minutes behind schedule, wet through with sweat.  Jane has no sunglasses, no hat, no sunscreen and has not drunk any water, and is red faced. I express my concern, it is so hot, and suggest for our next tour she is better prepared for the heat.  "My head sweats in a hat, I sweat off sunscreen, I cannot be bothered to carry water, and it's too hot to wear sleeves."   Well, OK then.  I want to say "Don't say I didn't warn you" but am too transformed for righteousness.  Udit informs us we will meet again in one hour for our next excursion, and Jane expostulates (I always wanted to use that word in writing) - and so we meet later, in one hour and fifteen minutes.   I do not expect her to show, but she does, hatless and waterless.

 

The country boat reaches shore in two minutes and moors without concern amongst a couple of dozen men, women and children all bathing in the river, soaping themselves up, bobbing under water and washing their hair.  The kids white teeth flash and they grin and wave and dive, swimming out to the boat to practise their English.  Six man powered rickshaws await us, us four passengers and our two guides, Udit and Baba.  "Pick your rickshaw" we are instructed.  I lock eyes with a tiny, ancient man, about my height, who must weigh ten kilos less than I do (52 kgs) - he has an orange cap, and I have an orange hat - I smile at him and point to them both and to him and I, give a namaste and a thumbs up (universal language!) - and he grins a toothless grin.  He and I pose for photos and then our entourage is off, as Udit says, like "Michael Schumaker".  It is a hair raising ride, but Yameer is a professional, and although we are last in the order, he never loses pace with the one in front, toots his horn to communicate his position (I think - or possibly just for fun) - and manages to avoid potholes, cars, cows, other rickshaws, children, buses, dogs and trucks.  Either he is too short or his bike is too big, because he cannot sit on the seat and pedal, he has to stand on the outsize wooden pedals, and drops dangerously from side to side as he pedals us furiously forward. And he never even perspires.  I am in awe. 

 

We dismount intact, although Jane is sure her spine has cracked, complains about the condition of the road and that her driver needs to get some springs on his rickshaw, and that the rickshaw ride was too long, and isn't it a shame about the sun and humidity and the heat? She is in fucking India for God's sake.   I resist smacking her, and we all return to the Sukapha unscathed.

 

A blessed cool shower, and fresh clothes, and lunch.  An European lunch with duck and lamb and veggies and salad which the Poms enjoy, not a spice in sight.  The gentle rock of the boat is like a lullaby, and after lunch I sleep for an hour whilst Gerald reads and the ship transports us to our next destination.  The river is narrow and both sides are clearly visible;  a changing panorama now of grasses and trees, verdant green and for long distances, there are no buildings.  It is easy to imagine an elephant or a tiger here.  I have my first Indian massage with Rajnish, it costs $40, and I am aware he probably doesn't even earn that in a month.   He is eager to please, and very respectful, but clearly not well trained.  He does his best.  I lie and tell him it was very, very good.

 

Gerald has ploughed his way through at least another book, and I spend most of my time writing.  We meet in the saloon at 7 pm for a debrief of the day and a taster of what is coming tomorrow. Udit our guide is a historian and an orator, widely studied and researched and at heart, an actor.  He has an authority about him, he pauses theatrically in his speech, widens and narrows his eyes, leans ack and forth, arches his eyebrows, raises and lowers his voice. He tells us tomorrow is about Bengali architecture and thankfully only I see Gerald's eyes cross.  He describes the minarets and Arabic influence, the red burnt clay and the granite (which he pronounces 'gran-eye-t', the brilliance of the minds of the men who built such structures centuries ago without the aid of computers, who had no libraries and universities and air conditioning and examinations.  He tells us of the needle used to make drawings on stone: "Can be a man.  Can be a woman.  Can be a king.  Can be a queen.  Can be even Tom, Dick and Harry."   I love this quirky use of English language, he is at home in English as I am, yet says things which make me smile, similar to Yul Brenner in "The King and I".  Like "Etcetera, etcetera."  Also, "And so on and so on."  We will go out twice tomorrow - once at 8.30 am and once at 3.30 pm - and both Philip and Jane accuse Udit of being a 'cruel man' for his driving us in this way.  He laughs and agrees. He is a nice man - they are all nice men - and very intensely focussed on ensuring we are satisfied.  Barun is a very entertaining man, handsome and funny, and describes to us how hard it is to be understood in Tamil, a language he had to learn.   He gives us all the facial gestures, his arms waving, and there is much laughter.  Talk goes on past 8 pm, by now my eyes are drooping, and Philip is in full flight, I can see unless an intervention occurs, we could be here till 9 pm, whilst dinner cools downstairs.  I excuse myself to the toilet and then head to the dining room, where I wait, in solitude.  Five minutes later, I head back to the saloon, where the conversation is still flowing and Gerald's eyes are rolling, but people remain seated.  Mercifully my (possibly aggrieved) appearance reminds them of dinner, and they head to the dining room.

 

Despite my fatigue I manage to partake of another beautiful Indian meal, with the smiling staff standing to attention like military police behind the polished domes hiding our delicacies.  Possibly due to the lengthy 'cocktail hour' upstairs, much is revealed during this meal, and the plot thickens.  It turns out Philip has never been married, has never had kids, is not an academic, but worked in the 'clothing area' for his working life.  It took some sleuthing on my part to discover this, but these are interesting facts.  And Irene, who emerged briefly for lunch, has disappeared once more - she is not 'indisposed', just tired.  Jane and Phillip are locked in mortal combat about who has travelled the most and where, and the competition is upped when Philip reluctantly reveals he has not been to Africa.  But has Jane?  She manages to dodge the question, and continues to present us with amazing facts with the clarity of a scientist and delivered in a tone not to be questioned.  Jane is, on this trip, anyway, the FOK.  Font of Knowledge.  Jane.  FOK.  She knows more about India than our guides, and has no hesitation in correcting them, and even when they gently correct her facts, she remains resolute.  Rule Brittania.

 

I am as worn out as a child who has been over indulged and seen too many exciting acts at the circus;  I am ready for bed and I leave the entertainment at the table.  I delight in our laundry which was only taken away at lunch time but is back in our cabin, pristine and fresh. 

 

 

Day 5 - Sunday 11th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

 

LINGHAMS, YONIS, GEORGE HARRISON AND HARE KRISHNA and then - 

AN ELOPEMENT 

 

Jane arrives at breakfast and falls heavily on to her chair with a dramatic sigh and announces she has not slept well, and probably will only be going on one outing today, as she is 'too old for this sort of thing'.  Irene will not be joining us, and despite their long friendship, Jane hasn't seen her since lunch time yesterday.  (Is Irene alive, I wonder?  Would this woman walk down the corridor to find out?)   She spies a bird and queries its breed but when advised, denounces it, and says it is something else entirely.  Our guide, the environmental expert, does not argue the point.  How far will we have to walk, she asks.  She fears it may rain, and wonders if the ground will be muddy, and isn't it humid?  

 

Frankly, I am amazed that the Indians put up with the British for so long.  We have been with three representatives of that country (well two really, as Irene doesn't count for we have hardly seen her) for two days and I am ready to blast them off the ship with a cannon.  Or even a musket.

 

Barun arrives and compliments me on my attire, saying "You look very Indian today Sandra."  See, Gerald.  Perhaps I WAS Indian in a previous life.  I am clad in orange from head to toe, getting my inner Indian on as we are going to a Hare Krishna temple today, the one that George Harrison and John Lennon frequented.   Somehow the conversation turns to marriage, and Barun speaks of his mother's desire to 'marry him off', he is 29 and 'it is time'.  This industrious woman has already had 30 astrological charts compiled of possible brides for him.  She rang him yesterday and asked him to chant a mantra every day for the next week which will apparently help his marriage prospects and insists that each day he must wear a certain stone on his body, to be advised by his his Mother or his Aunt daily.  He shows me two stones he is wearing today, and says "I don't know if it is true, but I respect them, and I always do what they ask."  Oh dear Lord, what I would give for such an audience with my son?  Are you listening Joshua?  Gerald and I are captivated as he explains some of their beliefs around marriage, but Jane and Phillip look irritated as he relates the  importance of energy and colours and chakras, and distinctly uncomfortable when he mentions the sexual chakra and the third eye, and how Indian women wear the dot of colour on their foreheads and a ring on their second toe as it is energetically connected to the uterus.  Uterus?  Did someone just say The "U" Word?  I sense a shift in the group energy.  Jane raises her eyebrows and intervenes - perhaps to prevent the conversation from taking a further awkward turn - and announces that she knows all about chakras, as she has learned 'all this' on one of her travels, although she cannot remember which colour represented what or why.  The point being, I think, her desire to move on and change the subject to more acceptable English topics.  The FOK has spoken (remember Font of Knowledge from yesterday?) or possibly, this could be the World Authority Speaking.  (WAS).  Maybe she is a FOK-WAS and I am not giving her enough credit.  But I like the acronym, I shall coin it, it has a ring. 

 

However, Jane, the FOK-WAS - clearly not my favourite person - won't be getting a Christmas card from me.

 

Today Baba told me a story which expanded my heart.  I had asked him if he was married and if he had children.  He explained;  yes he is married, and has two children, a boy who is four years old and a girl who is three years and four months.  Really?  "Our son is adopted."  This is what happened.  His wife was pregnant and he happened to be away working on the day planned for her prenatal check up at the hospital.  There she met up with an old friend who held a basket carrying her newborn baby son.  The young mother, just a girl he said, had given birth outside of marriage, a grevious sin for Hindus, and she had come to the hospital to leave the baby there.  Baba says such women often abandon their babies, throw them into the river, or simply kill them, rather than face the dishonour of the cultural crime of premarital sex they have committed - and possibly death themselves.  Baba's wife brought the baby home and telephoned him in Calcutta, to tell him what she had done.  I went crazy, he said.  "You are  pregnant with our baby, we do not want or need someone else's!  Take it back!  Give it away!  I don't want it!"  Very calmly she replied "I will not discuss this further on the phone, we will talk face to face when you come home."  When he got home, she just handed the infant to him and said "Hold this child, Baba. Then do with it what you want to.  Throw it in the Hoogly.  Kill it.  It's up to you."  His eyes filled with tears as he recalled that moment and he said "I held that baby and I thought - my wife is a good woman.  We will keep this baby."  And they did.

 

Jane, Phillip, Gerald and I go ashore in the country boat to the Ghat, where people are bathing in the muddy water and washing their clothes;  there is a private building for the women to retain their modesty and change their clothing, and there is washing spread out on every surface.  From the boat, it looks like a flock of birds of brilliant colours; orange and red, yellow and pink, turquoise and green.  Kids are shrieking with with joy playing in the water.  I watch this scene and my brain fizzes like the first sip of gin and tonic, this never ending assault on the senses is relentless.  My heart is overcome with emotion, and constantly confused.  I don't know whether I want to laugh or cry.  

 

So I follow instructions (its easier than facing my emotions) and choose a rickshaw from the line up of men waiting.  I select mine because the driver is old and small, I too am small and want it to be as easy as possible for him, plus he reminds me of Gandhi, with tiny gold wire rimmed glasses, a miniature of a man with a broad smile. Jane protests against this rickshaw ride - after yesterday's rickshaw ride - which she felt was 'too long and her back hurt too much'.  I resist screeching 'What about the rickshaw driver, whose humble profession earns him the money to feed his family, whose back and feet and neck are no doubt killing him?'   Udit however, apologises, and says we will rickshaw one way, and walk back the other, is that OK?  I don't think this alternative pleases her either, but she would lose face if she said she preferred to rickshaw back to the country boat, so we walk back.  I take vicarious satisfaction in watching her face sweat and redden as we walk.  On foot, and as a bonus, we visit several amazing temples which Udit describes as some of the finest of Bengali architecture anywhere, their design is so intricate and their colours so unique.  I begin to glaze, overwhelmed with history and India and fuelled with vengeful thoughts of Jane.  I am such a bad person.  I breathe out "Jane is my teacher."   Yes.  Of what, exactly?   I lag behind so I don't have to listen to her complaints.

 

Gerald and I hold hands, as we often do when out walking, something which people here seem quite amused by.  A group of ten smiling men of all ages gather around us, extending hands to be shaken, asking for photos,, always posing and rearranging their clothing, doing the Indian nod.  They practice their English, "Where are you from?" And straight from English for Indians Class, the formal "What are you feeling about India?"  They jostle for position next to Gerald, patting him on the back, and we discover they think he is someone called Bill Cisco who they declare is a very famous film star, at least in India, and this is their brush with Real Fame. We correct this mistaken identity, but it makes no difference, they think Bill Cisco is having them on, and pretending to be an ordinary tourist, so we submit and have a hundred photos taken.  We reluctantly extricate ourselves from this adoring group of fans - our tour awaits us, somewhere close by we hope - and one of them grasps my hand, his huge liquid brown eyes boring into mine, and says "Thank you gracing our country with your beauty and presence."  Good Lord, I am swooning with delight but Gerald walks off with a swagger, all hips and attitude, reminiscent of Bill Nighy.  Perhaps they thought he was Bill Nighy?  I don't want to encourage his movie star status. 

 

NB. I google several variations of Bill Cisco and come up with nothing.    

 

We run to catch up with our group, which was just as well, or we may have missed the unique Shiva Temple, built in 1809 by Maharaja Teja Bahadur.  These Atchala brick temples are built in what Udit describes as an 'auspicious numerical combination in two concentric circles' and dedicated to Shiva.  The outer circle contains 74 temples and inner circle has 34 temples.  Yes, you read that a right, the number alone is astonishing, apparently the temples symbolically represent beads in a rosary.  I am in awe.  There were no computers when this was built, this is a marvel equal to the Pyramids or the Parthenon.  Each is embellished with intricate floral designs, birds and people and inside every one is a marble lingham and a yoni - all of different sizes, alternately black and white, signifying darkness and light.  (For those of you who do not know - a lingham is a penis and a yoni is a vagina.)  In each shrine, the yoni is designed to face north, and as we walk around the concentric circle the yoni moves a degree or two, until the circle is complete.   Mathematical genius.

 

We come across an unusual construction, layered in dusty white and pink stripes, above which is an elaborate dome decorated with carvings of full breasted, large yoni'd women.   Jane has got there before us and for the first time, I hear some excitement in her voice.  "Sandra!  Look!"  She is standing under a low arch pointing upwards.  I see a detailed stone carving and stare straight into the depths of a yoni, the lips of which are being held apart by a blissful looking Goddess who squatting above us.  Diane McCann, my Shakti Tantric Goddess Guide - you are always with me.    Jane is flushing but looks terribly pleased with her discovery.  Udit is beaming with this unexpected response this has created in the immutable Jane shaking his head in delight, leads us to a special tree.  It is a combination of all kinds of trees, at least six grafted together, and all flourishing, a huge abundant green force and source of nature.  Alongside it is a temple he wants to show us, a temple dedicated to Radha and her lover Krishna, a legendary lover who apparently had 1600 girlfriends, but Radha remained his favourite.  "What was her secret?" I ask, but Udit shrugs his shoulders, who knows?  "Perhaps she had a magical yoni?" I suggest and Udit explodes in laughter.  I sneak a peek at Jane and she is laughing too.  Perhaps the Sacred Yoni has joined us, and is working a miracle here with Jane.

 

As Gerald and I walk away from these stunning buildings and lush gardens, we see four women, unmistakably two mothers with their daughters, and I say hello and comment on their beauty. They laugh in delight and clap their hands over their mouths, then speak over each other in their haste to be the first to engage me in conversation.  They have travelled here to study 'holy things' and they all want photos taken with me.  But I am not a holy thing, I joke?  They erupt in laughter, and jostle for position alongside of me.  The resemblance between them is astonishing although the daughters are dressed in modern clothing and their mothers are in saris.  We have scarcely said our farewells when another sari clad lady stops as I greet her. She is Mita and in such awe of our company she can scarcely speak.  When I ask if we can take her photo she practically faints in delight and I grasp her hand.  We have both seen it.   I point to the vitiligo on my hands and then to the vitiligo on her hands - she smiles and nods and in as if it were rehearsed, we both touch our hearts.  We are the same.  The moment abruptly ends as she leaves only to return a minute later with a mobile phone vested from someone, apologises and asks "May I take a photo for my daughter?  She will be very pleased to see such a thing!"  Mita is a teacher of mathematics, and comes from a place close the airport in Kolkata called Domdom. Her group is moving on, she has to go.  She bows and says "Thank you for coming to our country" she smiles, still breathing heavily with excitement.  I am so touched and humbled by these frequent interactions.  To me they are far more important than the shrines and the temples.   Even Jane is has been moved, she has relaxed her formal approach so much she even joined us for a photo.

 

We walk back through streets of what could be described as chaos, but here is just everyday life happening. We see skinny goats and cows, a man urinating next to a public water pump where people are filling jugs with water for their homes, carried on their heads as their hips rock sensually, dozens of smiling children, men who appear angry until I smile when they respond with a grin, tractors and vehicles of every description and the constant cacophony of tooting.  The market is the busiest I have seen, there are so many people we can scarcely walk and the traffic runs unabated through the centre.  The crush and noise of the crowd is terrifying, I marvel that people not being run over.  Merchants are selling spices, fish, fruit and vegetables which are being weighed on machines from the last century.  Women choose their produce with discerning eyes, poking and pointing, and buy only what they need for lunch.  This afternoon they will shop again, and buy only what they need for dinner.  So the market is constantly busy.

 

It is hot, very hot, and my blouse has stuck to my skin with sweat, and my hair plastered to my scalp.  Jane has stopped speaking she is so hot.  Our hard working, sweatless crew are strong and slender as a bean stalk.  They are erecting the gangplank and creating the bamboo rail for us to board the country boat, we clamber in and flatten several bottles of water.  Back on board the Sukalpha there is the normal welcoming committee, wreathed in smiles - joyously greeting us as you would a favourite relative after a very long absence, and hand out cool cloths and iced tea.   If they were allowed to hug us, I think they would - and I admit I am tempted,, but it would be a breach of protocol.  We remove our shoes, 'just in case of cow poo', and within minutes they are cleaned and returned to our cabins.

 

We shower, and I write.

 

Lunch is a fish pie, a stir fry of lamb and veggies, onion rings, cabbage and coconut salad, a special bread with sour mango chutney, and a banana mousse for dessert.  Irene has joined us and looks happy and well, I am pleased she hasn't died and we have all been so busy we overlooked that tiny detail.  However, she has booked a head massage with Rajesh, and won't be coming out this afternoon.  Jane too, won't be joining us, and says "This will be the last trip like this we do, it's just too much and too tiring, we're getting too old."  I get it.  Which is why Gerald and I are 'doing' India now.  I tell them our age and ask them theirs - Jane is 73 and Irene is 74, and I take my hat off to them, travelling together.  "If you want to rest, to to Bali" I recommend, and when Irene hears of the of the hotels like the Oberoi, the gorgeous villas, the clothes, the massages, the leather handbags and silver, she gets excited.  We discover that Udit is a good friend of Viv Craig of Viv's India, and DK of Mystery Tours.  Viv is the charming Zimbabwean woman who organised this tour for us, and we are delighted to have this connection.  "We are practically family now!" he exclaims with happiness, "I wish I had known this on Friday!"  I wonder on earth what he would have done to take care of us better, he has been so attentive.

 

I am practising this for later:

 

 KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA

KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE

HARE RAMA HARE RAMA

RAMA RAMA HARE HARE

 

Our tour this afternoon takes us to what is considered here to be the Vatican of Bengal, it is the ISKON temple in Mayapur.  (International Society for Krishna Consciousness), which is where George Harrison first made contact with Bhakti Vedanta Prabhupava, and where he, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr joined the Hare Krishna movement, and millions of devotees followed their lead;  this was where they learned to play the sitar and entered into their 'spiritual phase'.  Their involvement in this organisation was it's salvation as the numbers were declining and money was scarce.  Since then, more millions of devotees have joined internationally;  that is what The Beatles can do.  The first gigantic temple was built in the 1980's on the Beatles money - and today we visit it plus a new one currently being constructed.  I cannot explain the vastness of this place.   From a kilometre or more away, it looks like a space craft, literally thousands of people visit it each day, it is the size of a town and there are donation boxes everywhere and men with guns protecting entrances and exits, and Hare Hare is heard from every speaker.  There are shops, restaurants, conference centres, and soon to be a multi story car park, accommodation ranging from 'for the public, for the tourist, and for the very very wealthy'.  There are billboards everywhere with the image of the founder His Divine Grace Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada - and blatant requests for money, ie billions of rupees, and one which announces for a sum of rupees which ends with lots of zeros you will get a diamond plus your name forever etched in this glorious building.   It is intriguing to see in this supposedly highly spiritual place, such blatant marketing;  Udit says and that a 'there is a lot of foreign money here.'

 

There are advertisements selling things and signs in many languages, including Russian, Italian and in English - "We intend for the whole world to come to Mayapur".   It seems that the whole world IS here, there are thousands of people everywhere.  Devotees, servers, security, shopkeepers, families with children, tourists, old people hobbling on sticks, Indian men in orange robes and white robes, and a lot of Western families with children, all with shaved heads wearing Indian clothing.   There are 'many, many' Americans devotees, says Udit, and astonishingly, this whole place is run by an American woman. 

 

Gerald and I stop at a vast billboard, which offers an unusual invitation.   "Come to Mayapur, and lovingly touch a cow!"  It depicts a sari clad woman blissfully stretching out to pat one of three fat cows in a pristine, lush green field;  if there is a field like this in India, we have not seen it.  Underneath is written:  "A person who daily touches the cow after taking his bath becomes liberated from all sinful reactions."  (Parma Purana, Srishti Khanda.)  I want to be liberated from all sinful reactions, and we have just showered, so I suggest we find a cow to touch, but Gerald says "No, it's the COW who needs to have had a bath."  What?  Not even Australian cows take baths.  We have to get Udit to mediate.  He takes our question very seriously, and responds dead pan. No, he says, it is the person who has to have had a bath, not the cow.  I do love to be right, but there are no fat cows nor lush fields about, so my sinful reactions remain unliberated.

 

We have to leave our phones, shoes, cameras and bags behind with Baba, who jokes he will have 'made off' with them when we return, and so unencumbered, I feel naked.   We meekly walk past a uniformed man with a very big gun;  I remind myself that we are entering a temple (this IS a temple, right?) passing through a sophisticated security system and enter the "Old Temple".  It's an assault on the senses. Hare Hare is being sung in three different places, in different chords, men in white robes are playing a drums and sitars, there are dazzling, lurid statues of Gods and Goddesses on three different stages, whose lavish embroidered clothes are studded with gold and seed pearls, and are changed daily.  There are scores of people purchasing vouchers, and I discover that they are 'buying blessings'.   Yes, you can buy a blessing, or several blessings, if you are particularly in need.  Does God require money to bless me?  People hand over their vouchers/blessing requests and join the unending queue to each stage, where there is a man waving a feathery whisk, another blowing on a conch horn, and one using a Blessing Bell  - a golden pot - which he places over the heads of the people lining up to be blessed.  

 

There is a spectacular statue of Bhakti Vedanta Prabhupava, Founder and George Harrison's guru, in front of which people are lying prostrate on the floor or bowing reverently.  I feel uneasy here, the hair on my neck stands up.  There is a barely discernible sense of unpredictability - hysteria? - and I could imagine a change in atmosphere happening very quickly and crowds of riotous people.  There are many less people than Utid had imagined, this is a plus, he says, sometimes you cannot move.  I am feeling overwhelmed by the crowds already, but technically I guess, he is correct, we can move. There are large tour groups, mostly Indians, singing and praying and raising their hands heavenwards and people laying face down on the floor in worship, pointing in every direction.  Utid explains that they lie this way to enable the largest expanse of their bodies to receive the 'rays of blessings' which emit from these Gods.  But have they handed over their vouchers, I wonder.  We are given fifteen minutes to roam about and I have no intention of queuing for thirty minutes up to buy a voucher to get blessed.  I am surprised when it dawns on me that I cannot wait to prostrate myself upon the floor and receive the rays of blessing everyone else is receiving.  I tell Gerald and he stands back, apprehensive, what will his wife do next?  We are the only Europeans in here, and my action causes quite a stir.  Utid too, is a little perplexed.  Just yesterday, I was praying with Fr. Orson and having my rosary blessed.  Still, we are all one, Fr. Or son said so, and every blessing helps, even if I haven't paid for it.   I have practised yoga most of my life and it feels good to get down on my knees and stretch out into a full body stretch.  I try not to think of the germs and am careful to keep my face off the floor upon which thousands are walking and just breathe there for a moment, slide back into the pose of the child, and stand up.  I like it so much that ten minutes later, I have another go, and a man rewards me with a marigold head.  See, the rays of blessing are working already.  Gerald is watching me from a distance and shakes his head, and I can tell he is relieved when Udit says we have to leave. 

 

Everywhere we look, there are images of  Bhakti Vedanta Prabhupava's face, and Udit says there is a strong rumour they are going to build a huge statue of George Harrison here. It is extraordinary that this multi billion dollar 'spiritual' enterprise is not seen as a cult.

 

Strolling back to the road we pass a huge domed, highly decorated building which was the home of George Harrison when he stayed here, and parked outside is the car he drove, an old Morris Isis, which Utid says, at that time, in this place, was regarded in the same category as a Ferrari.  I use the word 'stroll' deliberately, because moving is difficult and you have to have your wits about you getting to and from this Sacred Place.  There are so many people all trying to avoid buses, rickshaws and motor bikes which speed along, quite different to the languid pace of the other places we have visited in rural Bengal.  It has rained heavily and there is mud and cow poop everywhere;  escaping both the vehicles and the muddy spray requires skill.  I notice how commercial and unfriendly this place is compared to other places we have visited, even this morning just a few kilometres away, people were smiling and waving.  Not so here.  People are here from all over India, all over the world - but this is Merchandising Territory, this is Big Business, people are here to make money, and do not return smiles or a greeting.  One woman with betel stained teeth and wild eyes, spitting red gobs to the ground and clearly affected by drugs, screams what is clearly an insult at me.  People avert their eyes, and I feel a tension and an aggression I have not felt elsewhere, and I hurry to catch up to the safety of Utid, in this, the Sacred Place.  This place does not reflect the qualities of God's Love, this is a multi billion dollar money making machine.  Utid is unsettled and says that he believes building another huge temple and another monument here is a tragic waste of money, that India needs hospitals, schools, food for the poor and orphanages - that it should not be about making more money to benefit the wealthy.  He quickly apologises if we disagree with his sentiments;  we couldn't agree more.

 

It's a relief to get back to the peace, the cleanliness, and the air conditioning of our vessel. I feel guilty, I wrestle with my conscience often.  How privileged are we to be able to escape the chaos and the poverty and the heat and the injustice of life out there, to return to this lavish ship and safety and food and service and a comfortable bed?  My stomach churns.

 

At 7 pm, we attend an informative, but mercifully short briefing.  Jane and Irene are looking good, into their second gin and tonics, a little pink cheeked and laughing merrily.  Nice.  Irene enjoyed her head massage, and Jane, the sole occupant of the saloon all afternoon, has been reading.  We head to dinner, My Happy Place, I do love food, and I especially love Indian food, the aroma has wafted upstairs, and I cannot wait to see what is in store for us.  Platter after steaming platter of breads, rice, umpteen vegetable and meat curries, bowls of green, red and orange pickles, and big bowls of creamy yogurt.  Our Indian companions are each given a small plate with three or four green chillies, each pierced with a toothpick to stop their fingers burning, and I am astonished to see them nibble them like an hors-douevre, without a hint of a cough or a bead of sweat.  We revisit our conversation about marriage, both 'arranged' and 'love'.  It transpires that Barun (General Manager) and Baba (Naturalist) have been good friends for several years, despite Barun being a higher caste.  He tells a story he describes as 'perfect Bollywood', filled with action, drama, crime, the threat of impending violence and a happy ending.  We cannot wait for him to start, and I notice Baba's eyes light up.  He clearly likes the story about to be told.  One day, begins Barun, he discovers Baba sitting with his head in his hands, completely distraught.  Baba's fiance's parents had found a man they considered more suitable in marriage to their daughter, and were sending him to be fitted for his wedding band.  What was Baba to do?  Here is the script.  Barun (one of the Heroes) gives Baba (the Protagonist) 5,000 rupees to go back to the village to rescue his fiancé (Damsel in Distress).  It is already very late, but Baba manages to get the midnight bus, fortunately delayed by half an hour, and journeys through the long night heading to the village where his soon to be ex fiancé awaits, whilst he considers his unthinkable fate without his beloved (cue Mournful Music).  She, meanwhile, alerted by his phone call of this cunning plan - "What plan? What plan? What IS the plan?" I ask, and like the true story teller he is, Barun indicates to me with a hand signal - "Be patient. All will be revealed."  I cannot wait to find out, and stop asking questions.   His fiancé (fast becoming one of the Heroes) has stolen the SIM cards of both her parents (the Villains), hidden their car keys, packed her bags and is ready to elope.  Her father, however, has a gun, and try as she may, she cannot find it.  (Big Problem, cue Dark and Dangerous Music).  Baba gets a taxi from the bus stop to his Beloved's house where she is waiting, and he instructs the taxi to wait whilst he helps her climb out the window (actually I made the window part up, but it fits the script) and they depart in the taxi.  But now the taxi driver (Accessory to the Fact) has realised what is happening, and shakes in fear of the punishment he will receive at the hands of father (Evil Man) will do to him (another Victim).  So Baba gives him some money (Bribery and Extortion), and they race off into the night, with the father chasing after him firing the gun.  (I made up the bit about being chased with the gun as well, but why ruin a good story?) The rest is all true.  They were married and now live happily ever after.  (Cue the Bollywood Dancers.)  Eventually, the father got rid of the gun, is now a grandfather, his daughter is happy, and he is 'embracing' his son in law.  I have tears in my eyes and burst into enthusiastic applause, what a great story!  Jane looks a bit cynical, but oh, I so love a Happy Ending. 

 

After dinner ends, inspired by Bollywood, we watch "The Second Best Marigold Hotel" but Gerald falls asleep at the point Richard Gere arrives and we resolve to finish watching it tomorrow night.

 

Blessed Bed. 

 

Day 6 - 12th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

 

BRASS BUT NO MONKIES, DANCING, AND A BATTLE

 

Awake at 5.30 am, even the heavy curtains cannot keep the light from shining in.  Through either window is a vast expanse of muddy, khaki green water, and jungle on both river banks.  Not a dwelling nor a person in sight.   It's too early for tea, which is only served in the saloon at 6.30 am, and I lie there, in the silence, thinking about the rich tapestry of life we have witnessed, the sights we have seen, the people we have met, and feel blessed.  I think my prostrations helped.

 

Morning meditation is a beautiful thing, we are present to each other, to our love and our connection, and the beauty of what we share, to our lives.

 

I washed my cotton blouse and underwear last night and it looks like a laundry in here, but it's all dry.  Gerald fetches tea and I write.  This is so peaceful, so indulgent; to get out of bed, unbrushed and unwashed and indulge immediately in writing down much of what is in my head and heart, without a to do list, or a thought for anything or anyone else, bar my Beloved, is so indulgent.   It's cathartic, it's fun, it's creative, and I am In the Zone.

 

Today we will visit the working village of Matiari to visit the 'primitive process' of beating out brass water pots and 'other vessels'. (Don't you love it?  Udit actually speaks like this.  I swoon with his use of language).  Then this afternoon we sail towards Plassy, where a 'vehicle' will take us to the battle field there.  

 

SOME HISTORY OF THE BRITISH EMPIRE IN INDIA AND THE EAST FOR YOU

 

"Clive passed an anxious night, pacing to and fro in the mango grove, or pondering in his tent.   All night he heard the din and bustle of an oriental camp, and felt the influence of the peculiar murmuring sound which the voices and motions of a host on the eve of battle were calculated to produce.

 

Few native armies have appeared to the British so picturesque as that which advanced against the mango grove and the sheltering banks by which Clive's little band stood waiting for the onset. The infantry of Suraj was variously armed - some in the style of ancient India, others carried the weapons of European warfare.  The bowmen formed their lines, as those of Cressy or Poitiers;  but the turbaned heads and flowing drapery of these eastern archers were far more picturesque. The musketeers carried their dusky weapons with less propriety and grace.  Many a line of swords and shields flashed in the morning's ray, and the sheen of lances displayed the pomp and reality of war.

 

The most singular sight presented to the British was the artillery.  The guns were not only numerous, but of heavy metal;  they were all drawn by beautiful white oxen, whose movements were far more rapid than European nations would think likely with such animals yoked to field artillery.  Behind every gun an elephant, well trained for the purpose, added to the celerity of the movement by pushing with his great strength.  These creatures were gaily caparisoned, and were magnificent specimens of their kind.  The cavalry were mounted on fine horses from Upper Hindostan, Afghanistan and Central Asia. The men of all the force, especially of the cavalry, were fine specimens of the well-formed tall-statured soldiers of Upper Bengal.

 

Forth came the brilliant host.  Firm and undaunted the little band of British heroes awaited their approach.  The army of Suraj wasted time upon a fruitless cannonade, during which several of the best officers fell by the well directed aim of the English gunners.  Suraj called for Meer Jaffer, whose troops remained in a species of armed neutrality on one flank of the line.  The conspirator, unmoved by Suraj's tears, advised him to retreat to the entrenchment. Clive perceived the true state of the case and ordered his whole force to advance, the 39th British regiment of infantry leading, with imposing line and dauntless bearing, Suraj led.  Mounting a swift camel, attended by two thousand of his choicest cavalry, he forsook the field.  The rest of the multitude took to precipitate flight, casting away their arms.  The French, with a gallantry beyond praise, endeavoured to rally the panic-stricken crowd in vain, and alone faced the advancing English; but as the alarm and rout of the allies increased, the French were swept from the field as the mountain rock borne down by the avalanche."

 

At least, that is Clive's version.  Interesting to note that after Robert Clive returned to Great Britain he fell into depression;  he no longer wielded the power or had the status he had enjoyed in India, and apparently he committed suicide. 

 

Phillip is the only one at breakfast when we arrive, and clearly not in a communicative mood.  Our cheery greetings are rewarded with delight from the sentinel of staff, but Phillip barely nods, in a gloom which pervades the rest of his day.  But fortunately not ours.  The three of us plus our three trusty guides head out to the village of Matiari, where there are ferries plying back and forth from one side of the river bank to the other, laden to the gunnels with bicycles and scores of people carrying their vegetables for sale.  Barun tells us matter of factly that women generally do not swim here, and men are not experts, and if this overloaded vessel sank, so probably would all of its cargo.  Oh.  

 

The village is charming, there are no cars, only bicycles, some with working trays attached, horse drawn vehicles carrying the sand and mud they are extracting from the river via large bamboo buckets and a series of pullies.  This scene could be 200 years ago, there is no evidence of this century - or even last century - in it.   I stand in awe, I am in a time warp of history.  There are beautiful children everywhere, more goats and cute baby goats, water buffalo and cows.  A man is purchasing recycled plastic from a house and the family is gathered around him, he has an old fashioned brass set of "Libra Scales" and on one side is a sad collection of flattened water bottles, lids, and broken bits of plastic.  On the other he has a weight, and he holds it up and states a price.  The man of the house shakes his head; no, he disagrees.  The merchant rearranges the plastic and the weight, and says something. The father of the house takes it from him, checking for himself that he is not being cheated, and grunts his acceptance reluctantly, and a small sum of money changes hands. Gerald asks "Why doesn't the merchant just pick up some of the plastic rubbish?"  Udit responds "Dignity."  Grandmothers stand at doorways with grandchildren at their hips with a fierce look on their faces, as if to say "Don't even think about coming near this kid!"   But the kids all smile, and soon a posse has formed behind me, all shouting "Hello!" A couple of the bolder ones step forward and extend a handshake, soon I am shaking hands with twenty beaming kids, who all then insist on a photograph, and then smile broadly when they see themselves on my the screen of my phone.   I have been told not to shake hands for hygienic reasons, but who could not connect with these kids?  I am shaking hands and stroking heads and blowing kisses, my heart is overflowing with happiness. 

 

We enter the ground floor of a house being constructed, there is an unfinished staircase and building materials all over the place.  The owner is the wholesaler of brass, and he is clearly not expecting us.  He is having breakfast, but once we arrive, he, his wife and daughter rush around bringing bags of brass products which they display for us.  I do not need anything, I do not want anything, but I want to buy something to help this family.  Then I spy a giraffe, intricately beaten in shining brass;  I smile, and think of Darren Grant, our friend whose nickname is Giraffe, and Utid bargains for us.  I do not ask him to do this, this family need all the money they can get, but am told it is the way things are done.  Irene has asked me to buy a bowl for her, and I see a pretty one I think she will like.  I hand the money to Utid, and notice at the end of the transaction that he picks up three brass spoons and places in his bag.  Is this bhaksheesh?

 

We walk on down muddy streets with black sewage and toxic water flowing in gutters 'thick with mosquito lava' Gerald observes, and come to a small courtyard where a man in a turban style headdress sits cross legged, displaying his handiwork.  There is so much beautiful shining brass, heavily engraved and beaten, an array of artistry so beautiful, it takes my breath away.  On every surface, large and small, are designs;  of Mother Theresa, peacocks, birds, fish and flowers - and as we watch, he expertly hammers the outer edge of a bowl with small, precise strokes to form a fluted edge, using just his eye, whilst one hand beats, the other moves the dish in a clockwise direction.  He then picks up a shining work of art. Within minutes, with no pattern to guide him, he has created a beautiful, intricately feathered peacock I feel I could stroke, on a plate of brass.  Unbelievable.   I love it.   But it is heavy, I do not need it, I cannot buy it, and reluctantly we walk away.  Our entourage grows as the brass beater and a friend join our tour and walk with us, smiling and with not a shred of resentment that we did not purchase anything.  Utid tells Gerald that the brass beater, clearly a smart business man, asks him what patterns he should be producing for the people on his tour to buy his wares.  Once again, I feel guilty.  I imagine in a large group there would be more sales, but there is just us two and the gloomy Phillip. I apologise to Barun for not buying something, and Barun says the man hopes for a sale, he does not expect a sale, and that it is a great honour for the villagers to be seen walking alongside us tourists.  I don't feel any better, this doesn't seem right, but the brass beater is smiling and enjoying a certain notoriety and I have to let my conflict lie unexamined for the time being. 

 

We stop at a crude building with open sides and a dirt floor where brass is being prepared in readiness for the brass beaters to create their artwork.  Two men are operating ancient machines in which the huge 'biscuits' of brass are held in place with a vice, and a blade is run around the outside to remove the excess metal, a bit like cutting the surplus of pastry from a pie to fit it into a dish, creating a perfect circle.  It is dark, extremely hot and looks extremely dangerous;  there is a big pile of curled excess metal which men, stripped to the waist, are picking up with massive tongs and placing back into a fire to melt down and create more 'biscuits'.  It looks like a scene from Mad Max.  This is what we call Hard Yakka in Australia.

 

Shaking our heads in disbelief, we walk on to another makeshift structure and descend into Hell.  If it isn't hell, then its a close cousin.   A blast of heat fries my naked skin as we approach, it is a furnace and open on all sides.  The temperature is furnace like with one upright ancient fan blowing ineffectually, its electrical cord trailing in the dirt floor;  in the dark Phillip trips over it, and miraculously, I break his fall, but he doesn't acknowledge my heroics.  The noise is ear splitting and I cover my ears with my hands, we have to shout to make ourselves heard.  There is a huge black 'rolling machine' from the 18th century into which four men with massive metal  tongs are feeding sheets of hot brass the size of a dining room table in piles of six or eight at a time, as other men turn a manually heft a handle to flatten and roll them out, and then they are carried out to the street where they are laid to cool.  To cool?  Outside?  You mean where the people and kids and livestock are?  There is not a safety fence, a guard or a warning sign;  and scarily, the brass sheets do not even look hot, but the heat radiating off them is scorching my skin and eyelashes as if I had stuck my head in an oven, and I am standing a good ten paces away.  This would be cause for a heart attack to Occupational Health and Safety in Australia.  We head back inside to educate ourselves further on the difficulties of brass making, to a ferocious red maw of a fire where a man is using a huge spatula to feed it with discs of brass.  When it is soft enough, he slides it out and thrusts it the ground in one graceful movement, but there are sparks flying everywhere;  a man tosses a pitifully small jug of water on it, and it sizzles.  "To prevent a fire" says Utid.  The smell and the smoke and the heat and the risks and the challenges are overwhelming, I feel sick with fear for these men;  this is such a dangerous place, there are no safety glasses, protective clothing, gloves or boots.  These skinny, dusty, sweaty men wearing saris or tattered shorts, bandannas and thongs work here for eight hours straight for around $6 a shift. "It is a dying art" explains Utid, shaking his head.  "The young people do not want to do it anymore."  Really? 

 

My eyes sting with smoke and tears, and we leave Hell behind us, something those men cannot do. It sticks with me, I feel guilty with privilege and power and pettiness.  I decide to give Phillip another shot at relationship.  "No health and safety regulations there, hey Phillip!  God, what hard and dangerous work that is!"  He walks on in silence, then deigns to speak. In his broad north country accent he says, "I used to do that."  In the steel mills? I ask.  "Yes, I've done exactly that."  In sandals? I ask.  "Yes." then corrects himself "No, in boots."  But you had safety clothing and lighting, didn't you?  "No, just like that."  Really?  We have yet another profession to add to his growing resume:  academic, military man, clothing, truck driver, and now steel worker.   Could it be true?  He is 81. Perhaps. 

 

We walk back to the country boat.  There are children, gorgeous children, everywhere, all of whom want to shake hands, say goodbye, and each of them ask 'Please, to take a photo?'  I look at these smiling kids, full of promise and possibility, and wonder what their futures will be.  They look so happy.  Are they healthy?  Do they have enough to eat?  Do they go to school?  And do they even want to?  Will they ever have the opportunity to reach their fullest potential in life?  Is it even right ask these questions?  Is this IT for them?  And - who am I to pass judgement?  I feel weighed down with the unfairness of life, the privilege and opportunity that has been mine, even before I was born.  Even though my parents, from the north of war torn England, grew up in poverty and planned and executed an escape to Africa, it was nothing like this, I know.  I have been advantaged in every way.  I want to give them all I have.  I want to hug and kiss them.  I want to take them home.  But none of that would solve anything, and I am present to the arrogance of my thoughts.  They have families who love them, and possibly communities who care each other, their culture and beliefs and this is their home.  Who am I to impose my values upon them?  And - it is possible they don't want anything at all from me, they may be perfectly satisfied with what they have, and just want a photo and a handshake.  I desperately want to hug them, but instead, I shake all of their small hands, and my heart spills over.

 

Amazing thing, there are no flies here.  Despite the cow poop, the goat poop, the buffalo poop and the human poop.  How can this be?  Australia, a world leader in sanitation and health is cursed with a gazillion flies, everywhere, most of the time.  And so is Africa.  This is one of the most, if not THE most unsanitary places I have ever visited - yet - no flies.   Yesterday at the Hare Krishna Temple I saw bees galore clustered around the honey cakes and sweet treats for sale.  But no flies.   Why? 

 

Back on board our ship, we are treated to a musical soirée in the saloon.  Six musicians enter playing instruments;  they wear elaborate head dresses, many strands of beads, rosaries, and even a couple of crucifixes;  all are in saffron robes bar one who is wearing a dress I covet, a multi coloured patchwork creation.  Each strange looking musical instrument is introduced with a small tune, their names too complicated to recall.   I try to avoid making eye contact with Gerald as Indian music is not his thing and I think I may giggle inappropriately when I see his pained expression;  he describes it as ear splitting, indeterminate and unending, but a glance reveals he is smiling next to a sullen Phillip whilst Jane and Irene look interested.

 

Four men sing four different songs, and they are 'mostly holy' says Utid.  The themes are very simple:

 

1.  Life is like cooking a good meal.  Make sure you have all the right ingredients as balance is important, you must have not too much spice and not too little, otherwise it can become monotonous.  

2. Anything is possible.  (I like this Landmark distinction).

3. We worship God, and we are all the same.   

4. Corruption is a bad thing.

 

These songs are sung with relentless enthusiasm, and several times just as we think it's coming to big finale, another verse begins, with music and voices pitched just one note higher and the music a couple of beats faster. These men dance too; a virtuoso performance of musical multi-tasking, they are singing, dancing, and playing their musical instruments all at the same time.  The man wearing the dress I long for is truly amazing, he plays his instrument faster and faster, he twirls and stomps and leaps, then tip toes in an intricate dance, heel to toe, toe to heel, he crouches and sways, he shuts his eyes, he is close to a trance, I find it very seductive.  My body is moving in time with his, I clap to the music, my feet tap as I try to memorise dance steps;  I am dying to get up and dance.  I hope for an invitation, but unfortunately none comes;  it would be rude to interrupt such a performance.  

 

I glance at our fellow travellers; Phillip is taking photographs, which is a good sign, and the ladies watch intently and sip their drinks, but their applause is ungenerous. Gerald and I over compensate and clap outrageously, shouting "Bravo!  Well done!"  The musicians beam mega watt smiles; I think they are in overwhelm with our acknowledgement, they bow their heads and clasp their hands in namaste. 

 

Gerald tells me he enjoyed the show very much but it 'glad it's over'.  We head to the cabin to write, to read, to rest and to shower.

 

Lunch is an Anglo Indian mix of delicious flavours and textures, and I love the deep rich colour of the sauces, with each dish presented as an individual work of art.  We share our stories of this morning with the ladies, and discuss the differences of language, accents, cultures and behaviours between our different nationalities. Gerald and I share how forthright and blunt we found the Australians to be in our early years there, but today, these are qualities we respect; Gerald comments how much we have changed in the forty three years we've been in Australia.  I joke "Today you could hardly describe me as quiet little wallflower!" and Jane fails to repress the snort into her glass.  Talk turns to the British and their predilection for misery, and Jane says "It's amazing how some people have to always complain about something, isn't it?"  Gerald and I nod our heads sagely and stare anywhere but at each other or at her.  On cue the sky turns dark and thunder rolls;  Irene and Jane make it clear they won't coming on the tour this afternoon 'if it insists on raining'. 

 

But it doesn't rain, and at 2.30 pm we head out in the country boat once more to visit the battle field of Plassey.  It was here in 1757 that Robert Clive - who Udit says 'stuck his nose in everything' - scored a  victory against Siraj-ud-Daulah and changed the course of Indian history.  

 

We sail to a ghat, where men, women and children are bathing, and dock as if we were royalty against the local ferry waiting there so as to keep our feet dry and give us tourists easy access to land.  As if we are the Raj.  I am cringing at this intrusion, apologising and thanking people profusely, but the crowd stands back respectfully as we climb out the country boat, on to the ferry, across the ferry, and out the other side on to shore.  This is Jute Central.  In the river jute is being weighed down under water by rafts, where it stays until it smells a certain way before the drying process begins, so there is jute being dried on bamboo poles in long orderly rows, and there are hundreds of neat bundles of jute tied together in rows.  It's a hive of industry.  Rickshaws line the muddy road, there are people everywhere.  There are four colourful buses which stand on the edge of the jute fields, up to their hubcaps in water as men wash them down with buckets of water. Two vehicles wait to transport us to the battle fields ten minutes away, where there is a sign announcing 'Battle Field of Plassey, June 23rd 1757.'   Utid sweeps his hand in a wide circle and says "1500 men died here, and it was a victory for Britain over India and France."  He pauses.  "But it was full of double dealing, intrigue and skull duggery."  He is a passionate historian and story teller;  he tells us that there were ten times more men in the Indian Army - plus their allies, the French - fighting against a small band of Englishmen who, miraculously, won this battle. He adds "You have to know there was treachery involved.  And the antagonism between the English and French is still evident today."  Jane who seems not to have heard this, remains blissfully unaware of the carnage that occurred here, asks "Why isn't there a monument to Robert Clive here?"  Utid doesn't answer, but I think he is quietly proud that there is a statue of Siraj-ud-Daulah at the entrance.   It is another bloody battlefield where thousands of men died for countries pursuing power and wealth, but time plays tricks, and today this is peaceful, beautiful place, where butterflies flit amongst flowers in the sunlight. 

 

We walk along a muddy track through the jute and rice fields to a small village where old men sit on bamboo benches in silence and emaciated old ladies with long hair squat and gossip.  There are children peeping out from behind their mothers, who encourage them to come and greet us.  One beautiful girl about seven years old carries a baby on her hip, whose eyes are heavily made up like Cleopatra and she has a black spot in between her eyes.  Baba explains that the black 'eye make up' is to keep the eyes moist, and the black spot is to ward off evil spirits.  There are hundreds of goats including tiny newborn kids, who look like stuffed toys.  Baba is surprised when we see three drunk men in three different places, and says this is most unusual, as Hindu men do not drink.  Perhaps because it is the Festival of Eid tomorrow?  I respect their desire for us to have a good opinion of their country.  We have walked for an hour, dodging the mud and puddles, and completed a large loop and are back in jute and rice fields, we are sweaty, our shoes are filthy, but it's been good to exercise.  It's very slippery, and our guides keep a close eye on Phillip, who has perked up somewhat.  "I never eat lunch" he announced a couple of days ago before he stopped communicating "but I start drinking at noon."  It clearly cheers him up, and it hasn't diminished his physical ability at all - he is doing his British Best to avoid getting his black business shoes dirty.  His shoes are polished to a shine, and every day he wears a smart long sleeved shirt and pressed trousers, as if he were about to attend a board meeting.  

 

Our smiling staff are lined up on board ship with whole coconuts pierced with straws and the merciful cool cloths.  Gerald and I head to the top deck where we sit in glorious solitude, sipping our coconuts and reading our book as the muddy river slips by and children shout and wave from the river banks.   "Bye bye!  Bye bye!"  Yesterday Gerald saw a dolphin - yes, a dolphin - in the river.  How any living creature survives in this smelly, polluted river astounds us.  This afternoon I watched young girls bobbing their heads into the water, filling their mouths and spouting like fountains, as we would do in the sea or a home pool.  I realise that thousands of people die from lack of clean water to drink, but here playing in the water, these kids seem to suffer no ill effects.  It says a great deal about their immunity to familiar bacteria.  I remember Gerald and I taking our son to rural Africa when he was sixteen, and he played basketball and shook hands and patted heads with every child he met in every village. But he was a nail biter, and despite our dire predictions and offers of hand sanitiser, he maintained his practice, and became ill for several days with chronic vomiting and diarrhoea.  Which is why I am brushing my teeth with water from a sealed bottle, and have so far used at least a litre of sanitiser.

 

I experienced a taste sensation unlike any other at our Indian dinner, deep fried spinach leaf.  How does someone create such a light, delicate dish and imbue it with such flavour?   I nibble it in tiny bites to savour the flavour, and return to the buffet three times for more, both to satisfy my greed and to avoid the dinner conversation which is centred around money and banking.  Irene looks as bored as I am and she isn't distracting herself with food the way I am.  I ask Barun about the chefs, who they are and what their background is, how did they get to be here cooking such amazing food.  It turns out Barun was a chef in a previous life, and provides us with a summation of four fundamental sauces which in his opinion, every restaurant needs.  I am all ears, I am a passionate cook.  The sauces are:  white (cashew based and the most difficult), red, green and grey, then confidently provides us with a list of ingredients for each.  This is better than Master Chef, I wish I had filmed this.  "Good Indian food takes hours to prepare, so you need a good sauce ready made - and a well stocked pantry."   I look around the table and guess that the Brits are finding this a bit of a bore, as they buy their Indian food ready made from the takeaway Indian down the road.  When cheese is served, they steer the conversation towards cheese, as this cheese being served is clearly not British cheese. And the British want to discuss British cheese.  I attempt to stop yawning as the table discusses the merits of Lancashire, Berkshire, Leicester, Cheshire, Shropshire and Stilton and then the FOK tells us that Camembert from France is the worst smelling cheese in the world because it is cured in cow dung. 

 

I excuse myself, saying I am too tired to watch the next instalment of 'The Second Best Marigold Hotel' and retire to bed. 

 

 

Day 7 - Tuesday 13th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

 

HINDUISM, A PALACE AND THE BATTLE OF THE BRITS AT A BBQ

 

After breakfast, we climb into the trusty country boat for the one minute ride to the shore, it is overcast and very, very humid.  The sweat is already pouring off us, and my little black fan has worked overtime and is very wobbly, the pin which holds it altogether has broken, and it's about to fall to pieces.   Today is the Celebration of Eid, and the schools and shops are shut;  the kids are all turned out in their finest clothes, a kaleidoscope of colour.  Flocks of little girls in pink and green and blue and orange and red frills, their shining black hair adorned with big bows, and smiling little boys wearing Kuta pajamam, the elegant national dress of Indian men, who wag their heads at us in greeting.  They either run when I ask if I can take a photo of them or they dash to my side, mobbing me, and the bolder ones approach me, miming taking a photo and ask  "Please?"  One young boy asks for a selfie and he beamed in pride and pleasure when I did so.  These children are so photogenic and so delightful, I could take photos of them all day, and they are utterly unselfconscious,, posing like movie stars.  They love to see the results I show them, and giggle in delight. It astonishes me that we are afforded such a generous welcome when you consider the dreadful things the European has inflicted upon them over a couple of centuries.  "They are honoured you are here" says Udit "and it a a great honour for them that you have taken their photo."  

 

Jane, Phillip, Gerald and I have a pleasant walk through the fields of rice, auburgine, cucumbers and mango trees.  We are going to visit Khushbagh, a peaceful Moghul style garden enclosing the tombs of Siraj-ud-Daulah and his family.  Khushbagh means "fragrant, happy garden" - and it is, manicured, lush and very beautiful.  We see a man wearing a head cloth using a 'slasher' as we called them in Africa (a sharpened piece of corrugated iron made into a long blade with a bound wooden handle) to expertly clip a large bush into a perfect sphere.  Yesterday we saw a woman plastering a wall with cow dung, she crouched and picked up a handful of dung she had mixed with water, then stood and throwing the patty back and forth between her two hands, extracted exactly the right amount and flung it at the wall, where it stuck, each patty just a couple of inches apart, to join the fifty others she had already flung there.  It was as precise as if she had used a ruler;  over and over and over again, the diametric pattern was beautiful and the wall looked like a work of modern art.  There is so much expertise, creativity and back breaking hard work happening here, anywhere else, people creating this kind of magic would be regarded as master craftsmen and artists - but Utid shrugs and says "Here, this is just life."

 

At the other end of the garden is a large building filled with the tombs of many important people, including Siraj - the guy who Robert Clive conquered in 1757.  Utid explains how many of these important people would 'sell out' their brothers, uncles and friends, for money;  one minute they would be sitting together eating lunch, and in the next, they would be killing each other.  A big stomach indicated big wealth so these were very big men, and even in old age 'gave birth to many children'.  I correct Utid.  "They did NOT give birth to many children, they may have provided sperm, but their wives gave birth to many children."  He laughs so hard he chokes, and it's some time before he can reply "Quite right, Sandra, quite right!"  I think the word 'sperm' may have got to him.  Behind this mausoleum is "A Small Palace" which Siraj enjoyed, and came here when he 'got fed up with life' Utid tells us, 'as it made him happy to come here'.  It is an elaborate combination of Muslim and Hindu architecture, once clearly glorious, but now its white painted walls are stained green and black with mould and the interior consists of just one vast room piled high with garbage, I imagine hundreds of rats here at night.  It is in total disrepair.   I guess there are so many of these wondrous buildings in India that it is impossible for the government to restore and maintain them all.  The smell and the humidity in here is overpowering, and I am happy to leave.  There is not a breath of wind as we walk back to the Sukapha to sail further upstream for the Hazarduari Palace and Museum.

 

Utid has often explained to us who are the most popular Gods and Goddesses, and shown us lurid coloured drawings and paintings of many;  it's confusing to me, there are dozens, and dozens more magical animals they would use as a 'vehicle' - you mean like a car? - and whilst each family has their own favourite God, people will worship all Gods and Goddesses.  "Rather like our Saints," Jane remarked, "yet we still honour God."   Well said Jane, that is a good analogy.   

 

 As we walk, Udit gives us a short lecture on Hinduism.  He apologises and says "I am a petty man standing in front of such a vast topic, but I will try to give you just a little information."  He explains the caste system in the most basic of terms:  The Brahmin is the Highest, followed by the Warrior, the Businessman, and The Ones Who Wash the Dead.  Udit is a Brahmin and Barun is a Warrior, and I am curious.  In times past, it was strictly forbidden to mix with and definitely one never married outside of your own caste. This is changing rapidly today, where more and more, young people are choosing their partners, as people now realise the 'folly and evil' of this practice.  Utid's father is a legal advocate and a university professor, his mother teaches philosophy at university, and their family honours no traditions of caste; he has always had friends of all castes.  He laughs and tells a story of when he was at university and sharing a room with a 'fine young junior', a man who kept his distance from Utid and discouraged any overtures of friendship, because they were of different castes.  He believed that if he began socialising out of his caste, he would effectively be sending his family to hell.  That was at least ten years ago, and that 'fine young junior' is now an English literature professor at that same university.  They have become good friends and drink whisky together when Utid stays with him and his family on his visits to Delhi.  But he still calls Utid "Sir".  We sit in silence for a few moments, pondering this, then Utid says "I think it's important that things change."   Irene asks "But surely you LIKE being Brahmin, the highest caste, don't you?"   He smiles and nods his head and looks a little embarrassed;  Irene understands this caste system from her English background, and she too, enjoys the privileges of the upper class.   He leads his throat, presses on and says honour killings still happen when someone marries out of their caste and has 'shamed' the family.  A father will kill, or organise for his daughter to be killed, if she has 'shamed' or brought ill repute to the family.  I swallow, and remember how as a young woman, I too, brought 'shame' to my family, but the consequences weren't nearly so dire. 

 

The cast system explains the hesitation some people have to our outstretched hand or a greeting, a kind of passive aggression which tells us to 'keep away' from some people and to move delightedly towards others.  I noticed yesterday when we had the male musicians on board that one of them, during a frenzied dance of foot stomping, swirling and sweeping, his necklace broke and the beads scattered far and wide.  One of his colleagues carefully removed what remained of the necklace from his neck as he continued to dance, and when he finished, three of the dancers started to pick up the beads.  I joined them, crouching down and gathering them up in my palm and handing them back to him.  Their faces were incredulous, I could read their thoughts: "Why is she doing this - is she crazy?"  Utid had shaken his head, and given me an amused look as if to say "I don't know what I am going to do with you Sandra."  The upper caste do not bother themselves with such menial things, particularly assisting a man of a lower caste who is there purely for their entertainment.  In the same vein, this afternoon I returned a cup to the dining room, the doors were shut and the blinds were drawn, I just slipped in to leave the cup on a table.  There were three of our hard working staff, resting on the floor - God knows how many hours a day these guys work - and they leapt to their feet as if torched by fire, bowing and apologising.   "Please - rest!" I say, but they are distressed to be found relaxing;  this is clearly a breach of protocol.  This is one of the many puzzling complexities of this country I am grappling with.

 

We take a short drive to visit the Hazarduai Palace Museum.  Oh my, what a place. It was built for a very important Nawab by a Scottish architect, Colonel Duncan McLeod of the Bengal Corps of Engineers.  This Nawab clearly had an inferiority complex, for this is built on the grandest of scales and filled with a priceless collection of artworks and remains of the Murshidabad Royals as well as British treasures, European treasures, and gold, silver, ivory, cut glass, ceramics, majestic wooden furniture, vast crystal chandeliers, paintings of Dutch, Flemish, French, English and Italian artists.  There are Howdahs (the chair placed upon an elephant's back) made of Ivory, silver and gold. There are galleries of formidable weaponry of all kinds, guns, muskets, pistols, swords, chain mail masks and helmets, bullets, rhino shields, and deadly long sharp twisted metal poles, designed to disembowel the enemy.  This Nawab, and I cannot recall his name, had not one, but two large silver thrones, upon which he sat and ruled his kingdom, which we see in the enormous chambers where there are paintings of him sitting on those very thrones in those very same enormous chambers, like a painting of a painting of a painting, he sits surrounded by adoring crowds of turbaned men.  Are they slaves?  Would slaves be allowed into such a place?

 

It is a relief to leave such extravagance and walk outside into the green gardens, where people are strolling enjoying the Festival of Eid.  A row of men are standing behind upturned buckets on which are displayed small trays of merchandise, fans, pens, and plastic toys.  Baba is waiting under the tree for us, and happily negotiates the purchase of some pens for Phillip, around 30 cents each, and I purchase a fan, I think it's a dollar.  Baba says "He is a very happy man today, he has had excellent sales."  $1.90?  That is an excellent sale day?  And indeed the salesman is, he is beaming and I ask to take his photo, he beams some more, and poses like a soldier, and removes every trace of delight from his stern expression.  We head back to the boat, the humidity drains me;  I feel flat, lethargic, and exhausted. 

 

I am also feeling distinctly queasy and decide to skip lunch - but realise we have forgotten to take our malaria tablet, so I have to eat something so I can take it.  I eat very lightly - but Gerald and the others tuck in, it's prawns with avocado sauce, chicken pie, beef and veggie stir fry, garlic bread, and cabbage salad.  I go to bed for a sleep, my tummy although not misbehaving feels like it MIGHT misbehave, so I give the Katra Mosque, Nashipara Palace and the Katgola Palace a reluctant miss.  I figure I am going to have my fill of palaces, mosques and museums in the next five weeks, I can miss out on a couple.  But Gerald goes.  I drink ginger tea, read and write this.  I shall join them for the market visit.

 

Thankfully the ginger tea helps a lot.  From the boat I can see the town is large and bustling, I don't even know what it is called, but the vehicles come back after the visit to the two palaces (the mosque was closed as it is Eid) and collect Irene and for the market visit.  It is drizzling, but it is warm, and we have umbrellas.  I had expected a large undercover market as is usual in many large cities, but these are a series of shops down small alley ways, selling saris, brass work, food, and you can even get your I phone 'upgraded for free here' if you wish, and a store bearing a huge "Cannon Camera" sign. Want to buy a camera?  I have just the place, they even have two year guarantees on your camera purchase.  Most of the shops are shut as it is Eid, but Utid takes us to a large neon lit store bursting with people, buying new clothes, as is the custom, for the Eid Festival.  It reminds me of Solanki's in Chingola, it's spotlessly clean, and everything is in a box behind a counter.  Irene asks for Kuta Pajamam and a man unfurls about twenty in two minutes, of every colour of the rainbow, all in cotton, but there are silks, linens, and polyster too.  Immediately I see one which I like, it looks Japanese, is a fine cotton, and is in my colours of orange and turquoise;  I slip it over my clothing, something which amuses the locals, and for the grand price of Rupees 425 (about Aus $9), it is mine.  Irene buys two and is just a happy with her bargain. We stroll - or attempt to stroll - but our lives are at risk;  there is little traffic, but those on the road appear to be quite insane, screaming down alleyways at alarming speeds, hands glued to the horn, narrowly missing children, animals and us tourists.  Bashir, our Muslim host, is walking so far ahead we lose him, but find our way back to the vehicles and to the comfort and safety of the boat, just metres from Bashir's house, which is a grand and ancient building, clearly he is an important man;  there is a huge rusted bell in front of the gate and it is positioned facing the river, with a spectacular view.  

 

A note under our cabin door announces:  "We are having a barbecue on the sundeck.  Indian Tikkas, Kebabs, will be cooked and served in front of our eyes.  The bar will be shifted up as well.  The main course will comprise of Daal, Naan and Tikkas which shall be cooked and served there itself.  Time: 1900 hrs.  Onwards.  Regards, signed by Barun."   I love we are going to have something 'cooked in front of our eyes' and that it will be 'served there itself'.  I'm hungry again. 

 

The Sukapha has moved a little upstream and moored so that we have a million dollar view of the Hazarduari Palace, enhanced by golden lighting against a coal black sky.  Up on the sundeck, the chef is wearing his hat and he and his staff have been hard at work, there is a heavy gas tandoori, they have strung up strings of kebabs, ready to cook, and the smell is divine.  The guests, Utid and Barun sit in a circle on comfortable bamboo furniture, a fan is arranged (and then moved, as Irene's hair is blowing and she doesn't care for it.)  I swear, nothing is too much trouble for these men.  Air?  You want air?  OK.  Too much air?  Not a problem.  Tea?  Sure.  Not that tea?  Which tea?  No problem.  I shall organise.  We are briefed by Utid as a couple of the younger staff crouch on bended knees attempting to be invisible and not obscure our view of each other, they offer great platters of snacks:  spiced potatoes, prawns, fish, mushrooms, cauliflower florets, to be dipped into a coriander sauce and eaten on toothpicks, there are paper napkins and toothpicks all over the place, its a food fest.  Barun makes a subtle gesture and all of a sudden, serving staff and platters all disappear, like magic.  Not even a stray toothpick can be seen.   The main course is served and we eat on our laps, Naan bread, kebabs and potato, all absolutely delicious.  Gerald drinks the Kingfisher beer, and I am drinking Jacobs Creek Chardonnay, it is $40 a bottle, but the Indian alternative would strip paint.  Experience has taught us to carry our own gin, which we sneakily consume in our room at our own predetermined cocktail hour;  we order a couple of tonics and ice to sip and as we dress or read or write.  One of our Travel Tips, it has saved us a lot of money.

 

I sit and listen as children on the banks and in the shallows call out to us, I hear the murmur of people talking and laughing and I can see the glow of fires; I feel an after dinner mellow.  Suddenly a loud and mournful howling begins and it sends a chill down my spine.  "Jackals" says Baba.  Jackals?  Here?   "Yes.  They howl and then the village dogs howl back to try and chase them away, they know the jackals want to come into the village and steal the chickens, the baby goats, even the babies!"  Images of Lindy Chamberlain and baby Azaria come to mind;  Baba says he has heard of that 'unfortunate incident'.  What other wild animals are here?  Gerald tells us today he saw a dolphin rise out of the river, I feel sure he must be mistaken, but Baba confirms they live here, and these ones do not have fins.  Frankly, I am surprised they have anything, given the toxic water they swim in, I marvel that anything survives in this river.  Yesterday, we saw a dead goat, it's legs stiffly upright, float regally past, amongst a cortège of plastic bottles, bags and debris.  Phillip adds, "And I saw a dead cow sail by the other day."   So there IS life on the river. 

 

The conversation covers many topics.  I so enjoy listening to Barun - a thoughtful, articulate, intelligent man, who only ever speaks from his own experience.  Utid is a passionate historian - and a Brahmin, remember - and speaks with authority and has a very curious mind.  Phillip enjoys talking too.  He starts drinking at lunch time, and is clearly a man of habit.  I notice he eats exactly the same thing at breakfast each day, and cuts his toast in exactly the same way, firstly into three soldiers, and then each soldier into three neat squares.  Prior to our 11.45 am Hindu talk today, he ordered his first beer of the day.  Gerald pretends to be shocked and raises his eyebrows, pointing to the waiting beer;  it is not yet noon.  "Noooo, noooo, noooo!" corrects Phillip, "I shan't toooooch it till midday.  I don't want to disroooopt the talk."   It sits there on the table sweating in the heat for fifteen minutes and at precisely noon, he opens it with a satisfied sigh.   So now he is in a talkative mood, as are the ladies, Irene is wearing one of the kurtas we bought today, she looks pretty and elegant.  Once again the topic turns to politics, and Utid asks how is the new female Prime Minister doing?  Is she another Margaret Thatcher?  That puts the cat amongst the pigeons, and the Brits are away, disagreeing with each other, Jane postulates that Irene voted to be out of Brexit, and she voted to be in, Phillip advises that anyone who fails in the UK lands up in the House of Lords, and so the argument rallies back and forth, yet not aggressively, although these people have very definite opinions.  Phillip announces that he does not think he should vote, that "old people after the age of 65 should stop voting."  It has been the Battle of the Brits but things take an unexpected turn when Australia joins the fray.  Gerald who has been quietly following the conversation with a pleasant expression is now galvanised into action and starts firing questions.  "WHAT?" he says "WHY?"   Phillip says, "Well, it won't affect us much, now, will it, what 'appens in the future, now, will it?" For a brief moment only, Gerald is struck dumb, then vollies "Do you think the future is just about you?  Don't you think that is selfish?  Irresponsible? What about the generations behind you?  What about your 81 years of life experience, does that count for nothing? Every vote counts!  What are you thinking?" And so on.  I maintain a neutral expression but sigh inwardly, sharing a non verbal "Oh my God" with Barun, who stage whispers "I find politics so boring."  Here is a man after my own heart.   

 

Irene and Jane find Phillip amusing most of the time and laugh at much of what he says, but Jane is not laughing now.  "Phillip, it's like a will.  Do you have a will?  To let people know your wishes?"  I like this analogy, and Gerald does too; this leads to a conversation about who has wills and who is leaving what to whom when they die.  Jane states in a steely tone "I am not leaving anything to anyone, anywhere.  I am going to spend every penny I have on what I want to do, and things I want to have."   People suddenly get interested in pouring drinks and checking their watches.   What?  Who IS this woman?  She continues "But, apparently legally, I have to leave my properties which I live in in the UK and the USA to someone!  Why should I?  Nobody left anything to me."  She sniffs indignantly as she considers the brutal injustice of this. "Well, except my husband, of course."  Oh yes, Him.   Just a tiny oversight of all the money which, she confided a few days ago, she was 'lucky enough to inherit from a husband who invested so wisely it will probably never run out.'  My mouth is dry, my brain is in overdrive and I am scrambling for words to respond to this sickening discourse from this wealthy, extravagantly diamond clad woman.  Irene speaks up defiantly - this is a conversation they have had before, and one they clearly disagree upon -  "Well, I AM leaving money to my kids, Jane."   Jane directs an icy stare at Irene "REALLY?  You are going to DEPRIVE yourself of all the things you want in order to leave YOUR money to your kids??? REALLY?"  She turns her back on Irene.  I am angry and my stomach is churning in disgust, and I open my mouth to speak when I catch a warning look from Gerald.  "Just DON'T" his expression says whilst our hosts look uncomfortable at this turn of events.  I swallow what would have escalated to a full blown argument, and depart without a word, leaving them and Gerald to experience the selfish FOK, her long suffering friend and Phillip.  

 

It's only 8.30 pm and I wish I could go for a long walk.  Instead, I write. 

 

 

Day 8 - 14th Sept 2016 - Wednesday.  Sukapha Cruise

 

THE LAND LADY AND HER LOVER, MASTER CHEF AND A MASSIVE ARGUMENT

 

We have been in India one whole week today.

 

I have been up in the night, my tummy is not happy, and I don't think it is the sick feeling Jane gives me.  I decide against taking the 'queasy' pills as apparently they make you sleepy;  we have a full day ahead, and I don't want to miss a thing. 

 

Unshowered and wearing only a long cotton dress, I head to the saloon because they serve tea and coffee at 6.30 am.  A young man who I know has little English greets me;  he always seems nervous when addressed, so I smile and try to make him feel comfortable;  I namaste, I enquire after his health, I extend my hand to shake his.  He steps back - in alarm? - so I withdraw it, and determined not to send he and his family to hell because of the difference in our castes, I ask instead for a pot of green tea and a coffee.  

 

I have forgotten that on board this fine vessel there is amazingly only one tea pot, a fact I had deduced from the amount of running up and down stairs whenever I ask for one.  He is opening and shutting cupboards and becoming increasingly agitated by its absence, the singular tea pot is elsewhere.  I mime the international OK sign, and hold up two fingers - can I have TWO cups of green tea and one cup of coffee?  He looks relieved, and repeats "Two pieces of green tea?  And one piece of coffee?"   Yes, I nod in satisfaction, who needs language?   He leaps into action.  Now, I understand how nervous one can feel being watched performing, no matter how skilled one is, and this young man is having difficulties, so I pick up a magazine and flick idly through its pages, pretending not to watch him.   On the counter is a saucer with six different tea bags in it, but only one of each kind.  There are not 'two pieces of green tea bags' and he by now has two tea cups in front of him, and is faced with a dilemma.  Again he opens and shuts doors searching for a second green tea bag, but he is defeated, and now considers what to do about this as he pumps hot water into one cup.  I smile and mime it's OK to use 'one piece of tea bag for two cups'.  He smiles in relief and does as I suggest, but now he is jiggling that tea bag into one cup so vigorously its the colour of the river we sail upon, whilst the second cup of hot water remains virginal.  This could be a problem for me, accustomed to two cups of tea prior to breakfast, so I urge him to remove that precious tea bag from the first cup and into the second - but he seems reluctant and keeps jiggling. Resisting the urge to lean over the bar and grab it, I smile thinly and mime my request again.   This time he understands and nimbly swaps it over, and starts jiggling furiously again.  This cup is a much paler colour than its forebear, but it will do.  He now tackles the cup of coffee for Gerald, and searches through several cupboards until he finds a large bag of instant coffee and places a tablespoon of it into a third cup, then pumps hot water into it.  It's the colour of Coca Cola, filled to the brim with no place for milk.   He looks sad as he realises his mistake, but I mime 'no problem, I will carry the milk' and pick up the milk jug.  He remembers something, and  opens and shuts the cupboards once again looking for something.  He finds what he is looking for, it's cake, and he places three slices on a saucer which he places on the tray.  Using extreme care, he arranges the three cups alongside of it, but discovers as he lifts it that the coffee spills over on to the saucer.  He is crestfallen, and immediately puts the tray down.   I fear I may expire of thirst, so I offer to carry the tea to our cabin, and hand him back the milk jug, saying with a jolliness I was not experiencing "You can bring the coffee, with MILK INSIDE  - (here I helpfully mime milk inside) - to the cabin when you are ready, please?  Thank you so much!"   The cabin is a thirty second walk away, but I have been gone twenty minutes, and Gerald is curious.   Minutes later, our willing young man arrives at the door and apologises profusely, carrying a cup of coffee with 'milk inside' on a spotless saucer.  He bows and smiles triumphantly.

 

At breakfast, Phillip has the Pall of Gloom over him once again, and ignores our greetings.  There is cause for concern, as he has a change in routine, today his egg is scrambled not boiled, and he cuts the crusts off his toast.  I wonder what has occurred for him to step outside his comfort zones in this way.  Jane announces with the solemnity of a Royal passing a decree of national importance, that she shall have her 'normal eggs' again today;  Irene agrees that this is a good choice.  When the 'normal eggs' arrive, Phillip speaks for the first time.   "What do you ask for to get those eggs, then?"   Jane shakes her head, clearly irritated by such a silly question and says testily "You ask them to be turned over, Phillip."  Jane makes such pronouncements often, every day she reminds me more and more of Maggie Smith, and it surprises me that she does not see the resemblance herself.  She advises the group and/or the larger public, inane things like  'My shoes are dirty from the walk' (no matter that everybody else's are too, clearly her shoes are the important ones) and 'I am weary and think I shall miss the tour today and have a nap', and 'I wonder what I shall eat today?'  Yes, we are all hanging out to discover that Jane, I think uncharitably, but Irene nods sympathetically, she is far more compassionate than I, she knows her friend, she understands her friend.   I admire Irene's abilities.   Our hosts arrive;  Barun is hungry, he fasted yesterday as he does twice a week.  A charming man, he asks after the health of his guests, asks us questions and is making amusing conversation when Phillip stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly on the floor, and walks out the dining room without a word.  Jane and Irene turn to each other, purse their lips and raise their eyebrows, but our ever polite hosts make no comment. 

 

Irene points to my array of vitamins and supplements and suppresses a laugh;  I tell her that I am a source of much amusement to my friends, but I always carry these. On my travels in Australia, I always take my own Villeroy and Boch mug, I think it makes my tea taste better; I recently spent a weekend with two of my best friends in a seaside cottage and arrived with home made soup and two casseroles, my famous almond and orange cake, and two dozen organic eggs.  Everyone, including my Beloved, laughs out loud, but I think Jane and Irene feel this is an Australian peculiarity.  I explain my actions:  my father regarded his body as a temple and his health as a religion, exercising, eating good food, monitoring his bowel movements and weight, and taking supplements.  My mother on the other hand regarded her body as a vehicle of service and her food as a religion, she was a good basic cook, and her house was always filled with a plentiful supply of good things to eat.  If there was ever a siege, my parents could have eaten three meals a day for six months without leaving home.  In Zambia, after Gerald and I were married, food was in short supply for some years, so my Mom would fly from the north to the south to visit us, often with a frozen leg of pork or lamb in her suitcase, a bag of sugar or some tins of baked beans she had managed to procure, plus a couple of onions and potatoes in her handbag.  I am proud to say I inherited both my parents religions.  As I relate this story, I grow increasingly aware how weird this sounds, how weird I am, and how judgemental I have been being about everybody else's weirdness.  I can imagine them telling this story with a few embellishments on their return to Old Blighty.  I look over at them, and their eyebrows are up in their hairlines;  they smile weakly, but say nothing;  their expressions say it all.  "We need to educate the natives."  

 

On this ship, we are thoroughly spoiled, the attention paid to our needs - even things we did not even know that we needed - become things that we need.  It has become customary for example, when walking down the stairs to the dining room, that a man magically appears to assist us.  Upon entering the dining room another man offers a pump dispenser of hand sanitiser.  As we go to sit or stand, a man pulls the chair in or out.  As we disembark, a man gives us a bottle of cold water.  As we embark, a man gives us a cool cloth and another drink. These solicitous men anticipate our needs by watching;  for example, as we leave the saloon and head downstairs to the dining room, they are gazing upwards waiting for our feet to descend the stairs, they recognise us by our shoes and spring into action.  Without words, Barun raises an eyebrow or a finger, and they interpret his request and respond appropriately and immediately;  it could be 'more chutney please' or 'a whisky required' or 'deal with this annoying fly buzzing around' or 'clear this plate'.   The subtleties of this non verbal communication is astonishing (and no miming either).

 

Overnight we have sailed from Hazarduari and are now headed towards Farakka, a journey of just 99 kms;  we will spend two nights there and then disembark.  It's a narrow stretch of river, the colour of petrol, it twists and turns and looks as though it runs slowly, but the current is extremely strong, I can tell from the flurry of twigs and rubbish that sweep past at a fast pace.  There is lush tropical green growth on either bank and crowded with mustard fields and mango orchards.   There are very few people, and several corrugated iron canoes, just like they built them in Zambia, sail by.  It is extravagantly beautiful, I could sit here all day, hypnotised by my senses. 

 

But, we have a tour.  The ladies are not joining us this morning, they are visiting Rahjit in the spa.  So the country boat takes Phillip, Gerald and I on a three minute ride to the shore, past people are bathing at the ghat, where children wave and goats roam.   There is a strong smell of soap and an unforgettable image of a dark slender man, his head and neck an inch thick with foaming shampoo, grinning at us without a trace of self consciousness, he waves and dives under the water.  This is rural India at its most idyllic.  We walk down wet and muddy roads, steam rises in the heat, it's only 8.45 am and there are not many people about, it is still a holiday for Eid.  How does the country function with so many holidays, I wonder.   The government school is shut, it's a dilapidated overgrown dirty construction site, the 'playground' is filled with rubbish and knee high grass, but I hear the laughter of children drift towards us.  I ponder the abundance of all our children have in Australia, even those schools who complain of how lacking our Government is in providing them with all they want and need. 

 

Over the next hour, and in the 'middle of nowhere' Utid takes us to view stunning terracotta temples and majestic buildings, all in remarkably good repair, despite 'the earthquake' which did some damage.  Statements like this are spoken without drama, as if they are an everyday natural occurrence.  'The earthquake' would be good for at least a century of conversation elsewhere I would think.   

 

These buildings are decorated with hundreds of thousands of terracotta tiles, probably millions of tiles, and each is filled with exquisite tiny engravings, every one telling a story of love, passion, battle, animals, birth and death.   We marvel and Utid finds someone to open the many locked doors, and behind each one we see a yoni and a lingham.  They are everywhere, this is Yoni and Lingham City.   I say in jest "No wonder India has such a vast population!"  No response, either Utid doesn't hear, or he doesn't think it's funny.  The Landlady who built these monumental temples was 'Very close to Robert Clive' says Utid with a wink and a knowing glint in his eye.   Instantly interested, I need verification. "How close? Very close?"   He purses his lips and nods his head, "Yes. Very, verrrrrrry close."  He gives a bit of a snigger.  "Hence she was able to use her power to ..... to ..... ummmmm ..... build such things."  More power to her, I say.  Gerald, whose interest has also been piqued, says that the bust we saw recently of Robert Clive reminds him very much of our good friend Jack Holmes in South Africa.  I must tell Priscilla this;  she would certainly want to know about the Landlady.

 

Walking back to the country boat, we see a doorway behind which I see children sitting on the floor.   Children and schools are a magnet for me, I cast Utid a plea.  Yes, it is a school, and yes, he will ask if I can visit.  He explains my request and the teacher comes out to greet me, clearly delighted at the prospect of a visit from the Raj, and welcomes me as if I were Queen Victoria.  I remove my shoes and enter.  My heart beats fast, as it always did in Nepal, when I visited 'our' children at 'our' school, the one I spent over a decade raising funds to build.  These children are beaming and straining their necks to get a glimpse of me.  There are perhaps thirty kids seated on a mud floor in a tiny, unlit room, each with an exercise book beside them, and I can see neat cursive writing on each page.   I ask "May I come in?" There is an excited chorus of "YES!" and I take a seat on the vacated teacher's chair.  I want to cry with joy at their enthusiasm for their school - it is Eid after all, and a holiday, but this is a private school, and these kids want to learn.  I am elevated to a deity here, because I am white, a woman, I am old, travelled and educated.  I want to cry for the unfairness of life.  But I don't, what good are tears?  I introduce myself and say how happy I am to meet them, I tell them how much I love beautiful India and the people and food, I ask their names, how old they are, what they are learning, what they want to be (a doctor, a teacher and a policeman), I show them how to make a "Good On Yer Mate" thumbs up, and I teach them to say "Gidday Mate".  Raj, a handsome 13 year old boy in the front row perfects the accent in an instant, and explains to the others that "A 'mate' is our Friend."  I thank them for having me, wish them good luck, bless them all, and climbing over the kids, I leave.  Kahli the teacher waits outside and is so honoured by my presence in his classroom that he clasps his hands and bows deeply, thanking me for my visit and for helping them with 'conversational English.'  I leave that place very reluctantly;  I could spend possibly the rest of my life here.  In all my years with World Youth International, being at school with the kids was - and still remains - my happy place in the world. 

 

Barun says that in the government schools the children 'learn nothing.'  He believes that for children to learn, they need to go to private schools which are very rare and very expensive.  He himself learned nothing in a government school, but around Grade 5 his father sent him to a private school.  He says it is an anomaly that a teacher will want a job in a government school, as it provides security and tenure, but will not want to send their kids to a government school, as 'they learn nothing'.  Doctors want a job in a government hospital for the same reason, but if a member of their family gets sick, they take them to a private hospital;  this too happens in Australia. 

 

Back on board, Barun has organised a cooking demonstration for us.  Is there no end to this man's talents?  Philip and I are the only ones there, Gerald's tummy is unreliable today, when Jane appears;  I am happy have her join us, as the staff are going to so much trouble.  But she is not here to learn about cooking, she wants her washing done.  She waves a bulging laundry bag and decrees "My washing MUST be done!" deposits it into a pair of willing hands, and departs.  I am embarrassed by this display of rudeness, and thank Barun and his staff for running the class for just two of us.  "My pleasure," he says smiling  "I have nothing else to do!"  There are five staff behind the counter, a small frying pan on a hot plate, and about twenty tiny bowls of fragrant, colourful spices.   He asks me which spices I can identify, sadly only about half, and some of them I have never seen or heard of, so I am excited.  Barun is making a basic curry sauce from which he will make two entirely different tasting dishes.  Phillip is keeping his distance and sitting at a table some yards away, and I call out to come and join us -  "This is Master Chef, Phillip!"   We watch as Barun slices then chops onions and tomatoes with the finesse of Jamie Oliver, he adds mustard oil to the pan and heats it, then adds the whole spices but not the ground ones, and a heavenly aroma fills the room as it dries gently, and the chilli gets me coughing.  Next are the onions, which he fries them far longer than I would.  I am learning something new, and when I think they are almost burned he adds the tomatoes and fries them together for several minutes, "Always rinse the chicken in vinegar, turmeric and salt and then dry it before cooking."  He adds the diced chicken and puts a lid on the pot.   "Quantities do not matter in India, just put in whatever you want.  But more onions will make more sweet.  More tomatoes will make more sour."   Fifty five years of cooking, and I never knew that.  He checks the consistency, then adds a little water, and simmers it for a couple more minutes. He adds a selection of ground spices at the end of the cooking process - I never knew this either, I always thought they needed to be gently fried at the start, to release their flavour.  "You will know it is cooked when a spoon can cut through it."  

 

My mouth is watering and finally he ladles two servings into tiny bowls, sprinkling it with chopped fresh coriander for Phillip and I to try;  it is absolutely delicious.  To what is left in the pot, he adds coconut milk and chopped kaffir lime leaves, and again serves us;  it has an entirely different taste.  I am in Food Heaven here.  Even Phillip is enjoying himself and cracks a smile, and it's not even time for his noon time drink yet, so I am rating this as a great success;  tucking into the food, he recommends that in future this cooking demonstration should be combined with a wine tasting.  This opens an interesting discussion about alcohol consumption in India, and gives Barun an opportunity to tell us about Indian wine, something that until recently, I was not even aware of.   Apparently, in certain areas, they are collaborating with a French company, cultivating wine and are beginning to produce some good wines.  Phillip says whilst shopping in an English supermarket recently, he bought Indian something he has never seen before.  Barun is pleased about this, they are gaining popularity in India too.  Barun is a sportsman (boxing, badminton, and hockey) and does not drink, he never has, but says drinking is on the increase in India.  Wine is becoming fashionable to drink amongst the middle class, people see it in the movies, people want to copy what they think is Western sophistication.  But it is different here, he says, people drink to get drunk, not to socialise or celebrate and families do not drink together, although you sometimes may see wealthy families in the 'very fancy' restaurants in the big cities, drinking as a sign of their status.  There is also a kind of conspiracy, as fathers do not let their adult children see them drinking, nor do those adult kids allow their parents to see them drinking;  so whilst many people are drinking, few people are seen doing it.  He says that at a wedding for example, the adult children will hide behind the water tower or the bushes and drink from a stolen bottle of alcohol snuck out under their clothing whilst their fathers drink in a private room 'away from eyes'.  Women do not drink much at all;  he can scarcely contemplate a young woman walking into a bar on her own, or even with a friend.  But he regularly sees four of his male friends drink six bottles of whiskey in an evening;  they do not savour it, they open a bottle and pour the contents into four tall glasses, which they knock back in a couple of gulps.  It's rum in winter and whiskey in summer.  This is a scary thought.  

 

This morning has been fun and informative and the food divine.  However, I have things to do - given my front row seat, I have to wash my hair and clothing, as I smell like a tandoori.

 

Gerald is on the top deck looking very bit the tourist, relaxing on a bamboo couch amongst the potted plants; he has been helping Utid connect to PayPal, they finally got it to work and Utid is very happy.  This lovely man's 'guiding role' is now over, as tonight we dock at Farakka where we will spend two nights before disembarking, he is now 'off duty' and has visibly relaxed.  We drink more ginger tea in an effort to calm our tummies, and read, as the Ganges flows by.

 

I found this interesting piece in a brochure which was delivered to our cabin, and is relevant to where we are travelling.  It is by W.H. Florid Hutchisson, dated 1883, written during his eighteen years residence in Bengal.  Back then, people didn't live to be the ripe old age we do today, and the English military - no wonder - lived even shorter lives, and died at the average age of 42.  

 

"A few hours riding took me from my cosy bungalow to Berhampoor, where I embarked on the evening of the 3rd November 1837.  Although Berhampoor has often been condemned by the military medicos, nevertheless many consider it a very pleasant station.  When a Queen's Corp was stationed there, it had the advantageous variety of two regiments, which added no little to the gaiety of life and amusements of the place, but being finally condemned as unhealthy for Europeans, the 38th regiment was withdrawn and never replaced.  Consequently the splendid barracks, flanked by the officers' quarters, together with the hospital - a splendid pile of buildings unequalled for size and accommodation throughout India - thus became, and have remained ever since, as tenantless as the city of Pompeii.  There they remain, a standing monument of British Bungling and Mismanagement."

 

We have seen a lot of these 'tenantless' buildings on our week long journey in India. The British did a great deal of Bungling and Mismanagement, and have a great deal to answer for, but as Utid insists, we have to acknowledge that they also did many good things.

 

A light lunch for us, given I was stuffing my face in the cookery class this morning, (a concerted effort on my part) given we are both still feeling a little fragile in the tummy department.  The internet is non-existent, so I abort an attempt on Face Book and Watts App, drink more tea, and have a sleep.   Gerald naps too, which is unusual and a sure sign he is not feeling good. He reminds me "We have to be well for our journey on the train in two days time."   Yes, we do.  Diarrhoea and one toilet per carriage on an Indian 3rd class overnight sleeper train will not be a good mix.  Our Indian hosts are completely astonished we are doing this, and repeatedly ask if we are sure we know "It is normal Indian travel?  Nothing fancy?"  Our English colleagues double check they have understood what we said, tut-tut and say "Oh dear ...." I hope we have not goofed up with this.

 

Rajnish is in charge of the spa where I have booked an 'oil head massage'.   I do not have high expectations given the ordinary massage I had from him a few days ago, but this is 45 minutes of bliss, with rose scented warm oil, firm hands and hot towels;  thank you so much Raj!   When I get back to the room, Gerald is still asleep; he does not come to dinner either, nor eat the small dish of food I bring back for him.  I think that on top of his upset tummy and the ever present headaches he suffers from, he may be dehydrated as he doesn't drink water unless I insist.  I drink several cups of tea a day and can empty most of a 500 ml bottle of water in two deep slurps, but Gerald sips like a child drinking medicine.  I have to address this with him.

 

I wear my new Kuta Pajamam and even though it looks Japanese and the writing on it is not Indian, I like it.  During dinner Jane asks Phillip why he bothered going to the cooking demonstration, as he doesn't cook.   His answer is thoughtful and disarms me.  "Well, I thought it were impolite not to.  They go to so much troooble, don't they?"  My heart warms to him, just a little, there is much more to the man than I know.  There is another stoush at dinner, and I am involved.  I mention to Barun that when I went for my head massage Raj was not there, someone had to go and find him, and that when he arrived, he was unaware of my appointment;  I ask if he had forgotten to tell him I was coming.

 

He claps in forehead and apologises; yes, he had forgotten to tell him, there was a lot going on with the tide and the boat and they were busy.  It was no problem, I assure him, and explain that when I asked Raj if he was aware of my appointment - and suggest that Barun had perhaps forgotten to inform him - he refused to 'dob Barun in'.  He looks puzzled, and asks "What is this word 'dob'?"  

 

The English are listening attentively and I explain the meaning of the Aussie slang word 'dob' - (Never Tell on Your Mates/or Get Someone Into Trouble) - but that personally I disagree with withholding information.  Phillip explodes.  "What a lot of absolute nonsense!   I learned in the army to 'close ranks' - nobody should ever tell on anyone else!"  The ladies wade in, saying it depends on the severity of the crime, and suggest that it's up to the community to have eyes and ears, but Phillip digs his heels in "'Av you never doon 'owt wrong then?"  Jane says no, not really, she is a good woman, and provides evidence for this argument by telling us she was a prefect at school.  I feel my eyeballs enlarge, I am growing uneasy with the way this conversation is going, but the accusations continue to fly.  "Ow about you then Sandra?" accuses Phillip.  I know this is going to end badly, I can feel my heart beating fast. "Oh yes, I admit to doing plenty wrong in my life, but long ago I learned that its right to own up and be willing to deal with the consequences.  I think it's wrong to turn a blind eye to injustice and I believe you're as guilty as the perpetrator if you know something and do nothing about it."   Phillip is sweating, his face is red and he tells us something which happened just before he left the UK.  A 12 year old girl was in a park at 11 pm and was raped;  his point was that she shouldn't have been there at that time, even he would not go to a park at 11 pm, she was 'blooooody stupid', where were her parents? and here is the clincher, 'what did she blooody expect?'  The ladies are in concurrence with this, but now it's my turn to explode. "What bullshit!"  The word hangs in the air.  "What if she has no family?  What if she has a family and it's broken or they don't care?  What if she was homeless and had nowhere else to go?  There are absolutely NO circumstances when it is OK for a man to rape a child or a woman at ANY time in ANY place simply because she is vulnerable and simply because he can!"  There is a long silence.  The ladies are taken aback and look nervously at me, as though I was an unpredictable dog. Whoa!  There is another side to Sweet Sandra.  In an attempt to defuse the situation, (but occurs to me as justification of Phillip and of males in general) our Indian hosts proceed to tell several anecdotes about several Indian women who cunningly request lifts for themselves and friends in the car of an 'unsuspecting male', and then rip their clothing and scratch their bodies as 'evidence', then go to the police and accuse the man of indecent assault. "It is happening all over India!  What happens is the accused man has to give Rp5000 to the cops to drop charges.  It's a terrible thing these men are dealing with now."  There begins a lengthy discourse about bribery, cunning women and the corruption of the Indian police who 'don't give a shit' and take money from both sides yet take no action.  But my blood is boiling, I am thinking of the centuries of abuse and neglect and rape and mistreatment of Indian women by Indian men - of women the world over! - this table is dominated by men, but everyone, even those two English women, are nodding their heads in agreement.  I am disgusted.  This is one of those occasions when I know I cannot teach the pig to sing, and with clenched teeth, I say goodnight and head to bed and my not-feeling-well-Beloved.   He is sound asleep when I reach the cabin, I look at his dear face and kiss him on the forehead;  I missed him tonight, and I especially missed his support in tonight's 'disagreement'.  Outside it is inky black and quiet;  we have sailed up a long canal close to the Farakka Barrage, where we are moored overnight.   My heart aches as I fall asleep. 

 

Day 9 - 15th Sept 2016 - Thursday.  Sukapha Cruise

 

ELVIS PRESLEY, A FEARFUL JOURNEY, AND A KIND OF FRIENDSHIP

 

We awake at 5.30 am alongside a vast rusted metal dredger and onshore are the two vehicles we are heading out in today.  The Hoogly/Ganges flows like oil, and the river banks are dense with green vegetation.  We are moored at the Farakka Lock, a vast structure about which I shall tell you later.

 

At breakfast, I make an amazing discovery.  Well, all the guests discover something I have never, ever heard of before, not anywhere in the world we have travelled.  You may not believe what I am about to tell you.  I am still recovering from the shock.  But believe me, it is true.  Are you ready for this?  You may have to sit down. 

 

Our three guides (all in their late twenties and early thirties) are charming, university educated, intelligent, articulate men, who have mixed with well travelled people from all over the world for a decade or more.  And they have never heard of ELVIS PRESLEY.  I know, I know, this is hard to believe.   How do you live in a world where Elvis Presley is unknown?  Even in the darkest depths of the bush in Africa, people know of Elvis Presley.  Even in rural Lombok, the mountains of Nepal, the depths of Mexico, in cities and beaches of forests in Thailand, Korea, Vietnam, and every other place I have ever travelled.  You may find this amusing, but I truly think this is astonishing. Not only that, but handsome, charismatic, erudite Barun tells us that only last week, Fr. Orson Wells introduced him to The Beatles, a band he had never heard of, and kindly gave him one of their CD's.  We five guests sit there with our mouths open.  Of all the things we have learned in the last six days, this is without doubt the biggest revelation, the biggest cultural difference we can imagine.  It takes us a while to assimilate this information, but then our disparate, disagreeable, divisive group form a team and deliver a ten minute Intense Elvis Presley Orientation Programme, which leaves us only two minutes for the Intense Beatles Orientation Programme before we have to leave.  We give them research to do on the Internet instead.  

 

Our daily information sheet tells us today we will visit the ruined city of Gour near the town of Malda also known as the Mango City or the English Bazar.  Now deserted, this was once one of India's great cities, first under the Hindus in 12th century, then as the Muslim capital of Eastern India from the 14th to the 16th century.  Udit is beaming, and excitedly tells us there are plentiful remains of mosques, palaces and gateways to see;  it's only a week in, but I am already feeling temple fatigue.

 

The English take one four wheel drive, and Utid, Gerald and I climb into the second one, for which I am grateful, as I think being in such close proximity for several hours may destroy what remains of my civility.  We slowly drive along narrow dirt roads high with vegetation on either side, hooting at every bend as it is impossible to see if another vehicle is approaching (we are becoming a bit hung-ho with such dangers) and soon arrive in a very busy village.  There has been heavy rain and there are huge puddles of water across the road afloat with garbage, filthy water is being splashed about like the scene with Gene Kelly in "Singing in the Rain" and everything, including us, drips with humidity.  Hundreds of people jostle for space, like a nest of teeming ants, and the road is so narrow that if we opened the car windows we could shake hands with the shopkeepers.  We crawl through this village and reach a strip of road  where we speed up for just a few minutes, then find ourselves in the midst of what appears to be a six way crossing, where we slow down to snail speed again.  The noise is deafening.  Hundreds of people are shouting - no screaming - at each other, dozens of horns are hooting, tractors and trucks and car engines are trying to outdo each other revving their engines, goats are bleating, and Indian music is being played through speakers at ear drum bursting leveI. Never before have I seen such a chaotic melee of humanity and beasts and unimaginable sights.  I don't know where to look first, there are speeding cars headed directly at us, there are goats running in front of us and cows lying in the middle of the road, a large herd of shining grey water buffalo languishing on and off the road, people precariously pushing rickshaws right through the centre of five lanes of traffic, people on bicycles carrying gravity defying loads, women herding more goats, men with mountainous loads upon their heads, children holding hands innocently trotting to school (Oh my God!  Where are their mothers? They could be run down at any moment!) These scenes from hell continue for ten long stressful minutes and I alternate between gawking in disbelief and burying my face in my hands.  Suddenly we take a sharp turn and we are on a four lane highway, which seems so peaceful, its a relative haven of tranquility. 

 

I breathe out in relief, Utid looks concerned and asks if I would like the fan on.  Yes please, I squeak.  The fan is a six inch portable desk fan and ancient, easily fifty years old, with propellers that whir, attached unceremoniously with large metal bolts (enough to support my body weight I suspect) to the inside of the roof.   It blows directly in my face making my eyes stream, but not a gust reaches Gerald.   I wipe my eyes and they focus just in time to see a bus on the wrong side of the road headed straight at us, it has careered across the central white line and has at least twenty people sitting on top of it.  I digest this information in a split second, all it takes for our driver to hit the horn and swerve deftly to the left, where we are wedged between the rogue bus and a tuk tuk;  he changes gear and overtakes with centimetres to spare.  My hands are gripping the seat, I am frozen with shock and Gerald's face is ghostly white.  He blows out a mouthful of air and says "Sheesh, that was close!" 

 

Our relief is short lived. We are being overtaken by two cars, one on either side of us, and there are cows heading directly towards us.  I clamp my eyes shut and a few seconds later I open them to discover that we are miraculously still travelling down the highway and there are no dead animals, people or cars.  My attention is quickly drawn to a man herding water buffalo on the wrong side of the road, heading straight for us, whilst a rickshaw, a truck, and an ambulance jockey for position alongside of us.   I have spent the last half an hour anticipating the most dreadful of accidents, sucking in my saliva and grimacing, closing my eyes, hiding my face with my hands, and my body tensed tightly, but nothing tragic has happened.  I make a conscious decision to 'go with the flow'.  This man, these men, know what they are doing, they are continually perceiving possible risks and taking necessary action to avoid calamity.  It's absolutely astonishing. There is nowhere to go, and nothing to do.   This is India, fretting and worrying and anticipating will make no difference.   We witness not one incident of road rage despite the chaos, confusion and constant hooting of horns.  We are stuck once more in traffic, surrounded by at least twenty multi coloured buses on both sides of the 'highway', with bicycles and goats threading their way through this riotous, colourful maze.  I  see that the ego in Indian male drivers, as elsewhere in the world, will not allow another male 'in', he will not, he cannot, lose face, for his masculinity is at stake.  Two vehicles can be moving forward, centimetre by centimetre, with driver's eyes focussed ahead and the only sign that they are aware of the competition is an occasional lift of the hand, a command, or a warning "Stay back, I'm coming through".   It's a Duel of the Titans, and our driver is a Titan.  We are so close to the car alongside of us that as he takes a risk and seizes an opportunity to move forward a whole metre, our side mirror knocks his side mirror to an unfortunate angle, his goes back, ours goes forward.  No problem, no shouting, no rage - each car just re-positions his mirror.  However, if you hit a cow and kill it - there are serious consequences;  Rp15,000 compensation for starters, as it is not only the loss of that particular cow, but the 'generations' it could have produced, the milk it supplied, the holiness it had and many more important factors, so we have to be very careful.  Many of the vehicles are painted all the colours of the rainbow and have a lot of signage, much of which I cannot read;  some suggest "HONK HORN", and others plead "DO NOT HONK HORN."   I ask why. Utid shrugs, "Some people like horns, other people don't like horns."  Simple.

 

We approach the Farakka Barrage, a gigantic lock of 2.2 kms wide, which separates the Hoogly and the Ganges rivers and is traversed by a massive bridge, also 2.2 kms wide.  These two rivers on either side of this lock have a difference in depth of five feet.  It was built a few years after India gained independence in the early 1950's, and cost billions of rupees, but unfortunately, it looks as though they haven't done a scrap of maintenance since. In several places the massive concrete balustrading has broken away, and someone (no doubt a zealous Occupational Health and Safety Officer) has thoughtfully placed a narrow bamboo cane to bridge the gap. There are vast metal sheets on pullies, which are lowered and heightened at different times to allow the flow of water through and thus change the levels. This bridge carries a train line and four lanes of traffic, ostensibly two in either direction, but nobody pays any attention to the lanes.  To be fair, they cannot pay any attention to the lanes, as the road surface is so pitted and potholed, you have to keep swerving from one side of the road to the other, and it's solid traffic in either direction. It takes a bone jarring twenty minutes to cross as the driver manoeuvres from lane to lane, narrowly avoiding people, cars, animals and buses, the air conditioner is ineffective, the humidity is draining, and I am feeling clammy and decidedly seasick.  Utid too, is sweating and wipes his face with a hanky and says "I wasn't expecting this heat today.  It must be 38 degrees already."   

 

I feel a need to celebrate when we reach the other side unscathed, but Utid proudly announces that we will now come to a 'tool'.  A tool?  What is a tool, I ask?   All is revealed as we approach the first TOLL in this part of India and a sign which says in English "No toll payment accepted yet.  We are practising."   How quaint!  This is a complicated business however, as only certain people must pay the toll.  There are three huge billboards with lists of the names of all those who do not need to pay the toll - carefully but amateurishly hand printed.  The Minister for So and So (and his name), the Minister for So and So (and his name), the Minister for So and So (and his name) and the Minister for So and So (and his name).  I ponder the wisdom of this, what will they do when the Minister changes jobs, and how relevant will these billboards be next month, and does ANYBODY in power have to pay?   There is an air of festivity and crowds of jolly people are all smiling and waving and clearly excited as they watch us participating in the 'practise' training session.   

 

We continue our journey;  Utid is talking on the phone and is clearly happy about something.  When he finishes speaking, he explains that their 9 month old daughter has been being looked after by a very good nanny, but she has recently became a grandmother for the first time and often looks after her grandchild and is now unreliable.  He says that crèches here are not very good and it's hard to find someone who is skilled and trustworthy, but a relative has just rung to say he has found one.   "But it's very expensive" he says "6000 rupees a month", (about Aus $140) "which is very expensive on the wages here."  He confesses that they have become very spoiled having been accustomed to servants all of their lives, and "Goodness me, when you are used to that and suddenly one day, there is nobody to help you, it is a major disaster!"   I can sympathise, that is exactly how I was when we first went to Australia from Africa 44 years ago.  "But I can tell you these things, because we are practically family - our mutual friend Viv has created this relationship for us!"  I smile; I love his authenticity and open heart.  Gerald asks why we do not see pregnant women anywhere.  "Mostly they do not leave the house, it is about their modesty and it's cultural practice.  Which is why pregnant women require servants or family to shop and run errands outside of the home."   I find this astonishing.

 

This conversation reminds me of yesterday, when we met Baba's family.  We were walking back to the boat when we saw Baba in animated discussion with a lady sitting  on a scooter with two young children, a boy behind her and a girl in front.  He spotted me and called me over "Sandra!  Come meet my family!" His wife and children were shopping when they bumped into him and they are clearly happy;  they have not seen each other in a week.  He proudly introduced me to Soumita his wife, who does not speak English, but met  my eye confidently and entwined her hands with mine. His little girl is Indrakshe (it means "Queen of the Heaven") and she smiled widely and bowed, and his son is Windrick, who is a shy child, and hid behind his mother.  Baba beamed, in just the same way I would, introducing my husband and son to a client, and apologised for his son's shyness whilst stroking his hair tenderly.  He told me later his nickname for them both is "Mu-Mu" which means 'small, cute, beloved'.  My heart expands as I look at this family and remember Baba's colourful, inspirational stories and how much they went through to create this happy family. I had imagined Soumita to be a sensual woman with doe eyes and lustrous black hair, wearing a richly coloured sari, a woman so strong she was able to defy her parents and her caste, able to encourage her fiancé to elope, a woman so maternal and so powerful  she was able to confront her husband with a another woman's newborn baby and enrol him into adopting that baby, a baby he had never seen.   And before me is a an ordinary woman like you and me and thousands of others;  her face is round and open, her eyes sparkle, she wears a plain kuta and sits astride a scooter with her children.  I am present to her strength and her power, she is the Matriarch and delighted to meet her husband and his colleagues.  She represents all that women are, and can be, and I am honoured to meet this inspiring woman.  I think we can all be Soumita.  I think we are all Soumita, in some way.

 

Back on our epic journey, we stop at a 'resort' to use the ever so polite euphemism  'facilities' and have a cup of tea.   From a distance it's an imposing bright yellow building set amongst shady trees with walkways over streams through which a gaggle of geese wander.  As we approach, we see it is still under construction, but already decrepit, covered in mould and what look to be exceedingly dangerous electrical wires suspended and rusty pipes hobbled together with bits of wire.   The geese are not those featured on a postcard, these are aggressive and rush at us pecking, trying to nip our clothing and limbs and screeching like watchdogs;  we have to run to avoid attack.  India appears this way to me when I look at my photos;  things look truly glorious, but up close, things are falling apart:  that peaceful green pond is actually a thick black sludge with four inches of mosquito larvae, floating plastic bottles and bags, it could bubble with the toxic waste.   That grand building viewed from a distance, is actually crumbling and filled with human waste and homeless people and animals.   India is beautiful and there is much which does not need scrutiny.  I wonder if it unfair to apply this analogy elsewhere in India,  Yes probably.  

 

We drive along roads reminiscent of Africa, in Zimbabwe and Zambia, where there are trucks lined up for kilometres to get from one country to the next.  On this road, there are kilometres of trucks lining up to get from Bengal into Bangladesh, and they carry vast quantities of building materials.  They appear abandoned, but Utid says the drivers park and then take a taxi or walk several kilometres to get their documents stamped.  "There is not enough space at Immigration Control for all the vehicles to park, it would be chaotic, so they have to walk."  Amazed, I ask "So immigration does not even see these vehicles, and what they are carrying?  They could be carrying anything!"  Yes, says Utid. 

 

I lose track of where we are as we drive from place to place, viewing one more marvellous terracotta temple after another in glorious gardens, tended by dozens of diligent men in kurtas who have keys to open doors to give us access to buildings other's cannot, and we visit the Salutation Gateway, which dates back to 1425.  My mind boggles;  the oldest building we have in Australia is two hundred years old.  These architectural masterpieces defy logic, how have they lasted this long, in these temperatures, with earthquakes, tornados, tropical downpours, floods and absolute neglect?   Here is a temple built by a Narwab who fell in love with a dancer in the Royal Corps, but she did not love him back.  "Their love was never begotten," says Utid solemnly, I already know he is a romantic at heart and I love his use of olde English.  "He loved her with passion,but eventually, he told her to go, to just go away.  He didn't want to even see her face."  Then he built this temple in her honour.   What a man!  We see the finest examples of his adoration, vast buildings with every single inch decorated with brilliant colours made with turmeric, pomegranate, indigo, and a green dye from the Sall tree.  Many buildings have been destroyed by time and neglect but many remain, their beauty undiminished.   In an impressive gateway to one temple, we see in the gloom a huge flock of chattering colourful birds.  I look again and realise it is a big group of young women and a single man, radiantly dressed in every colour of the rainbow.  Utid asks us, I think it may be a test of some kind,  "Which caste do you think they come from?"  I guess Brahmin - they are elegantly dressed, wear fine jewellery, and appear confident;  they smile and enthusiastically pose for photos. "No, they are Muslim" he says.  I ask if I may take their photos, they grin in delight and oblige, they giggle like schoolgirls and ask if they can pose with us.  Then the young man (and the second one today) asks me specifically if I will have a photo taken with him, and of course, I do.   Why is this, I ask Utid.   He looks me straight in the eye and says "Well, you are white.   And you are a woman."

 

At noon there is not a breath of wind and the sun is relentless, even Utid and Baba are dripping with sweat.  My clothes are wet with sweat and stick to my body, my bra is painfully rubbing my ribcage and my back aches - I am all templed out.  I long for a cool breeze, a shower and a gin and tonic, and then reprimand myself;  good God, what a spoiled tourist you are.   There are men gardening in this heat, chipping at grass, plucking back bushes (no clippers, just snipping off one leaf at a time to create a perfect shape), and others excavating an important archeological site - who show not a bead of perspiration.  These highly skilled men are paid $8 a day to sit in the dust under the fierce sun, without hats or safety glasses or even sun glasses, equipped with an ancient hand made hammer, to chip away at the bricks which have fallen from the buildings and create them into new symmetrical oblong shapes to use in the reconstruction.  They are justifiably unhappy and engage Utid in a rapid fire conversation, listing their grievances (which Utid pronounces 'GREEVE-EYE-ANCEES').  He tells them he met the Minister of Tourism recently, they think Utid can help their case, he must be an important man, and ask for his assistance. Apparently they were out of work for five and a half months before beginning this project, they were desperate for work, but now they plead, how can they support their families on this wage?   A familiar sense of guilt and helplessness arise in me;  there is so much to feel sad about in India and so many injustices here, there are so many people who need assistance, so many women treated unfairly, so many homeless people and hungry children, so many important historical buildings which are mouldering away, the list of 'issues to address' is endless, and Gerald asks me "Who on earth would want to take on the problems of India?  Where would you start? "  Feeling uneasy, we leave Utid to continue his discussions, and walk to a temple where we see the mythical "Footprint of Mohammed" (a mythical disappointment) for which Gerald pays a handsome donation, an act of benevolence inspired by our sense of guilt.  

 

We head back to the Yellow Resort for lunch, and rush to stand directly in front of one of two air conditioners, then make a bee line for the flush toilet.  Even in this decrepit place, lunch is delicious, a hot red chicken curry, spiced vegetables, and an amazing naan bread.  Gerald and Phillip order a Hayward's 5000 beer, it's label proclaims "Super Strong Beer".  It must be, as Gerald cannot finish his, but in 81 year old Phillip's world, it's after 12 noon he is not leaving a drop.  During lunch, we discuss accents, and how they instantly classify one.   Phillip's is true North Country England, and Irene says, "I spoke like that once upon a time.   But I have travelled and lived in the south for a long time now" - she speaks with just a trace of her northern beginnings in a cultured, moderate tone.  Jane is regal, as you know, her resemblance to Maggie Smith is uncanny, including her accent.   Gerald and I were African accented once, and still sound that way to some people, but the people around this table tell us we are 'pure Australian'.   I notice that when Utid is tired his Oxford English slips a little, like the word 'grievances'.  I so admire his - anyone's - ability to speak another language, and Utid does so with a clear love of English, in a formal last century way of speaking, which I find charming.  Today he asked us about a country in Africa, "Mo-zam-be-cue".  I decided to tell him the correct pronunciation, he was delighted and thanked me, then asked me to tell him whenever he mispronounces something. I like him very much, he is passionate about what he does, he enjoys people, loves to learn and share his knowledge and must have been a real geek at school and university.  I feel flattered when he asks if we can be FaceBook friends, if I could only access some internet, we could do that, but the system continues to fail us, so we shall connect once we get to a city.  We have discussed Gandhi, and I am disappointed to discover that this man who I have always considered a saint has feet of clay.   Utid says, "It is all coming out today, stuff that has been suppressed for years solely to ensure our leaders looked glorious and saintly.  But that is not the case.  You can go online and check it for yourself, you will see."  He says the Gandhi family were as corrupt as any other Indian family in power, using money, status, influence and marriage to get what they wanted.  I notice how much I do not want to believe this statement and my heart aches again. 

 

It's a long bone jarring journey back to the Sukapha, but by now I am feeling quite cavalier about the risks and possible disasters, the train crashes and dead cows and kids;  I just sit and watch the action, incredulous. 

 

The heat here takes a high toll:  it drains our energy, we have queasy tummies, and we get headaches from pollution caused sneezing and coughing.  On board, in the extravagance of air conditioning and clean white sheets, we sleep like the dead for an hour and a half, after which Gerald has an excellent massage by Rajish, for the grand price of $20.  We have options to restore our sense of well being, but I cannot imagine how those pale English flowers, back in the 1700 and 1800's, dressed in layers of dark clothing, survived.  They died so young from a myriad of diseases and hardship, but that they even lived to the age of 42 is quite unbelievable;  there is more to the English woman than meets the eye.  

 

A farewell letter is pushed under our door.

 

"Dear Mrs. Sandra Ellen Groom and Mr. Gerald Owen Groom,

 

At the outset may I thank you for being the most wonderful guest and bearing with some of our shortcomings during your voyage.

 

With the conclusion of the Hugli adventure around the corner, may I invite you to join the last dinner together on MV ABN Sukapha.  It will be my on or to provide a drink to you during supper.

 

In accordance with the instruction received, we have prepared the relevant bills for your incidental expenses.  These will be delivered to you within half an hour of finishing your supper today.  We request you to please review them, and should you need any clarification please bring it to our attention.

 

In order to avoid a last moment rush, the undersigned will be in the saloon after supper and you will be able to complete the settlement transactions at your convenience.

 

Our Visitor's Book is placed in the saloon and some valuable words from you would be greatly appreciated.

 

We hope to get a chance to serve you again on one of our ships or lodges.

 

With warm personal regards,

 

Barun Katoch

Manager"

 

When I go to the Visitors Book to provide feedback, I see that both Jane and Irene have done so, and quite beautifully.  But nothing from Phillip.

 

Our Farwell Dinner is wonderful, everyone has dressed up in honour of the occasion, Phillip sports a tie, the ladies are elegantly dressed, and Utid appears in a smart red kurta, and then Banur makes a theatrical entrance.  He is resplendent in a shiny black kurta and pyjamam pants, wearing a jewelled brooch over his heart and his black hair, beard and moustache shine, his teeth glisten white against his coffee skin;  he is impossibly handsome, he is a Bollywood star. I take one look at him and say "I want to run off with you!" He laughs in delight and Irene says "But only after I do!" - he is pleased by the admiration us two women, both as old as his grandmother, he bows and kisses our hands, and we both giggle.

 

Utid briefs us on the details of tomorrow, the Brits will leave at 8.45 am for a fast train back to Kolkata, accompanied by Baba.  Gerald and I will spend the day on board - we welcome the opportunity to rest! - till 7 pm when we will be taken to the station for our sixteen hour overnight journey on a 2C train.  (Second Class, air conditioned, two bunks to sleep in, across from each other, in an open corridor with a curtain.).  We are beginning to feel a bit anxious about this arrangement now it is imminent, but Utid reassures us, tomorrow he will tell us everything we need to know, but sternly offers this advice   "Sandra, you must not be so friendly."   OK.   "And do NOT EAT or DRINK anything on board, other than what we give you."  OK.

 

They ask for feedback, and our 'best moments''.   Jane, our FOK, leaps in and says "Well I love ancient buildings, so that was good.  And the staff were all very nice."  Irene says, "I liked the people, I didn't go off the boat much, and the food was good."  Gerald shares how much he has enjoyed their company, the staff, their willingness and the sights.  Phillip says "It was all good.  But the best trip I ever had ...." And goes off on a long and complicated story about a trip some years back to Kurzakstan (is that a holiday destination I wonder?) where there was a good group, who kept in touch 'for a good few month after'.   What?   We patiently listen, I give patient listening my best shot.  Expressing gratitude is something I love to do, and acknowledging these wonderful men is so easy, I remember details and kindness, the laughter and the learning, the school and the children, Fr. Orson Wells, and on a roll, I suggest to Jane she may wish to leave some of her wealth to him, the doer of such good deeds in his community?  And I thank them, with all our love and gratitude, for a truly once in a lifetime adventure, I have a catch in my throat that it is ending.  There is silence and I see that both Utid and Barun have placed their hands over their hearts and lowered their eyes. Then Jane, our FOK, says unexpectedly "I think I am going to cry."  

 

We are treated to a complimentary glass of awful red Indian wine as a way of celebrating our journey's end, and ur conversation covers many topics.  Tonight, however, Phillip, perhaps mindful of how irate I was about his dismissive attitude to the 12 year old who was raped in a park in the UK has changed his tune somewhat.  He opens the subject of women in India, and then to women globally, saying "Don't you think that women take the 'rap' for men globally?"   I am surprised, this is a pleasant turn of events, and the conversation is for me, way more comfortable tonight.   I am aware that I have probably Bashed the Brits in the last few days, but tonight things are different. We take many photos, Irene wants my email address, we are now on the final night, and searching for commonalities and willing to put aside some of our differences.  It is interesting that in the pending completion of our short lived relationship, there is now safety in becoming a little more intimate, there is a willingness to establish a connection.  We are all kinder tonight.  We try in vain to connect to the Internet, and are in bed at 9.30 pm. 

 

Day 10 - 16th Sept 2016 - Sukapha Cruise

 

BARUN GOES TO BOLLYWOOD, A FAREWELL, FILTHY SONGS AND INDECENT DANCING

 

Jane (FOK), Irene and Phillip will leave at 8.45 am so breakfast is our last meal together, and it's pleasant, and we share more personal details in these last minutes than ever before.  We learn that Jane and Irene live in two separate apartments in a 200 year old manor house, and share a magnificent terrace filled with baskets of spring flowers;  they show us the photos, and its glorious. At the time, they did not know each other, both saw this manor independently and from the outside only, both fell in love with it, and each bought their own apartment on the spot.  Irene's husband lives nearby with Christine, his one time secretary, who is according to Irene and Jane 'a bit of a wimp who does his bidding', and everyone is happy with this arrangement.  She and her husband are still married, although parted for twenty years, and have lunch together once a week, Irene says they get on better than ever, and he is a very good father and a generous man.  "I have never worked" she says.  "But you brought up three children!" I protest.  "Yes, I did."  Her husband is retired, but was a very successful insurance broker, he pays all the bills, and when Jane organises holidays for her and Irene, she simply hands him the bill, and he pays up. "Do you get lonely when Jane is in the USA for six months of the year?" I ask.  "No, I become the Lady of the Manor!  And then when she comes home, we spend all our time planning our next trip!"  We are laughing more heartily than we ever have, even making little jokes about our nationalities, and the difference in our sense of humour, and even in what we are entertained by.  Phillip shares with us his fascination with pantomime, and especially The Rocky Horror Show, and tells a story of seeing a show with a friend, whose seat happened to be at the end of the row and thus inadvertently became part of the act.  He laughs uproariously, showing off the many gaps in his mouth, he is in good humour, and there's not a beer in sight, I wonder if this could be because he is getting off the ship?  Jane refers to our Aussie humour, in particular our Australian Icon, Barrie Humphries and alter ego, Dame Edna Everage, whom she and Phillip loathe;  Irene surprises me by saying she loves the Dame. 

 

They leave to finalise packing, and Barun spends the next 40 minutes telling us what Indian people enjoy;  it's a highly entertaining description of Bollywood movies, and Gerald and I are enthralled.  Each move is approximately 3.5 hours long and in his words, are  'completely ludicrous'.  He details, and occasionally acts out parts, especially one of their very famous male movie stars, who does things only Superman could do, like killing fifty men with one blow, smashing a man through four car windows and delivering him out the other side, killing two men with one bullet as he flips out the knife tied around his neck quickly enough to slice the speeding bullet in half, each one killing an enemy,  he flips cigarettes into his mouth (a habit imitated by thousands of young Indian men in an effort to be cool), and then casually flip his lighter hundreds of metres into an open fuel tank, setting fire to machinery and buildings, causing devastation on a grand scale.  There has to be many songs and lots of dancing or people will not attend, so comically, in the midst of all the mayhem and carnage, an impossibly beautiful woman will appear, perfectly coiffed and made up, singing passionately and often in a completely different language to the one the film is shot in.  These are called "ITEMS", and there are many of them in Bollywood movies. "And the soapies!"  he exclaims - almost every woman in India watches them, between the hours of 1 - 4 pm, there are many to choose from, and they each have a favourite.  It's like a a religion - mothers in law and daughters in law (who live in the same house) discuss them seriously and at length every day, trying to fathom out what is going to happen next.  I think of my own mother's dedication to "Days of Our Lives" and how we used to tease her about it.  She knew every character and every detail of their lives, she would have the dinner prepared, ready to cook then switch on the telly to watch it at 4.30 pm every day, clutching a gin and tonic.  I swear, the house could have burned down, and she wouldn't have noticed.  I watch Barun in full flight, the Master Story Teller, enjoying himself and enjoying our entertainment, and am reminded of our son;  Barun and he share the same powerful, muscular body and black hair and their eyes sparkle the same way when speaking of something they are passionate about.  There are many similarities between them - Barun is the Indian version of Joshua, and Joshua is the English version of Barun.  I would love to see the two of them together discussing movies.  

 

The Brits are back to say goodbye;  I politely say goodbye to Jane and Phillip, and uncharacteristically, only give them a quick kiss on the cheek, with a brief  "Good luck on your journey."  But Irene's eyes twinkle as I approach and tell her I have enjoyed her company.  She hugs me and says "We are kindred spirits, I have soooo loved meeting you, I hope we meet again soon.  Keep in touch, and promise to let me know everything about the Taj Palace Hotel?!"  She is thinking of coming back in November to Mumbai to see the cricket, and wants me to let her have a first hand account of our experience.  I clasp my hands and bow my head and say "Namaste" and surprisingly, she responds the same way and I see tears in her eyes.  It was only yesterday she asked me what the word "Namaste" meant.  When I said I believe it means  "The God in Me sees the God in You" she gasped in delight, and said  "Oh I love that!"  I have enjoyed her gentleness, her patience and her generosity, so completely different to her friend Jane;  their friendship remains a mystery.  

 

A quick history lesson:  The Modern Traveller - Josiah Conder 1830

 

"The room contained wine, English sweet meats etc for the entertainment of the English guests, who were waited upon by Portugese natives.  In the opposite room was placed the image, with vast heaps of offerings of all kinds before it.   In the two side rooms were the native guests; and in the area were groups of Hindoo dancing women finely dressed, singing and dancing with sleepy steps, surrounded with Europeans, who were sitting on chairs and couches.  One of two groups of Mussulman men singers entertained the company at intervals with Hindostanee songs and ludicrous tricks.  Before two o'clock the place was cleared of the dancing girls and of all the Europeans except ourselves;  and almost all the lights were extinguished, except in front of the goddess.   The doors of the area were then thrown open, and a vast rows of natives rushed in almost treading upon one another;  among whom were the vocal singers, having caps like sugar-loaves.  When the crowd had sat down, they were so wedged together as to present the appearance of a solid pavement of heads;  a small space only being left immediately before the image, for the motions of the singers who all stood up.  Four sets of singers were present on this occasion;  the first consisting of Brahmins, the next of bankers, the next of vaishnuvus, and the last of weavers.  They entertained the guests with filthy songs, and danced in indecent attitudes before the goddess, every now and then bending their bodies, and almost tearing the air with their vociferations.  The dress of the singers, their indecent gestures, the abominable nature of their songs, the horrid din of their miserable dum, the lateness of the hour, the darkness of the place, with the reflection that I was standing in an idol temple, and that the immense multitude were, in the dry act of worship, perpetrating a crime of high treason against the God of heaven, excited ideas and feelings in my mind which time will never obliterate." 

 

We spend the morning trying to connect to the Internet, and I visit Rajish, something is pinching painfully in my left hip, and the thought of a 16 hour train trip in a few hours time is worrying.  He is a poor relaxation masseur, but at remedial massage, he is excellent, and forty minutes later I feel like a new woman.  The morning is peacefully spent reading, writing, sleeping and having a pre lunch gin and tonic. We eat with Utid, who by now has noticed how much time I spend on my IPad and asks if I keep a diary.   No, I blog.   "Oh!" he says, very interested, "is it possible to share it with me?"  I feel uncomfortable, knowing what I have written, the personal things I have commented on about him, his colleagues and his guests.  I squirm and say  "Only if you are prepared to read my very blunt - often rude - comments, and all of my opinions, both good and bad?'   He is undeterred, and his soft brown eyes ask ever so politely "Oh yes, please, may I?"  He tells me he is is starting up his own Tour Guide business and wants to keep in touch, plus he says, my stories may be helpful to him.  So I give it to him.  I imagine this is a dilemma many writers face;  who may take offence - justifiably or not - by what is written? 

 

Barun asks if we need help packing as "I have someone who is excellent at packing!"  Of course he would, these men will go to any lengths to ensure we are looked after.  Gerald and I have already reorganised our packing prior to departure this evening;  I package up a large bundle of clothing brought from home and bag of toiletries and ask Barun if he will donate them where they are needed, and he beams.  I am ready to leave, but keen to get some exercise, and he assures me I will be "Absolutely, perfectly, 100% safe anywhere here!"  I walk for an hour in rare isolation on a white sandy road surrounded by green fields and munching cows, I hear an occasional bicycle bell ring, and I see at most ten people, all of whom all smile and wave.  There is a slight breeze and the sun shines but only gently.  There is such peace here, I cannot believe this is the same place as the madness and chaos we have encountered every day. I am an elderly white woman, walking alone, in India.  It reminds me of the twenty years I spent as a volunteer with World Youth International and the happy months I spent in Nepal and Lombok, where I took groups of young Australians to learn about life and leadership.  There is a sense of connection, a sense of adventure, a sense of belonging despite the fact I have never been here before.  I like it. 

 

I board our vessel for the last time feeling a little sad to be leaving this haven, and these gentle and generous men.  Hoping to find Gerald I visit the saloon, where Barun is entertaining a large group of Indian VIP's from important local organisations so I leave immediately.  Five seconds later, Barun is behind me calling "Sandra!  Sandra!  Do you need me?"  I thank him and say I am only looking for Gerald.  Still, he extends an invitation.  "Please, Sandra, please, come and join us any time, any time!"  I feel so humble, and my eyes prickle in respect for this man. 

 

Gerald has retrieved our passports and following recommendations made up an envelope containing Aus$150 in tips, which we have been advised is Aus$8 per person per day and seems somewhat paltry, but Udit assures us is 'the right amount', and I have filled in the feedback form and the Visitors Book:  we are almost ready to disembark.  It is sweltering in our cabin, where the air conditioner reads 28 degrees and defies our attempts to lower the temperature. I take my fourth shower of the day, and once again give thanks to the Water Gods. 

 

Barun insists we have soup and naan before we leave the Sukapha, and when he notices Gerald is wearing a money belt, he tells us that we need not worry as the trains today are 'very safe'.  The staff line up to bow and farewell us as we leave; I feel so moved and they seem genuinely sad we are leaving, surely this much emotion cannot be manufactured for every guest?  I hold their hands and cannot believe how attached I feel to these men in such a short time, and how grateful I am for how they have looked after our every need.  As I climb into the Landrover I look back in gratitude at the Sukapha, a middle aged mother of a boat rocking gently on the mighty river, and think of my Dad who loved to travel and who loved boats and how much we would have loved this journey. 

 

Our drive to the station is a procession:  we have two vehicles with two drivers, plus Rajish (possibly because he speaks good English and knows us intimately through our massages) and three other men to assist our easy transition from boat to train.  Barun is is Support Person #7 but has been delayed welcoming new guests on board ship, and will only join us at the train later.  The station is vast array of buildings inhabited by a huge rugby scrum of humanity where the bold triumph over the meek, we have to shout and use sign language to make ourselves heard although our faces are only inches apart, the platforms and corridors are besieged by thousands of people pushing and shoving, there are vendors and luggage and animals and a palpable sense of urgency.   I feel a rising sense of panic, it would be easy to die here, to be crushed beneath this surging mass of humanity, each intent on securing a seat (or standing room only) on the incoming train, and none of the seats (bar the carriage we will travel in) are reserved, so its literally every man for himself. 

 

It is a terrifying spectacle to us, the uninitiated, and we are so grateful to have this experienced team of men pushing us through the melee and we follow their instructions as meekly as children.  We arrive at a designated spot, where they anticipate 'our carriage' will stop, and the men stand and guard us and our luggage as if their lives depend upon it, they look to the right and to the left like Presidential bodyguards,  They are clearly enjoying this important role taking care of the only white people here, and have earned themselves a certain status on the platform, they even swagger a little.  They provide us with boxes of chicken sandwiches, fruit, juice, and several bottles of water for our journey, and remind us not to eat or drink anything from anyone or any vendor on the train; we are deep in conversation when Barun arrives.  Their demeanour changes immediately.  'The Boss' is now here, their role is now secondary, and they quickly take a step back.  

 

He tells us to say our farewells now, as when the train arrives, it will be "All Systems Go!"  He has called us 'The Lovers' since the first day we met when I told him that after 47 years Gerald and I could not sleep in separate beds, and I often catch him smiling fondly at us when he sees us holding hands or kissing;  he says this is not normal in India.   As we hug this lovely man and thank him, he says "'The Lovers' must look after each other!" I am once again moved to tears and touched by the simple kindness and the beauty of the people we have met here.

 

The crowd grows louder as the sound of the approaching train is heard, it slices through the dark and we feel the heat and the energy and the power as a monster of a train roars in, it's The Farakka Express, it's hissing and tooting cracks my head in half, it must be over a hundred years old, it's windows are cracked and filthy, even in my panic I see its in need of a major clean up, and I hope its safe.  My heart beats loudly as the crowd surges, carrying us along with it towards the still moving train.  This is our next Indian adventure Our Seventeen Hour Train Trip.  Are we ready?

 

Evening of Day 10 and Night of Day 11 - 16th and 17th September 2016

 

OUR JOURNEY TO VARANASSI. ENLIGHTENMENT COMES IN MANY GUISES.

 

In a second, Rajish and the two other men are weaving through the crowds down the platform with our luggage, towards the Second Class Air Con which has sailed past where we stood, where it was expected to stop.   We only have a few minutes to board before it leaves, and we have to move fast, as there are about thirty carriages and there are hundreds of people determined to get aboard, hefting bags and boxes and children.  We reach our carriage but it is impossible to get in for the solid flank of people, so Barun strides to the door at the other end, but it is locked.  Heroically, impossibly, in this manic crowd, he manages to alert the conductor who unlocks the rusted, filthy door, and I see how power and authority work in India.  Like Superman, he grabs the railing and swings his long legs up a metre or more into the train, grabs our luggage piece by piece and hefts it inside, and in one effortless, masterful motion lifts me with one strong arm from the platform into the carriage.  I feel like a maiden, rescued.   Seconds later, the three other men have scrambled in to join us and they grab Gerald's hands and hoist him inside. 

 

People defer to Barun, his bearing, status and power are evident in everything about him, he commands authority, crowds automatically give way to him.  I follow him down a narrow passageway swathed in curtains, lit by dim, dirty lights, and all I can see in the gloom are many pairs of feet.  He stops and sweeps aside a set of grubby curtains to reveal a tiny compartment, maybe eight feet wide by ten feet long, lit by a wobbly fluorescent light illuminating four bunk beds, two atop each other.  There are already people resident here and luggage and clothing and water bottles are strewn on all the bunks.  Barun swiftly tosses everything on to the top two bunks and announces "I don't know who or where these people are, but these bottom two bunks are yours."  He takes two bottles of water out of the water holders and places our two bottles of water in them. "And these are your bottles of water."  In seconds, he has reclaimed the space, placed our suitcases under my bunk with the instruction "You can keep your eyes on them from your bunk on the other side Gerry."  He informs the conductor we need help and tells us "The man in the blue jacket will come to tell you when you get close to Varanassi."  Rajish has made our bunks with clean linen, and says with some satisfaction  "These are your pillows and your blankets and your sheets and your towels."  I say I think the original occupants may be displeased when they return, but Barun he shakes his elegant head in denial.  "All this bottom part is yours."  OK, if we have to, we will deal with it later;  as I don't fancy climbing up the metal frame to the top bunk which held up by a distinctly flimsy chain.  This all happens in a rush, people are yelling and shouting and pushing in the passageway and all of us are crammed in the compartment when suddenly, the train jolts, there is a warning whistle, we are preparing for departure and there is a flurry of farewells, and Our Men push their way down the passage and with the train already moving, they jump on to the platform, agile, young and healthy men who smile and wave and jog down the platform alongside of us at the window, as we gather speed, and move away from them.   I feel as abandoned as I did at five years old when my mother left me on my first day at St. Mary's Convent School in Cape Town.

 

The platform ends and the darkness reclaims the horizon as the train rocks out of the station and quickly builds up a cracking pace trying to make up time;  we are already 45 minutes late.  There is a brief moment of respite as we consider the speed and clamour of the last hour, and sit silently looking at each other in disbelief, then a gradual dawning that already we have become a curiosity;  there is a Congo line of people queuing past our compartment taking turns to lift the curtain and peer in at us.  

 

This train runs on a wide gauge track, something Barun and his team were very proud to share with us, and information which seemed to impress Gerald, and our carriage is considered very upmarket.  In ours, there are probably six compartments sleeping four people, and another six sleeping two, which should add up to 36 passengers, but there are many, many more people in here.  The compartment on one side of the passageway sleeps four (head facing window, feet facing corridor, north to south) - and an even smaller compartment on the opposite side of the passageway sleeps two (one atop each other, lying length ways, west to east).  Every compartment has a set of shiny maroon curtains for privacy, they have been jaggedly cut and remain unstitched and fraying, the fabric is thin and threadbare, holed and stained, and suspended on sagging wire, are too short and barely meet in the middle;  every time I pull them across someone immediately opens them to stare in at us.  Using our non verbal communication, Gerald and I decide the best way to deal with this is to ignore the crowds and open our books and read, or pretend to read, as the lighting is so feeble we can barely see each other.  Gerald discovers a small ancient lamp which he prises open, it offers a small prism of light in a limited spot, but it helps.  We are sitting upright pretending to read when two disgruntled men who we quickly deduce are the original occupants appear and glare at us, speaking angrily and loudly, as they move luggage from one top bunk to the other;  we may not know the language, but 'pissed off' is Universal. A few minutes later two more men appear who also speak angrily and loudly, also clearly 'pissed off'.  We feel we have made enemies and do not know who has laid claim to 'our' bunks before us, so as two of the men claim the top bunks, we feign a casual air and continue to pretend to read, as if we were totally unaware of the Declaration of War in our compartment.  I long for Barun.  The angry voices subside, and the third man stands before me and asks in English "May I sit down here?"  The 'here' he refers to is the bottom of my bunk bed, and I remember Utid's warning "Do not be too friendly, Sandra," so I hesitate just long enough for him to know I am ever so slightly displeased by this request.  "Certainly," I say, and unlike my normal chatty self, return to my book, and remain silent.  I am aware that this would be considered very rude anywhere else, and no doubt is here too, but I do not know who this man is, and I do not want him sitting on my bed for the next 16 hours.  Gerald remains quiet, but watches these proceedings over the top of his book, missing nothing.  I am disconcerted;  out of the corner of my eye the man with whom I am now sharing my bunk stares ahead at nothing for a few minutes, then he stands up to retrieve something from the top bunk, and somewhat nervously, I ask "What are you doing?"  He brings down a book and says "I too shall read."  Which he does but only for only a couple of minutes, then he packs up his bag, and moves out, clearly disappointed at his lack of engagement with us.  I am not sure whether I should feel relieved or guilty, but settle on relief.

 

In the compartment on the opposite side of the passageway is a man sitting with his leg propped up on a cardboard box, his feet are dusty and bare and he has an oozing bandage wrapped around one ankle, he tries to catch my eye and illicit my sympathy, and sighs heavily at regular intervals.  I try to ignore him and open our box of food and offer Gerald a sandwich, but he  wrinkles his nose, and says "I cannot eat here."  I am hungry so I keep my eyes averted and eat a sandwich and a boiled egg, washing it down with a bottle of water.   Gerald nibbles at half a sandwich and leaves the rest, and jokes he is going to the Restaurant Car and Bar to get us a gin and tonic with slices of lime and lots of ice, after which we will have a long shower before bed.  Ha ha, mate. 

 

Despite my anxiety, I cannot stop observing human nature, and I am fascinated.  This carriage is a moving circus, a revolving doors theatrical scenario with players entering and exiting the stage (our compartment) without explanation nor direction, and no-one has a script (especially not us) and we have no knowledge of this theatrical experience and no idea what the play is about.  Utid told us to sleep in what we are wearing, and by 10 pm my eyes are drooping, I want to go to sleep, but the noise and the traffic in the corridor has not abated.  I get a new surge of energy when a new player, hitherto unseen, emerges stage front and without a word slides a bag confidently under Gerald's bunk, then proceeds to take a very long, thick steel chain from his back pack and attaches it to the bag with a padlock the size of an apple.  I feel momentarily alarmed, but remember the safety assurance of both Utid and Barun, and with the knowledge my Beloved is wide awake with his eyes constantly sweeping the compartment for possible threat, and knowing those same eyes will probably not close all night long, I stick my ear plugs in, arrange my skinny pillow under my head, a rolled up jumper for under my knees, spread my pashmina, roll up my handbag and place it under my pillow (a cunning plan) and climb into bed.  People are coughing and hacking next door and across the passageway, I count at least three people swallowing, sucking and spitting up phlegm.  I am amazed that my germ phobic husband reads on, apparently unperturbed, and I have the morbid fear we are going to contract TB or at the least, a nasty flu which will wreck our holiday.   Despite these dire thoughts and the fact that my bed is as hard as a board, I surrender to the rhythmic rocking of the train, and remember Barun's promise that we would 'sleep like babes in arms', I adjust my sleeping mask, and feeling secure in the knowledge that my ever vigilant husband is protecting me, I soon fall asleep. 

 

But not for long.  There is pandemonium in the corridor and in our compartment, aka The Stage, people are shining torches in our faces, searching for things. Gerald is sat bolt upright, looking insurmountable.  Several men come and go, depositing and picking up bags, they slide bags under the bunk and slide bags out, climb up into the top bunks, and climb out of the top bunks, and finally five men (I've counted) come to an agreement about who is sleeping where, the victors climb to the top bunks and the losers leave, now there are only four of us in this tiny place, and a sort of peace descends. The man above me has a rhythmical snore, a gentle sort of hmmmmpppppffff in, and a slow swwwwosshhhhh out, almost like a meditation.  The man above Gerald is as regular and as loud as a lawn mower, a great big sinus filled, full throttled intake, with only marginally less exhalation.  I hear them, even through my ear plugs, and realise they have begun to snore in a kind of harmony, there is a musical connection happening between these two snorers, its very loud but not too unpleasant, I think I will be able to sleep.  But then the Main Act arrives centre stage, like a bassoon joining the orchestra at a critical point in the score, and I know my Beloved has finally fallen asleep, as it now sounds like the Chain Saw Massacre in here.  Exhausted, I fall asleep.

 

But not for long.  I have to pee, something I have been dreading.  Armed with tissues and wearing shoes, I weave my way down the 18" wide passage way, avoiding feet, especially the one with a large pus filled bandage, and watched by curious, knowing eyes.  I know exactly where to go, as the smell of this 'facility' has assailed my nostrils for a couple of hours, the sour, acid, urine odour of which has permeated my hair and my clothes.  I stink like pee, I am sure, and I haven't even done one yet.  There is a Western toilet and an Eastern toilet, but I have arrived at the Eastern one and I am surprised at how clean it is, although the stench makes my eyes water. I remember being told that we should use the Eastern toilets, as much the same way us from the West are unaccustomed to squatting, those from the East are unaccustomed to sitting, and there is more likelihood of 'incidents'.  There is a basin, with running water and even soap, and of course it's a squat (I hear my friend Jane saying "I cannot do squats, sorry, but I just can't.")  There is no towel, no bin and no loo paper, but a tap curiously placed six inches from the floor and a large stained plastic mug, apparently to fill the mug with water and wash your wee/poo down the 'facility' straight on to the tracks below, as the base of the loo opens when you press a flush lever with your foot;  the African and Indian Railway version of 'flushing the toilet'.  I lower my trousers and realise they will trail the suspiciously wet floor, so I roll them up to my thighs and down from my waist, and hold them there bunched up around my hips and high up my legs with one hand.  Am I imagining it, or is the train rocking more violently?   I compensate and readjust my stance, and thanking my yoga teachers for my flexible knees and hips, cautiously lower myself downwards, using my other hand hold on to the basin for support.  "Germs, germs, germs!" I hear my Mother's voice, but with a sense of gratitude, and trying hard not to pee all over my shoes, I relieve myself. 

 

Still crouching and holding up my pants, I attempt to fill the jug with water from the tap, a difficult manoeuvre given the train is cracking along at great speed, but the tap does not work/will not work/or I just do not know how to make it work.  I decide to let my pee just dribble down the facility on to the track of its own accord, but now have the dilemma of a wet tissue, warm with my pee, which I ball in my palm hoping to find a place to dispose of it;  thankfully I have four bottles of hand sanitiser in my hand bag.  I'm so grateful I didn't have to poo.  I wash my hands and open the door using the hem of my blouse to shield my hands from more germs.

 

There is a man with a large gun standing outside the door, who I initially think is waiting for me, but no, he's just curious.  I wonder if he is security or whether he is there to keep people from using the loos?  Surely not.  There are several men jammed in the doorway, some of whom are hanging dangerously out of it by one hand to catch a breeze, there are men everywhere, and I pick my way down the passage way strewn with sleeping people and men selling water, chai, packets of chips, foil wrapped meals, boiled eggs, sweets and fruit to our compartment.  I soon realise my mistake.  Which one IS our compartment?  There are no signs just the ragged maroon curtains, it's very dark, and I begin twitching curtains, peering in, desperate to see the dear face of my Beloved.  I feel panic rising, how stupid was I not to leave a sign or a trail of rice so I could find my way back?  I have manifested bad karma:  I realise I have been quick to judge others, as I now have a renewed understanding of why so many people peer into our compartment, and it's not just because we are white and interesting.  I don't want to wake people up and call out, so I peer behind two maroon curtains with no luck, but at the third, I loudly stage whisper "Gerald?"  He responds immediately, and I fall into the safety of our compartment with great relief. 

 

Arranging myself, my pillow, my knee support, my blankets and my sleeping mask takes time, and I have hardly settled when the overhead light goes on and a big fat man arrives.  Apparently, whilst I was peeing, one of the top bunks was vacated, and this man is here to take possession.  He is talking at the top of his voice to a crowd of other men, all speaking at the top of their voices in the passage way.  I am pretending to be asleep, but watch as he throws his bag on the bunk above Gerald, and hauls his huge frame upwards, which creaks ominously as he lays down with a satisfied sigh.  What about the sheets, I think, who changes the sheets?  They're still warm from the previous guy, but my more serious concern is the possibility of him crashing down onto Gerald, prostrate beneath him.  I lie awake expecting the worst, but no calamity occurs, and a new snoring regime begins. 

 

I have to pee three more times during the night, this is because I am determined not to dehydrate, and therefore drinking enough water for a camel.  Every trip is a perilous journey in the dark with the rocking, the pungent stink of the loos and the ever present possibility of TB and multiple germs and the pressing problem of the wet wee wee tissues.  Whilst there is not a shred of aggression shown towards me, I am feeling anxious and stressed.   On one trip to the loo, something wonderful occurs;  I find a pink feather lying in the passageway, which is my Mother's calling card.  Since her death seven years ago, and her funeral, where many of us wore pink feather boas in acknowledgement of her love of life, I find  pink feathers in the unlikeliest of places, both at home and around the world.   I stop in wonder, in disbelief, and my eyes fill with tears.  Despite the heavy traffic, the dirt, and the people, this perfect pink feather is laying at my feet.  How?  In this place, this is so unlikely, it's not as if this is Mardi Gras territory.  I kiss it and place it carefully in my bra, knowing she is with me.  It doesn't matter that the noise and activity continues unabated all night long, or that every time we stop, the people in our compartment change, and the people in the passageway change;  there is a procession of young students, then a group of women sharing a meal who welcome a family with three kids who picnic on the floor directly outside our curtain, and alarmingly,  four moustached men with guns arrive.  My pink feather comforts me, I hear her laugh and I feel her presence. 

 

At 5.30 am I am wide awake, have I slept at all?  Gerald has been awake for hours.  We are at Patna, and the fat man is leaving the train, and I need to pee again.  It is still dark in our compartment, and in place of a cup of tea, I drink more water.  I slide the filthy window curtain across to see the dawn countryside waking up on a wet misty morning, where rain has created dozens of small lakes, and people are bathing.  We fly by green fields and many water buffalo and acres and acres of plastic and garbage, we fly through stations where people are asleep on the platform floor, seemingly unperturbed by our train.  I settle back under the covers and sleep, only waking at 7 am to see Gerald reading through the light of the window.  All through this train trip we have looked at each other and smiled in encouragement, saying "Only 12 hours to go!"  "Only 8 hours to go!"  And now, we have only 4 hours to go, the dark of the night is behind us,, and we are cheered, Gerald is even hungry.  We drink water, finish what is left of the chicken sandwich and share a runny boiled egg.  When I stand up, I realise there is once again a different man in the bunk above me.  How many does that make in one night?  In another world and living alone, this night would earn me a reputation;  the number of men who have been in and out of my compartment in the last few hours is nothing short of remarkable. 

 

I am becoming 'trained'.  I do not object when people open our curtains and peer in.  I notice I do not smell the pong of the 'facilities' anymore, I hardly notice the incessant shouting and constant activity, and when a man sweeps a load of rubbish down the passage way, and some of it arrives in our compartment, I do not even raise an eyebrow.  In fact I seize the opportunity and offer him the huge bag of food we have been unable to eat, and he is delighted.  The men hawking chai and water in their monotonous tones do not concern me, they have become the sounds of The Farakka Express, the sounds of our journey, and best of all, we have not felt threatened, we have been safe despite being the only white people on this train.  This is how we acquire new behaviours, incrementally and unconsciously adapting to new situations, and whilst I feel dirty, smelly, sweaty and tired, we did OK on this train, and I feel proud of us Two Kids From Chingola.

 

The new man above me wakes up, the one who climbed into the warm bedding slept in and vacated by at least four other men during the night, and slept like the dead.  He hangs his head over the side of the bunk and we introduce ourselves;  he is Amit, a 19 year old civil engineering student, visiting Varanassi to see a friend.   He tells me how excited he is to meet us, how happy he is to share this compartment with us, and asks us many questions about Australia and fires engineering questions at Gerald.  We are behind schedule and talking to this charming young man is a pleasant way to end our journey.  

 

We arrive at Varanassi an hour late, and it's overwhelming.  It's a vast station, one of the biggest in India, as 40,000 visitors arrive here every day - every day! - to visit the Ganges and pay respects to their dead, bury their dead, or to bring the ashes of their dead.  We are grateful to our new young friend Amit who prepares us to get ready to get off the train, which waits only a few minutes before roaring off again, and the man in the blue jacket is nowhere to be seen.  Thank you Amit.  We cannot see anyone waiting for us, the platform is as big as a sporting arena and swarming with armies of people and luggage, and unbelievably, in this midst, lies a sleeping huge cow, whom I soon discover climbed several sets of steps to get there.  Gerald has rolled our luggage to the door, which is a feat in itself, as everybody on the train seems to be getting off and everyone on the platform seems to be getting on.  Magically, 'Our Man' appears and swings into action, effortlessly hefting our luggage onto the platform and we are guided through the throngs of twenty thousand people, past the cow, down the stairs, past another cow waiting to climb them, and into an air conditioned car, which has been waiting for us in impossible heat for over an hour.  In minutes we have left behind one crazy, unique and unforgettable experience, and started another.  Thank you Mysteries of India. 

 

We have left The Farakka Express behind us, and for that I am grateful.  We do not want to do that again, it was fun and it was frightening, and it definitely fell into the a 'once in a lifetime' category.  It was a journey we wanted to experience but many of our friends were concerned, even appalled that at our age, we could even consider it.  We wanted to, for although it would be impossible for us to fully experience 'the other side' of travelling, let alone living, in India, we did want an insight, and eighteen hours on the train has satisfied our curiosity and confirmed that we are spoiled and privileged Westerners.  There are people here so poor they will never get to travel on The Farakka Express - or any train - and I am fully present to the injustice of life;  more than anywhere I have ever travelled.  In India that fact is undeniable.

 

Our 'hotel', the majestic Nadesar Palace is thankfully less than five minutes away, and we stop at vast gates for a security check, glide up tree a lined avenue past acres of manicured lawns and flowers and statues to a grand entrance where a huge man in a kurta and turban bows low, touching his heart in greeting.  A man is playing a conch shell in welcome and another is playing an Indian instrument, I can smell jasmine and feel the air conditioning reaching out to touch us whilst two beautiful women wearing saris drape floral garlands around our necks, then hand us iced cloths and cool watermelon juice in frosted champagne glasses.  The foyer is spectacular with white marble floors, vast domed ceilings, antique furnishings, crystal chandeliers and perfumed arrangements of brilliantly coloured flowers taller than I am.

 

It is the complete opposite of everything we just left at the train station, this is a scene from a dream, extravagant, lavish and impossibly beautiful. 

 

A smiling group of people are introduced to us:  the butler, the chef, the concierge and the manager.  With the utmost respect and the deepest of bows, they ask "What do you need?  

 

Oh, India.

 

Day 11 - 17th Sept 2016 - Varanasi - Nadesar Palace

 

A PALACE, A CREMATION, AND GRATITUDE

 

For two days and nights, we live in the Varanasi Nadesar Palace, days which pass by so quickly I do not have time to write, although we are treated as royally as King George and many other royals who have stayed here.  There is a towering turbaned man who stands at the grand portico who looks like a King himself, his magnificent handlebar moustache is twirled and pointed upward;  he clasps his hands and beams every time he sees us, his job description may well include 'bowing reverently', and he does.   

 

The original palace once had sixty rooms for the royal family, but today has only ten suites, so a maximum of 'only twenty special people' can stay here and we are enjoying being two of them.  Apparently, it fell into disrepair and was abandoned for many years until the Taj Hotel chain bought it, and did major renovations.  There are many more staff than guests who are attentive and alert to our every need, wearing beautiful uniforms like costumes out of a lavish operatic production;  there are kurtas and snowy white pants, turbans and saris, heavily beaded waistcoats and long elegant jackets, they are impeccably groomed and their shoes gleam;  there are only two female staff and they are impossibly beautiful.  

 

We walk through the grounds with a guide who tells us some of the history.   The palace is set on forty acres of lush manicured gardens, tended by 35 full time gardeners and filled with acres of green lawns, perfectly sculpted bushes, peacocks flowers and trees, one of which has at thirty majestic eagles - eagles! - sitting in its branches.  The kitchen gardens grow every kind of vegetable, organically, for the exclusive use of the palace dining room, an experience we eagerly anticipate.  The winding driveway is lined with mango, cedar and neem trees which are about 150 years old.  There is a huge marble rotunda at one end of the garden where 'the ladies liked to sit' - I can imagine them in their Victorian white dresses twirling their lace umbrellas, retreating from the heat of the sun and being swept off their feet by impossibly handsome military men.  Birds are singing their hearts out and we watch mongoose and chipmunks run across the lawn.  It's Fantasia.  We return via the back of the main building whose vast chambers are sensually curved, there are sparkling glass doors opening on to a large terraced dining area with marble floors;  it overlooks an inviting turquoise pool.  

 

We are escorted to our suite overlooking the pool terrace, and after the smell and dirt and noise and discomfort of The Farakka Express, I feel we have arrived in nirvana.  It consists of a huge bedroom with a massive four poster bed swathed in white damask linen and muslin curtains, decorated with a dozen embroidered cushions, there are etched glass mirrors, heavy dark wood furniture, softly glowing lamps, heavy gold brocade drapes over two sets of French doors - and a Bollywood movie playmaking on an enormous flat screen TV.  The dressing room is hidden by swagged drapes, and furnished with wardrobe, security safe, and a place for luggage;  beyond that is a bathroom big enough for at least two families to live in.  It's obscene, and I love it.  Everything in it is constructed entirely of white marble, the gigantic bath sits centre stage (and has a place to hold my gin and tonic I notice), the taps are shiny silver faux Victorian plumbing, massive mirrors, a shower containing marble seating which is big enough to share with a few good friends, a big basin for each of us and numerous shelves, quality toiletries and piles of fluffy white towels.  I discover later that this is the best shower I have ever used;  the shower head is about ten foot off the ground and about 15" square;  hammers down on my head and body like tropical rain. 

 

I turn on the bath and empty a whole bottle of bubble bath into the steaming water, I am such a wimp at heart and eager to wash away The Farakka Express. I lay in the bubbles with a cup of tea and marvel at the blessing of all this, I could easily fall asleep there.  The long night journey, the heat, the excitement and the uncertainty have taken their toll and Gerald has hardly slept at all;  within minutes he is asleep on the big bed.  I join him, but despite exhaustion, I cannot sleep, my mind is racing with the events of the last 24 hours, so I lie there with a doona made of the lightest silk around me, listening to the singular snoring of Gerald;  it sounds like music to my ears.  

 

At 5 pm we are picked up by a representative of The Mysteries of India, Aman:  he is 41 years old, a university graduate, extremely knowledgeable, and The Man You Want in India.  I imagine him to be a highly disciplined man, he is calm and authoritative, he issues instructions like a headmaster, he expects to be obeyed, and we, and everybody else, do.   He parts crowds with a word, and sometimes with just a look, and when I ask after witnessing one wordless exchange "What was that about?" he says "I told him to 'get lost'".   I know we are in good hands, for like Barun, he has no qualms at all about moving people or objects out of our way to secure our safety, or for a photograph, a seat, or to jump the queue.  In the car driving to Ganges, he leans over to us in the back seat, and lowering his voice, speaks as if he is imparting a great secret.  "I am going to teach you several new words," (which he pronounces  'vords').  These are only a few of what I remember, as there were many: 

 

Kashi - The holiest place, a place of learning

Dom -  An undertaker

Dom Rajah - Keeper of the Eternal Flame

Ashram - A religious retreat or school

Ji - A sign of respect, as in Ganga-Ji, or Sandra-Ji (in Japan the word is 'San')

Dobi - A laundry man and every family has their favourite.  Aman laughs and  tells us they are known to be the best matchmakers too, as 'they know everybody's dirty laundry' 

Guru - A teacher/expert/master - derived from 'gu' meaning darkness, and 'ru' meaning light

 

Varanasi, also known as Benares and Kashi, is the most spiritual city in India, and one of the world's oldest living cities.  Here we find the majestic Vishveswara Temple, which is dedicated to Shiva the Lord of the Universe, who according to legend, after his marriage to Devi Parvati, left his Himlayan abode and came to reside in Kashi with all the gods in attendance.  

 

It is home to 3,000,000 million people, and is the most holy place on earth for Hindus to bathe in the Ganga (Ganges) to wash away their sins, to bring the bodies of their loved ones to be cremated, or to bring the ashes of their dead to scatter in the Ganga;  it is the most important Hindu pilgrimage.  It stands on the western bank of that sacred river, it's history stretches back into the mists of time, and it has been a centre of learning for over 2000 years.  Just thirteen kilometres away is Sarnath, where Lord Buddha preached his first message of enlightenment two and a half thousand years ago.  Two and half thousand years ago!  But the essence of Varanasi is the relationship between the river and the city. The river banks are lined with ghats (pronounced 'khat'), and have wide concrete stairs which lead down to the water;  Dashawamedh Ghat is the main ghat, and the 'livliest', but there are 84 of them in Varanasi alone - so just choose one!   Varanassi is where devout Hindus come to bathe in what they believe are the sacred waters of their Mother Ganges, and to cremate their loved ones on pyres of sandalwood.  

 

We walk down to the Manikarnika Ghat on the Ganges which is the oldest ghat dating back to the 5th century and associated with the Godddess Parvati.  There are literally thousands and thousands of people here and pilgrims from all over India, and for the first time in ten days, we see white tourists.  We specifically asked Viv to organise an 'off the beaten track tour' to unusual places, where few tourists go, which she has done brilliantly.  But in Varanasi, you have to expect tourists.  

 

Aman is in a hurry, we have already walked for twenty minutes, the sun is setting, and we have to make our way through the crowds and the cows.  There is so much to see and so many questions to ask:  we walk past a swanky looking shop which sells silks, and there is a large cow lying on the show room floor, taking up almost all the available walking space.  I do a double take, and burst out laughing, trying to imagine this in Pitt Street, Sydney.  "This cow" says Aman "comes to this shop every day and lies down there.  She never makes a mess in that shop.  She leaves to do her business outside and then comes back to lie down."   He tells us that these cows are all owned by somebody, and are milked twice a day, leaving home in the morning and returning at night.  

 

But we must get to the Ganges before sunset, and to get there we must walk down steps slippery with mud and cow poop;  at times like this, Aman grabs my hand firmly, and in the voice of a Sargeant Major on parade says to Gerald "Don't lose us.  Watch your footing.  Follow me."  And off he goes, leading me like a child, issuing instructions which I meekly follow.  We arrive at the river, there are hundreds of people milling about.  The river flooded recently, it was one hundred and twenty feet above its normal level and has not receded since, hence the crush here;  there is hardly any land left to stand on.  There are dozens of boats jostling for space on the river, and we need to get to our boat which is positioned several boats out;  in order to do so, we have to step first into one bobbing boat, carefully jump into another, then another, and another and another until we finally land on ours. 

 

There are about twenty of us on our boat, all  tourists, and all with our cameras flashing as we sail to the Eternal Flame, where there are dozens of other tourist filled boats, all silently witnessing the cremation of a body.  It is a sobering moment;  a human being is being burned and there are hundreds of us photographing the spectacle, it concerns me, it seems voyeuristic and callous, but Aman says that in India death is a part of normal life, it is simply the shedding of one's body and of renewal. He tells us that the bodies are wrapped in yards of white cloth, and then in a golden fabric, and that it takes 600 lbs of wood to burn a body, to which they add sandalwood, ghee, and herbs which helps stop the smell of burning hair and nails.  Every day 200 - 300 bodies are cremated here, and every day 40,000 pilgrims visit here, 70% who come to honour their dead.  I'm trying to do the maths, and get my head around these numbers, and the amount of wood required for each cremation.  The mourners shave their heads, walk barefoot and mourn for thirteen days and after the ceremonies are finished, they are filled with gratitude.  "Nobody cries here" says Aman "because they are happy that their loved one has ended their days here and is reunited with Mother Ganga."   I notice lines and lines of beggars.  I ask why.  Aman explains that the mourners fill the cups of the beggars, in gratitude, like karma.  The mourners change a one hundred rupee note into eighty single coins, and drop one coin in each cup of the beggars:  imagine one coin per cup, per day by 40,000 people.  "That's a lot of money, it's big business."   My mind is still calculating, but I can't work the numbers out, so I give up.   I see people lining up to purchase Holy Water from the Ganges in plastic bottles (like Lourdes), and brass pots which contain a plastic bag filled with holy water, to take home as a gift for family and friends.  Just pierce the bag and the brass pot fills with holy water.  Natty.  Just don't drink it. 

 

I am beginning to see that cremation and Mother Ganga are indeed, very Big Business.  Let's start with The Dom, the undertaker who is an important man, but even more important is The Dom Raja, a very wealthy man, who is the Keeper of the Eternal Flame, the flame from which each pyre is lit.  Then there is the Brahmin priest, without whom nothing can be done, who sets up shop early each day, looking decidedly unholy clad in tee shirts and jeans, dozens of them sit under their umbrellas with signs touting their wares and their phone numbers.  It costs around Aus $800 to have a cremation here, which is beyond the realm of most Indian families, but they can bring the ashes of their dead here, and have a Soul Prayer Ceremony presided over by a Brahmin priest;  those who cannot afford Aus $800 take their dead to the gas crematorium, also on the banks of the Ganga.  The rule is that bodies have to be cremated within 24 hours of death, and in a country populated this densely, there is a constant stream of customers. Then there are the barbers who cut the hair and beards of the mourners, the hotels they stay in, the hospices they bring their dying to, the fabric, the wood, the oils and herbs, the food and drinks and all the things that forty thousand visitors a day require, it's mind boggling.  If you are dying, this is the place to be. 

 

There is a sense of melancholy and something strangely peaceful despite the blatant marketing and the crowds paying for a glimpse of a burning body, and I float a Diya, a candle lit lamp of tribute, into the river for Sheela, our Nepali daughter, praying for an improvement in her health.  Teary, I gaze through the darkness to the fires on the shore and realise we are looking at that famous postcard picture of the Ganges where people bathe in moonlight and firelight.  I hear dogs barking, there is a constant hum of milling crowds, I smell strange smells, and the hair on my neck prickles;  I feel the holiness of this place settle upon me, for the first time.  "The energy!" Aman said earlier "you will feel it."  I do.

 

We have sailed for 40 minutes up and down the coastline watching the most intimate of ceremonies in the most public way, but Aman is impatient to get us off the boat as there is the daily "Gratitude to Mother Ganges Ceremony" (sometimes called an Arti Ceremony) about to begin on shore, and he wants us to have good seats.  He is the first one off and holding my hand guides me as we leap from boat to boat.  On shore, however, every scrap of space is filled with people, but he casts an practised eye over the crowd of thousands of people and without missing a beat, leads me confidently to a spot in the front row, feet from where the ceremony will be held.  He issues instructions to a well dressed adult family of four and without a murmur, the younger man leaves his position on a low bench, and I take his place, and sit crosslegged, there is movement behind me, and people scuttle to one side, suddenly Gerald is sat behind me.  Aman disappears and feeling uncomfortable, I turn to apologise to the displaced man's family, but they are smiling their welcome and greeting me as if I were their favourite Aunty.  During the ceremony, I extend my hand to the mother in gratitude, and she doesn't let go, so we hold hands and clap to the music as they sing, the daughter moves to sit next do me, so we too can hold hands; a small and meaningful act of friendship which connects us.  The father is beaming his approval, and at one point, leans over and grasps my hand and bows;  I am overwhelmed by the generosity of this family. 

 

Excitement builds, as the monks are coming;   seven young monks in saffron robes chanting and singing, their voices clear and sweet, in a mythical, hypnotic ceremony. They waved 108 burning candles placed in structures shaped like  Christmas trees, they burned incense and wafted it above our heads as the crowd swayed, singing and clapping.  It moved me deeply;  the colours and the sounds and the smell gave me tingles down my spine, I could feel the energy of us devotees shift in subtle and beautiful ways, it was 'divine' in the true meaning of the word. 

 

Throughout the whole ceremony, people continued to arrive, and more and more people were squeezed in with many trying to get a ring side seat such as the one I occupied;  I wondered how this would work in Sydney and could just imagine the 'seat rage' that would occur, but there is no sign of it here.  Adults are bringing forward old men and women - their parents I presume - looking for a good vantage point for them, and people are graciously standing up, moving up, and giving up their seats as if it was their absolute privilege to do so.   It was like waves on the shore, a constant wave of people coming in and people going out, a constant movement of humanity, a strong sense of connection and goodwill.  I feel humble, I feel safe, I feel accepted, I feel holy. 

 

For the first time, I see dozens of tourists, many elderly and many English, travelling in groups of twenty or more, holding hands in a crocodile line and weaving their way though the crowds.  It would be so easy to get lost here.  Ninety hypnotic minutes later, we are tapped on the shoulder by a strange man, appointed by Aman to attract our attention;  it is five minutes before the end of the ceremony, but we have to leave.  It's taken Aman twenty minutes to push his way through to us "If we stay any longer" he says "it will be like trying to get out of the cricket ground after the game!"   I farewell the charming family who have shared this experience with me, they stand and shake my hand, then bow and bless me.  Aman is delighted "I have been watching you from a distance the whole time.  I knew that family were taking care of you".  He steers us through the masses, happy we are missing 'the crush'.  Gerald and I look at each other in wonder, if this isn't a 'crush', what is? 

 

We take a rickshaw through narrow streets lit with candles and oil lamps which cast a soft glow over ghats, temples, sleeping forms on the street, and beggars.  It is still so hot and the noise of thousands of people is unrelenting.  I feel suddenly drained and weepy, 'crying tired' my mother used to say.  What a mega day this has been after hardly any sleep last night on The Farakka Express.   All I want is a shower, a bed and some food. 

 

It is 9 pm when we get back to The Palace, so we forego the formal indoor dining room and sit on the outdoor terrace.  The gin and tonic goes straight to my head as Gerald sips a beer and we order The Tali, a large platter with several small bowls of different curries, chutneys and vegetables;  it's delicious, but we are both too tired to eat much.  Attentive staff treat us as if we were The Raj, a handful of musicians play peaceful music a few feet away, lights flicker over fountains, it's still stifling hot and the humidity sticks my clothes to my skin.   I am falling asleep sitting up, but I have writing to do before I sleep tonight and we have a wake up call at 4.30 am for our dawn visit to the Ganges.  

 

 

 

 

 

Day 12 - 18th Sept 2016 - Varanasi - Nadesar Palace

 

 

SUNRISE OVER THE GANGES AND A ROYAL CARRIAGE RIDE

 

We wake up still tired at 4.30 am for a 5 am pick up.  Aman looks as fresh as a daisy and is waiting with our driver, and even at this ungodly hour, we are farewelled by the regal turban clad giant doorman.  The city is just waking up and the light hides the pollution, the homeless and the garbage, and plays a romantic light on the water and the buildings.  We have returned to the Manikarnika Ghat where we were last night, and once more, leap from boat to boat to get to 'our' boat, already crowded with Italian and English tourists. We cruise along the waterfront to witness what Aman calls the 'spiritually uplifting activity along the Ganges'.  From dawn to dusk, these ghats are thronged by thousands of devotees, who perform their holy rituals in the hope of attaining eternal salvation, 'Nirvana'.  There are people everywhere, some of them in the unlikeliest of places;  in one of the narrow gaps between boats, in the dark water which shines like oil in the dawn light, I spy a man's head, his body submerged below the water;  he is bathing there.  I am afraid that if one boat moves just a few inches, his head will be crushed like an egg, but he looks the picture of serenity.

 

A young boy of about ten is selling floral blessings, leaping athletically from boat to boat to catch as many tourists as possible, doing a roaring trade, and Aman purchases three for us.  We are not far off shore, voices and the sound of bells ringing carry strongly across the water, there are monks chanting the eternal sound of 'Ohm', which apparently creates the energy of the whole universe; I feel I am in an entirely different universe, this is surreal.  Aman told us yesterday that "This is a STRONG place, I want you to feel the vibration, right through your body."   Well, that certainly is happening now, my body is shivering, and not with cold.  I feel Aman's eyes on me, he is a student of energy, he approaches me with the floral blessings, and says gently "Now."  I understand, I am to float my blessings.   I float one for Sheela, our now 19 year old 'daughter' in Nepal, who has not only suffered a brain tumour, but has been diagnosed with tuberculosis and possibly cancer of the stomach, and I pray that her treatment is successful, that she regains her health.  We have been her sponsors for fifteen years, educating her through primary and high school, and have contributed to the cost of her medical treatment for two years.   Aman believes in Karma, and so do I - I wonder whether this counts as 'Good Acts of Service for God' and if so, will He help her?   From my bag, I remove my parent's rosaries;  my Mother's is crystal, purchased at the Vatican, and a gift from her best friend Lydia in Cape Town, and my Father's is made of black African wood, I gave it to him decades ago.  I hold them in one hand, and leaning over, I trail them through the water of Mother Ganga.  Gerald looks at me in alarm, what kind of germs am I collecting on my arm in that water?   Once Aman has satisfied himself I am not about to go for a swim and smiles a sweetly in understanding, I had told him I wanted to do this;  he nods his head.  I drop the floral blessings into the black water, and thank my parents for their love and security they showered upon me, and pray that they sit together happily in heaven.  Did they achieve Moksha?  I do not know, but just yesterday on the train, I found a small pink feather at my feet;  I have no doubt they are always with me, and I feel them watch us as we sit slap bang in the middle of a National Geographic photo spread, in a boat on the Mother Ganga with the sun rising, casting golden stepping stones between She and Us.  "She" is Aditya, the Hindu word for the Sun, and She is worshipped here as a Goddess;  here in this glorious and religious moment, I understand why.

 

We sail back to shore and disembark amongst men bathing in various stages of undress and a large crowd sitting on the steps of the ghat.  Aman says "These people may look like homeless people to you, but they come from all over the world to do this, and some of them sleep out on a wooden platform overnight and eat nothing, as a form of penance for their sins."  It is true, I have seen well dressed people, sleeping in strange places, on the open ground, above wooden planks and in shop fronts.  He guides us on walk through the city of Old Varanasi.  These alleyways are thousands of years old and are so narrow that in some places, two people cannot pass and besides, the cow always has right of way;  there are mounds of green cow poop amongst piles of garbage and potholes.   There are candle lit temples outside every dwelling, some of which have no doors, just a draped piece of fabric, which gives me a view into rooms perhaps six feet wide, and in two, I see cows sleeping on the floor next to a person asleep on a bed.  There are dozens of Brahmin priests and Sadus, men with shaved heads (Gerald fits right in) and hundreds barefoot mourners, and I wonder how they deal with the cow poop.

 

There are hawkers selling everything imaginable and everything unimaginable, objects I have never seen, and have absolutely no idea what they may be useful for, but I'm fascinated, and could send a week just trawling through them.  I see a sign pointing down a narrow allyway, heralding "The Vriddh Sant Sewashram.  Yoga, retreats, Ayurveda and Hospice".   The sign reads:  

 

"The ideal of service of elderly and children are the focal point of all religions. 

 Only For Elderly Saints To Live In - The Holy City - Kashi."  

 

I think I shall tell our son Joshua and Our Tribe that I wish to be an Elderly Saint, just not in Kashi. 

 

We head into the heart of the city, to Vishwanath Temple, often called the Golden Temple as it has three vast domes made of pure gold.  The temple is dedicated to Shiva, the Lord of the Universe, who according to legend, after marrying Devi Parvati, left his Himalayan abode and came to reside in Kashi with all the gods in attendance. Maharani Ahilya Bai Holkar of Indore built the temple in its present form in 1886, and it embodies India's timeless cultural traditions and high spiritual values. 

 

But before we get there, and in order to meet security requirements, we have to leave our bags in a shop which happens to sell Ayurveda oils, and I smell a sales pitch coming up shortly.  The street outside is inundated with thousands of tourists, ,and we walk shoulder to shoulder, making slow progress but finally enter the temple, and inch along dark odorous passageways.  I feel distinctly claustrophobic, I cannot breath and am desperate to be outside in the sunshine;  Aman accommodates me at once, and we push our way back like salmon swimming upstream, to the relative peace of the street.  There is a heavy military presence here, and lots of guns, and Aman says it is 'a place of some upset', but never explained why.

 

We return to the Ayurvedic shop collect our bags, and the inevitable sales pitch.  Do I wish to inspire a positive emotional state?  Enhance my physical wellness?  Create a deep spiritual awareness and purify my home whilst refining my skin?   Of course I do, I know this is a scam, but these guys are so very good at it, I'm in awe of their salesmanship.  So against my better judgement, I buy two tiny and expensive bottles of oil, Amber for pain which I hope will ease Gerald's headaches and Night Queen which aids sleep, something we are not getting enough of.  

 

We drive through the Hindu University of Banaras, a gargantuan establishment, renowned for its medical, engineering and agricultural degrees.  Built on 1350 acres, it houses thirty times more than the two and a half thousand people who live in Berry, our home town.   There are 10,000 staff and a staggering 46,000 students of whom 20,000 live on campus, with male and female dormitories segregated by wide expanses of grass and high walls. Aman sniggers just a little "We keep the boys far away from the girls, in case of any naughty things!"  He adds wistfully "Although I sat on the steps of the girls dormitories for long hours when I was a student here."  Gerald winks at me and says "We've all done that Aman!"  

 

The day was long, hot, filled with incredible sights and events, and proceeded at a cracking pace.  I am an ignorant but willing student, so I cannot vouch for the authenticity of what follows, but here are some of the things I learned today and found fascinating, topics so incredibly beautiful and complex, which I can only share in the most simple way.

 

I learn that the Hindu word Aman mentioned earlier today, 'Moksha' (which Buddhists call 'Nirvana'), is the state Hindus wish to achieve before death, a desirable place of liberation, release and self knowledge, a state where one is no longer reincarnated as a living thing, and is free of the cycle of birth and rebirth.  I need a lot of time to think about this.

 

And in Hinduism, there is no Supreme Being and no edicts telling you what to do, which surprises me as I have heard of so many rules and regulations already.  We are all the same, Aman says, Buddhists, Hindus, Protestants, Jews, Islamics, Catholics and we are all hopefully doing 'good work for God'.  I like this philosophy.  Karma is very important; definitely.  The Hindu believe there is no need to convert anyone, for we are all Hindu.  There are two kinds of Holy Men: Brahmin and Sadu.  Only Brahmins can be priests;  they can conduct ceremonies after completing an apprenticeship of study in an ashram and they wear a sacred white thread around their waists.  The Sadu is a man of any caste who has renounced all, He is considered a wise man, a guru, the one you go to with a problem you cannot solve.  He is a self proclaimed holy man who lives a nomadic life in caves, or outdoors in extreme weather conditions, who has dreadlocks called 'jata', he paints his face with vermillion and has a spot of ash on his forehead, he wears holy beads and simple saffron coloured clothes.  "Or he can be naked" Aman adds almost as an afterthought.   We haven't seen any of those yet.  

 

There are Four Mothers in India: 

1) The Mother Ganges 

2) Your own Mother  

3) Mother India

4) The Mother Cow (which explains why the cow is sacred;  when a Mother cannot breastfeed her baby she substitutes cow's milk, hence The Sacred Cow, the provider of sustenance to babies).

 

And what is the Eternal Law?  'Anything useful is Holy', I like that.  I shall have to reconsider my opinion of all those strange un-useful looking objects I see in the markets.  Perhaps this helps explain the piles of 'rubbish' we see which may clearly not be 'rubbish' to another, simply being stored for a use we are unaware of.

 

I discover the name Bodhi means 'enlightenment', Sattva means 'purity', and someone who is called Bohdi Sattva is someone who is not yet enlightened.  I remember decades ago when I was searching for enlightenment and studying Gestalt psychology, I met a man called Bohdi, but I don't think either of us cracked the elusive enlightenment.   I wonder what he's doing today?

 

I discover there are others like Gandhi and Mother Theresa, who choose not to ' be enlightened' and stay here in the physical realm to teach us.  Perhaps I'll remain unenlightened then, as I've discovered beliefs take about eight hundred years to develop into a religion - which is made up of just three things without which it cannot grow - philosophy, rituals and mythology.  "For example" says Aman "the man on the street will not understand philosophy, yet he will understand rituals.  And the ritual of telling stories to our children about God - that is mythology."  

 

I wondered why cows seem to lie in the middle of the road.  They do so for a very good reason - because the exhaust fumes from the vehicles keep the flies away.  Remember that for trivia night. 

 

The word 'Mahboob' means love;  this is my particular favourite, as it sounds like Ma's Boob, or My Boob.   

 

And I now know that should I want to buy Shiva Beads (which I consider the Indian rosary) traditionally worn by the male deity, Lord Shiva, I need only google 'RUDRAKSHA' for an astonishing selection. 

 

Here are a few facts about Prince Sidarta, the Hindu man who became the founder and leader of Buddhism.  Mythology says he was born from his mother's armpit and not from her womb, and is represented by four animals:  the white elephant, the bull, the horse and the lion.  He believed in self realisation, and he had many millions of followers, yet today, of the 1028 million people in India, only 8 million are Buddhists;  yet every year, thousands from all over the world come here to worship Buddha.   They come to visit Bodhgaya where Sidarta found enlightenment beneath a Bodhi tree 2600 years ago, and where he delivered his first sermon to his disciples, teaching 'the middle path for attaining Nirvana'.  

 

Emperor Ashoka was an important man who ruled all of the Indian subcontinent from c268 - c232 BCE.  This term refers to 'before Christian era" and dates backwards from the purported birth of Jesus Christ.  That's seriously old.   Apparently he recognised the sanctity of the site and built many fine Stupas and other monuments here.  In the village of Sarnath is the 'Dhamekh' Stupa, one of the four most important Buddhist pilgrimage centres in India, and perhaps one of the most remarkable;  at its height in 640 AD there were 1500 priests in residence.

 

We visit the museum here which is filled with priceless treasures dug up by British archeologists, dating back to the sixth century before Jesus Christ.  The Ashoka Column in the most famous, and unfortunately, after its discovery, excavation and transportation back here, the canopy was dropped and broke into many pieces.   I can imagine the discussion in the office that day, who blamed who and who got fired for that small accident.   It is meticulously pieced together and incredibly beautiful.  Observing these ancient things takes my breath away and at times I feel chills down my spine.

 

Outside again, we visit the deer park, and where I learn about the famous Indian poet Kabir (1440-1518), writer of many beautiful poems, and one of his most famous is called "Of the Musk Deer".  This is the first verse: 

 

"Musk lies in the musk deer's own nave,

But roam in the forest he does - it to seek;

Alike, God pervades heart to heart,

But men of the world this don't conceive."

 

He makes an analogy to must deers who like the smell of musk, and search for it everywhere, not realising it is coming from their own body.  It is the story of where to find God.  Stop searching.  He is within you.

 

I am keen to get out of the unrelenting sun, it is 40 degrees plus and the humidity drains any desire to move.  Aman was here in July when the temperature was 48 degrees and a sheet of protective glass wall shattered in front of him with a crack like gunfire.  This is our last outing with Aman, and we are touched when he gives us each a gift;  he wraps  saffron coloured silk threads ('friendship bracelets') around our wrists with such a tender respect, I feel tears welling.  We tell him that he has taught us so much and has done an outstanding job, and our feedback will be excellent.  I will never forget this man.  He leaves us with his "Five Pearls of Wisdom":

 

1.  Money does not buy happiness but it is easier to cry in a BMW than on a bicycle.

2. Help a man in need and he will never forget you when he is in need again.

3. Forget your enemies, but remember their names.

4. Alcohol doesn't solve any problems but neither does milk.

5. Many people are alive because it is illegal to shoot them. 

 

We head back to the cool welcome of the Nandesar Palace shower, rest and write this blog, for at 4 pm another adventure awaits us, and we don't even leave the grounds of this beautiful place.

 

We are driven around the Palace Gardens in the horse drawn open Royal Carriage by Naseem, who was long ago the Maharajah's carriage driver.  When the Taj Hotel Group took over, they searched for him and reunited him with his beloved Royal Carriage .  Naseem's father, grandfather and great-grandfather were all carriage drivers to royalty, a noble profession which has been handed down with great pride and loyalty to his regal employers.   He tell us with great pride that the carriage is 185 years old, and has carried King George, Queen Elizabeth, many Royals and Heads of State.  He wears a turban, brilliant white shirt and trousers, a long beaded vest and looks every bit a Raj himself.  His horse is Moona, a beautiful white mare with whom he communicates in a very quiet voice, and amazingly, she responds to his every word and gesture.  She stops, trots, reverses, and on request, takes one dainty step, then another, then another to ensure we get just the perfect angle for a photograph, before posing for one herself.  She lives with Nasseem and his family 3 kms away, and he tell us he massages her for one hour every morning before work, he rides her to the palace every morning and home again every night.   He extends his hand to me, and extends an invitation "Please alight?"  I do alight, feeling very regal, and the carriage dips slightly as my I step up into the luxurious interior.  There are leather seats and plush cushions and a rug which he places over our knees.   A rug!  It's 36 degrees!   Nasseem murmurs to Moona, who sets off at a gentle clip clop.  He gives us a running commentary on the stunning gardens, the buildings, the history, and tells us anecdotes of Kings and Queens, he is entertaining and knowledgeable.  He points to another Taj Hotel right next door and explains "That Taj Hotel is for businessmen. But MY PALACE" (he speaks in capitals) "is for very, very special people, only twenty can come here, we only have ten suites."  I look at Gerald, and strike a rock star pose.  This is the second time we have been told this, so clearly, we are a cut above our businessmen neighbours.  Nasseem is 41, although he looks much older, and has a handsome ten year old son who climbs up to sit next to his father in the carriage, proud and enjoying himself, but Nasseem says sadly that it is unlikely his son will carry on the family tradition of Royal Carriage Driver.

 

As Moona gently canters down wide avenues, past carved rotundas and sweeping emerald lawns, he proudly points out the peacocks, the eagles and the mongoose who run across the grass and into the bushes.  We stop at the palace vegetable garden as a flock of honking white geese waddle by, and see the 'gorilla' whose job is to frighten off the monkies so they do not steal the produce intended for the dining table.  He offers his hand to me as I climb down from the carriage, and continues to hold it as he leads me carefully across some boggy ground.  Once again, I tear up, I feel small and child like, protected by this man who does not want my shoes to get muddy.  He shows me row upon row of organic carrots and lettuce, tomatoes, peas, and baby aubergine and he picks mint and basil for me to taste. This man exudes a belonging and ownership of this glorious place, he is a man who is proud of where he works and what he does, a man of great dignity and grace.  What an afternoon this has been.  

 

We sit on the marble verandah and eat a delicious dinner with a bowl of the vegetables we saw growing just a short while ago.  We are attended by an army of people; we have ever experienced 'excellence' in this way before.  These smart handsome men provide faultless service, with meticulous attention to detail and a standard where nothing is too much trouble.  I ask if we can have a 6.30 am breakfast tomorrow, as we have to leave early to catch our flight.  Our attendant listens as reverently as if I was giving him the keys to the kingdom and responds  "Maam, this is your home.  You can have breakfast at any time of the day or night."   They are discreet when necessary and immediately present when required, they enquire about our day, make small jokes, smile and bow, and are grateful for the smallest kind gesture and a few friendly words, but there is a clear demarcation.  We are the guests, they are the staff, and they are subservient to us. I feel uncomfortable.  

 

My head is swirling with sounds and images and thoughts and questions, we are both tired and I have another cold sore.  We head to our room for me to write whilst Gerald packs, and we fall into bed at 10.30 pm - we have to be up at 5.30 am for a 7.15 am pick up to catch an early flight via Delhi to Udaipur. 

 

It has been another amazing, unforgettable day.

 

 

Day 13 - Monday 19th Sept 2016 - Udaipur - Taj Lake Palace

 

A SEXY AIRLINE AND A ROSY WELCOME TO OUR PALACE 

 

We breakfast alone, watching the birds and the squirrels, the only ones awake at this early hour.  Miraculously we have time to spare, and I climb a grand staircase to the second level, where there is so much beauty I don't know where to look first.  I walk through grand reception rooms filled with heavy dark antiques and vast windows with swagged luxurious drapes, colossal gilt mirrors, intricately carved high ceilings, giant flower filled vases, vibrant Indian silk rugs set upon black and white a checkerboard marble floor, and a visitors book dating back to 1850 with its pages signed by dozens of Kings, Queens, Presidents and Prime Ministers.   Luckily there isn't a pen, as the urge to add my name to this list of illustrious visitors is strong. 

 

But Gerald is calling, we have to leave this beautiful place.  Reluctantly, I descend the staircase and there is a farewell team waiting for us.  Someone is singing softly and I hear a sitar playing, eight elegant staff members have lined up to shake our hands, and a beautiful woman blesses us by placing a spoonful of sugar and yogurt on our tongues.  Like the Von Trapp Family in the Sound of Music, they stand and wave us goodbye in perfect synchronicity as our car pulls away.   None of this seems quite real, are we unknowingly participating in an orchestrated lavish film production?   

 

Still pondering this, I settle back to rest, but not for long, something is always happening in India, there is always something to see.   Our guide points out a modest house which Beatle George Harrison visited often and where he learned to play the sitar from the famous Ravi Shanka, who only recently died.  "George was Very Big in India" says our driver, bobbing his head in gratitude.  "He made India famous for its music."  I guess if you want to make anything famous anywhere, getting The Beatles enrolled is a good start. 

 

At the airport we endure four separate security checks;  it is not busy at this hour of the morning, which I think gives the security time to conduct a very thorough investigation of us passengers.  In this process, the females are always separated from the males, and inside curtained cubicles we are patted down, and for me anyway, with the greatest respect.   I am happy for security to be taken this seriously, but many people are annoyed, and take it out on undeserving staff members who seem to accept such bad behaviour with resignation.

 

When we arrive, a man meets us at the entrance as our guide cannot enter, he is wearing "Paid Porter" name tag;  he is a true professional and much more than a porter, as we are soon to discover.  I am busting to use the toilet and tell him so.  He raises an eyebrow in understanding, and without a word in a smooth and swift manoeuvre, elbows us to the front of the queue to enter the building, then guides me to the Ladies and Gerald to the check in, where we are informed we are 6 kgs overweight.  Our international flights allow us 21 kgs of luggage, but only 15 kgs are allowed on internal flights in India, so this must be a frequent occurrence for the Paid Porter to navigate.  He walks us to the front of the queue as Gerald and cringe in embarrassment, remembering a similar situation in Namibia a couple of years ago, he organises payment for the extra kilos, hands us a receipt, puts the tags on our luggage, and walks us to the departure lounge, just metres away.  Although his badge proclaims "Paid Porter.  Do not tip", he clearly expects one, and he clearly deserves one, so Gerald gives him R100.  The man is a marvel.  We meet the couple from Argentina we saw on the Ganges a couple of nights ago and we greet like old friends, which happens when you travel. They are aghast when they see the plane we are to fly to Delhi on, a propeller spinning Bomadeer Q400, and anxiously begin discussing alternate modes of travel.  Gerald reassures them that these planes are used in Australia every day, and have a very good safety record.   Somewhat pacified, we join the queue to board the plane.  Queuing in India is an art, and one which we do not know the intricacies of, we are at a distinct disadvantage getting out of the departure gates, on to the bus, off the bus, and on to the plane.  But I am learning by observation and quickly picking up skills.   Queuing requires careful planning and several strategic moves, a resolute intention, bony elbows, steely gazes, an absence of apology, a bold ability to push where there seems no push is possible, and the odd bash with a bag to ensure one gains even room to stand;  once that enviable position is achieved, one claims it by planting one's feet and staring ahead as if there is no one else there.   I think of Clive of India. 

 

One lady wearing a bubble gum pink sari is a Master, and she sails past me, apparently oblivious that we have been patiently waiting in the queue for twenty minutes.  I feel a prickle of annoyance, despite the fact that we have sailed past several dozen other passengers on two occasions just this morning, and my competitive spirit springs to life;  I want to regain lost ground.   Plotting strategies, I notice she still has a price tag stuck to the veil of her sari, and I feel the Gods smile on me.  Perhaps I am becoming enlightened after all?   Maybe there is such a thing as karma?  I wait for the right moment and approach her smiling, and gently unpeel the sticky label and hand it to her, I am a good soul, always of service.  She laughs in embarrassment and we clasp our hands in namaste, and I feel mean and shallow.  Now we are just two women travellers on a journey together.  She has two little boys, one is called Trivia and the other is called Vivia.  Surely that can't be right, I must have that wrong, but don't want to ask again.  Like most Indian parents I have observed, she seems enchanted with her children, she is a patient and attentive mother.  I realise I have seldom heard a child cry since we've been here.  I don't think I travelled that way with Joshua at that age.  Trivia is eighteen months old and beautiful with black eyes the size of eggs, and Vivia is caramel skinned and glossy haired.  There must be ugly kids in India but I have yet to see one.

 

The flight on Spice Jet is very noisy and a revelation.  So much for safety procedures on the ground, up here, there don't seem to be any at all.   There are people answering phones, unclipping seatbelts and visiting the toilets before, during and after take off, ignoring safety signs and verbal requests from the staff, and astonishingly, we are not instructed in an emergency procedure.  No alcohol is served, which is just as well, as there seems to be a lot of confusion already.  Announcements are made frequently and so loudly that the voices blur,  sometimes with two women speaking over each other in different languages at the same time.  It's wildly entertaining and more fun than the circus, we can't keep track of all the comings and goings, its an episode of The Three Stooges, and we laugh out loud.  

 

Arriving in Delhi, we are hit by the heat, and walk across oozing tarmac to the terminal.   Although we are only here for an hour, we are met by another porter, who is clearly expecting us and calls us by name;  he organises our bags and takes us outside to Uraj, the local guide who will take us from Spice Jet to Indigo Air for our flight to Udaipur.  Uraj is a tall and very good looking young man, his perfect white teeth accessorise shining black hair and a handlebar moustache, not quite as big as Jimmy Edwards, but close.  His role is to walk with us from one airline to another, a five minute journey.  He is incredibly polite and we feel obliged to tip him handsomely, as advised in our paperwork.  Tipping is the only thing that we do not manage well.  Who to tip?  When to tip?  How much to tip?  What about the Paid Porter wearing the 'do not tip' sign, yet he expected a tip?  There are scores of people looking after us, and we cannot tip everybody.  Are we expected to?  Will we offend if not?  We decide not to offend, and we tip well.  

 

It is immediately apparent, even in the rarified air of the airport, that Delhi is a whole different ball game to Varanassi.  We have arrived in the 20th century, there are state of the art shops filled with designer clothing, accessories and jewellery, expensive restaurants, pristine toilets, garbage bins and elegantly dressed people. I can tell immediately that the  biggest difference is the attitude of the men, whose arrogance is evident, women are of no consequence and have no place;  men come first, they walk in front of you, they push and shove you aside, they stare through you, I feel invisible and feel uncertain.   A Paid Porter collects our luggage and heads off through the thronging people, we have to walk fast to keep up with him.  He takes one look at the milling crowd waiting to check in and decides against it, taking us instead to an unmanned counter which he opens with great familiarity, and weighs our baggage, announcing it is 7 kgs overweight (it's gained a kilo since Varanassi) and then tags it, but doesn't charge us.  WTF?   Oh, we see, this is his baksheesh, so Gerald tips him well;  we are learning this is how India works.  

 

Delhi Airport is filled with signs which inform us that it has been voted the Best Airport in the World two years in a row, and 25 - 40 million (yes, million) passengers a year pass through here. I cannot get my head around this, although it feels like half of them are here with us right now.  Gerald sits in a coffee shop and I venture into a shop called "W" which sells colourful, modern Indian clothing, its attractive and retains its Indian inspiration, and I can see the appeal it has for young Indian women who may find the traditional clothing of their mothers a little dated.  I see a sign which implores the males in our midst:  "Men, fight and recover hair loss!"  I find this amusing, and point it out to Gerald, but he says its too late for him.  On the bus which takes us from the terminal to the plane we meet a Malaysian family, the mother is carrying several large designer shopping bags and is elegantly swathed in an orange silk scarf, big orange ear rings and slim white pants.  She tells us she only arrived last night, but has made good use of her time shopping.  She tells us her daughter lives in London but is here on business and has invited her parents to join her for a holiday.  They will be staying in the same hotel as us in Udaipur, and want to meet us for a drink.   You may think us anti-social, but we generally avoid hooking up with other people when we travel;  we go on holiday to be with each other, and to revel in 'just us two' - so we smile and thank them, but avoid making a commitment.

 

We fly to Udaipur with Indigo Airlines, a new company formed only ten years ago.  They remind me of when Virgin Airlines was first launched and how hip and irreverent their staff were, I like their attitude.  Their logo is also the name of their flight magazine "6E"(pronounced "sexy"in case you don't get it) and its been a very successful attempt to capture the young market, with multiple billboards and advertising "6E and the City".  I find this interesting in straight laced India.   It's definitely 20th century, we even have safety instructions and a demonstration.  The attendants advise us several times that many 'exciting' gifts and personal items are available for sale at 'compelling' prices, but not needing any exciting gifts, even at compelling prices, we decline.  We can also buy a meal and a drink, but we don't, I have more important business to attend to and am busily involved in an arm rest battle.  The man sitting next to me is determined to have the sole use of it;  he is twice my size with very hairy muscular arms and smells sweaty.  I am not in his league and after a tense but short lived struggle, I concede defeat, he is the Victor.  Chastised and with my elbow clamped by my side, I read "Twisted" by Lynda la Plante, thinking twisted thoughts about my travel companion.

 

At Udaipur, a Paid Porter (we've got the hang of this now) approaches us and addresses us by name, and in minutes expertly collects our luggage, walks us to our waiting guide, and then to our car.  Gerald hands over another tip.  We are introduced to Satish, our driver, who will be with us for twelve days.  I like this man immediately.  He is a personal friend of Viv, the lady who organised our Amazing Indian Journey, and clasps our hands like we too are his friend.  He has dark skin and happy eyes, he smiles widely and speaks excellent English.  It soon becomes apparent that Satish is far more than a driver (although he is an excellent one) - he is extremely knowledgeable, incredibly efficient, unflappable, can cause miracles, and has a keen sense of humour. 

 

We are now in the Venice of Asia - or the Lake City of Asia - because of the five large lakes in the middle of a vast bowl of land and surrounded by rolling green hills;  it is cool with an overcast sky, and looks entirely different to Varanassi.  This is a city of only 500,000 people;  it is clean, orderly and wealthy with large houses and big lush gardens, the shops are smart, the traffic works efficiently and there are few animals to be seen.  The difference is remarkable, and I ask Satish if this is because Varanassi gets 40,000 visitors a day.  "No!" laughs Satish "that is just an ordinary day!  On a holy day, 100,000 people a day visit Varanassi."   (Note:  never visit Varanassi on a holy day,  we could hardly breathe with 40,000 people.)

 

Gerald poses his first challenge to Satish;  we want to buy beer and tonic water as we know the prices in the hotel will be exorbitant, and alcohol shops are hard to find.  Can he help?  His face lights up.  Satish was born to solve problems, and he springs into action.  In minutes he has located a shop and parked, he has literally run in and bought what we needed, paid for it with his own money, and stashed it in the boot.  Gerald thanks him and hands him the money he just spent;  Satish shakes his head, he doesn't want it.   Gerald offers it again, "Thank you Satish, but you must accept our money.  We will ask you to buy us more tonic and beer.  Please take it."   Satish gives that barely perceptible, very Indian nod of his head, bows and accepts it.  "It is only my duty, Sir."  My eyes well up, I am staggered at the generosity of this man.

 

There is so much I have fallen in love with in India, and the Indian nod of the head is one of them.  It's infectious, Gerald and I catch each other doing it, and giggle.  Depending on the circumstances, it can say so many different things.   "I am pleased/happy/pissed off/sad/grateful/oblivious/embarrassed/humbled/tired/disgusted/disappointed/proud/angry".   But we are still novices, and the subtleties of this will take us a bit longer to perfect.   But hey, we have another month here to learn!

 

We drive by a vast city gate which was once the entrance to the city, and pass the Royal Palace, situated on the edge of a beautiful large lake, and along a private road to a very private boat jetty, it has the look of Italy, Lake Como perhaps.  But these are not Italian men, these are smiling Indian men who bow deeply in welcome, their right hands over their hearts.  They offer cool drinks and chilled cloths, and there on the water's edge, in an Italian inspired canopy, they take our luggage through a security check, the same machine they use at airports.  This is an embarrassing moment for us.  We are checking into one of the most expensive hotels in the world, and the staff seem puzzled that we have a small bag filled with discount tonic and beer;  their jaws drop momentarily, and one scrunches  his face in disbelief and asks "Beer?"  I leave Gerald to handle this awkward cheapskate moment and retain my regal status.  I gaze to the middle of the lake, and see our hotel, which is a real Palace.   I am excited that shortly we will be residents there.  Gerald returns, hyper happy, a sure sign he is embarrassed, and says "OK?  Ready?"  I am, and we are escorted to a private jetty where our boat awaits.  

 

The jetty is surrounded by lush flower filled gardens, comfortable wrought iron furniture with plump striped cushions, ornate Victorian street lamps, there are pigeons cooing and forget the Palace, I could spend a month just sitting here, reading, writing and drinking tea - or gin and tonic.  My head is messing with me, this is too much, I cannot take this all in.  The beauty and the luxury delight me, I cannot wait to experience all of it, yet I feel guilty.   The boat is straight out of Venice, and there is a handsome 'gondolier' complete with striped shirt and hat, he introduces himself and welcomes us aboard, he settles us amongst a mound of tasseled cushions under a swagged canopy held aloft by shining brass rails, and hands us our life jackets.  It's a five minute journey, but he is the captain of this boat, and proud of his role. He describes our surroundings enthusiastically and knowledgeably, then tells us we are heading to "Our Palace".   He insists on taking photos of us with "Our Palace" palace in the background, and expertly manoeuvres the boat to do so;  the man is multi talented.  Do we tip him too?   Unprepared, we are fumbling.  Do we have small notes?  Do we need big notes?

 

and they bound off.  There We are getting closer to Our Palace, and can see that this is an architectural wonder.  It is 350 years old and was built by the Crown Prince who wanted some privacy and peace for himself and his family away from the hustle and bustle of royal duties.  It took 24 years to build, from 1624 - 1648, every single thing was created by hand, all the building materials were transported here by carts from 200 kms away and then transported by boat to this tiny island on Lake Pichola, which is one of the five lakes in this ancient city.   

 

We glide up to the jetty at Our Palace, where a woman in a vivid sari awaits, she is impossibly beautiful and belongs in a movie. Her name tag tells us her name is Christina, she beams and says "Welcome Mr. And Mrs. Groom.  Welcome to Your Palace.   We are your family.  Anything you require, we are here to serve you.  Please honour us by walking under the Royal Umbrella to the entrance to Your Palace".   We thought about that for a nano-second before joining her under the Royal Umbrella, carried by a man of royal bearing, dressed like a Raj, with an impressive moustache and beard.  He smiled as if he had just won the lottery, and guided us along red carpets sectioned off by gilt ropes attached to carved wood and brass posts.   Christina asks us to stop at the grand entranceway, "Look up!" she says "There are rose petals raining down just for you."  We step out from under the umbrella and look up, and there are hundreds drifting down on us, thanks to an invisible Rose Petal Dropper on the roof.   My throat constricts;  this is so improbable, so unlikely, so unimaginable, so beautiful and so humbling, my eyes fill with tears, and a strong feeling of 'I do not deserve this'.  Christina is watching my face intently, delighted in the emotion this has caused and the staff too, are beaming, watching our reaction, and my Beloved is looking at me with one of our 'special looks'.  I know what that look is, it is our "Well, well, well!  Two Kids from Chingola Look" - as in "How did this happen?  How did us two kids from the bush get here?"   I feel such a rush of gratitude and love, what a magical moment, I want to remember this feeling forever, this a profound, respectful, acknowledgement of life and love and of each other.   

 

The Royal Umbrella Bearer bows and regretfully bids us farewell, and Christina We are escorts us into the reception area, and my jaw hits the floor.  Again.   It is vast, and constructed of white marble from floor to domed ceiling, the air is fragrant, giant vases are filled with exotic flowers and tangles of shiny green leaves in vases taller than I am, vast paintings with heavy gold frames, heavy crystal chandeliers, brass studded chests, bevelled mirrors casting prisms of light, lamps glowing, intricate rugs and soft couches filled with jewelled cushions.  Jewelled cushions?  I pick one up just to check, who knows in a place like this, they just may be real;  attached with tiny stitches are what appear to be pearls, rubies, tourmalines, diamonds, sapphires and emeralds.  Not the kind of comfy cushion you'd rest your head on to watch TV, but absolutely beautiful. I wonder how many of these land up accidentally in people's suitcases. 

 

We sit amongst them for a fresh guava drink, but the formalities are so brief we don't have time to finish.  Christina suggests we bring them with us, and asks if she can take us on a brief tour of Our Palace.  Why not, we think, we need to know the history of our family residence, don't we?   We need to know our way around Our Palace, don't we?   Every inch of the building of this island is an artistic masterpiece.  Hand painted wall panels, hand made black and white marble floor tiles, impossibly created gardens where sweet smelling trees and flowers grow in rampantly, there are fountains tinkling water and green peaceful courtyards, and everywhere I look, I see beauty.  There is soft Indian music playing, and it seems like nobody is here but us.  I pinch myself, is this real?  Are we alive?  This has to be Heaven.

 

Christina takes us to a 'reading room' with shelves lined with bound books and more contemporary ones, studded leather couches and chairs, reading lamps, chess boards and board games, she then she takes us to The Spa, and I am in sensory overload;  I cannot wait to visit.  She points out the Neel Kamal restaurant (I use the word 'restaurant' loosely but more on that later) and into the Central Courtyard and the exquisite Lily Pond.  I gaze at this impossibly beautiful place, and feel a building of emotion, a heat building in my chest, I see this panorama of perfect beauty, the flowers, birds, trees and fountains, the blessing I have of being in this place;  I have no words but I start to cry.  Christina is immediately alert "Maam?  Maam?  Are you OK?  You are tired, yes?   Can I help?"  She takes my hand and looks in my eyes, I can see she understands that I am simply overwhelmed.  "Sometimes it happens with our guests, Maam, they feel the beauty here", and she points to her heart.  Reassured, she takes us to our suite, and tells us they have upgraded us to a grand suite, with a wonderful view and she hopes we like it.  I tell her could sleep in the corridor or the courtyard or even the ladies toilet in this place, and love it.  She opens the door to an unbelievably luxurious suite, decorated in gold and crimson, and a far wall covered in heavy gold brocade drapes.  A huge four poster bed covered in tassels and cushions dominates the room, the floor is marbled, and there are hand painted floral wall panels, Victorian objects d'art, antique furniture, silk hangings and soft gold lighting.   She leads us to a marble bathroom hung with crystal chandeliers and mirrors, a mix of gaudiness and gilt, and a shower and vast bath hidden behind a heavy drape.   I feel giddy with happiness and excitement, I cannot believe our good fortune. 

 

Back in the room, Christina draws back the wall of drapes with a theatrical flourish and says "And this is what you will wake up to in the morning, and this is what you will watch the sunset over tonight!"  We gasp in perfect timing.   We appear to be on a boat sitting low on the water, and are looking straight out on to the lake, I could trail my hands through the water outside the window if i wished to.  "The sun will set shortly - and you will be entranced!"  

 

On one side of this glorious view is a glass three sided marble alcove, which actually hangs over the water and affords views wherever you look.  It is filled with a soft mattress the size of a queen size bed, piled with cushions and has padded window seats.   What a great reading space, I say, but Gerald looks at me with a clear invitation;  he has plans for this alcove.  Yes, I think so too.  

 

Christina leaves and we are as excited as kids at the circus, so to celebrate, I jump on the bed like its a trampoline. This is Our Palace!  Gerald orders ice and we drink our duty free gin and smuggled in tonic watching the sunset.  Christina was right, we are entranced.  

 

There are two fancy restaurants, the less fancy one is where we will eat breakfast, so its the fancier one for dinner.  I do a reconnaissance and check out the prices of meals and alcohol which are similar to what we would pay in Australia.  Except for the wine.  The wine list offers a bottle of Chateau Margeau at Aus $4,170, and Jacobs Creek at Aus $200, Margaret River at Aus $350, or a glass house wine at Aus $45.  Indian champagne is available, but we tried that once.   You can see why we smuggled in our own contraband.  

 

Dressed in our fancy clothes, befitting our regal status in Our Palace, we head towards what Christina promised will be a splendid display of Indian dancing.  It is raining and so won't be held in the glorious garden unfortunately, but in the held in the sumptuous reading room where a large crowd are already waiting.  Furniture has been cleared to create a dance floor which is surrounded on three sides by rows of large comfortable chairs, and the best seats are already taken.  But on one side there are four chairs and two are vacant;  we will have a side on view but its front row, so we claim them just before twenty more guests arrive.  

 

I have to pause here, as what I have to tell you will seem improbable to those who know me.  But I swear, it is the truth.  It is in these very chairs that we meet a woman who is louder and more self expressed than I am.   She is a Totally Out There Woman.

 

Sitting on my right is an apparition so amazing, I wonder if I have had one too many gins today.  It could be Dame Edna Everage, in drag.  With a man I assume to be her husband, also in drag.  I resist the urge urge to swivel my head and stare, my parents brought me up nicely, but they have the same effect on the crowds in the room who are brazenly snapping away, some with six inch lenses.  These two are without doubt the centre of attention, are they the support act?   But no, the band and dancers are seated on the floor ready to start, they too are mesmerised, bug eyed in awe and admiration - or possibly disbelief.   The regal pair look to be in their seventies, and are smiling broadly, strike several different poses for photographs and wave like Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip.

 

They are clad in jewels from head to toe, and I wonder if her gown was made by the same people who made the cushions in the foyer.  It is every colour of the rainbow and encrusted with jewels whilst he wears a somewhat more restrained ivory jewelled long jacket and trousers.  They are both draped in sparkling jewellery, they have jewelled hair, jewelled fingers, jewelled shoes, and both carry a jewelled handbag.  Her skin is suspiciously unlined and her heavy make up is professionally applied, her plumped lips a crimson red to match her long false nails, and she regularly drops her long black false eye lashes as if they are too heavy to keep open.  Her blonde hair is swept upwards and braided with jewels framing her powdered décolletage.  She is plump and her gown is so tight I can see the ridge where her corset ends and the excess flesh overflows.   She wears more jewels around her neck, wrists and ears.  I wonder how hard it must be to stand up wearing so many stones. 

 

The man is grey haired and balding, with perfect teeth and wears make up too.  This couple were were once very, very beautiful, but tonight they are a pantomime, a sad caricature of bad taste, exuding wealth but definitely not class, and people are sniggering and making fun of them, and the cruelty of this cuts me.

 

I regain my ability to speak and we introduce ourselves;  they are Leila and Leo, and have been here a few days already, its a 'regular holiday' for them;  I'm impressed. Over the next couple of hours we are immersed in a highly entertaining conversation;  well, Leila does almost all of the talking, which is why it is so entertaining.   We also get our photo taken dozens of times by strangers, simply because we are sitting next to them.   I tell her how extraordinary their outfits are, and she tells me they had several outfits made especially for this trip.  She beams and pats her hair, then lowers her eyes like Princess Diana.  She accepts this praise as her due, she is a member of royalty, I am one of her serfs, and being the centre of attention is what she thrives on.  I wonder if I should prostrate myself on the floor, but I am saved by the band, which bursts into a loud and lively musical piece. 

 

Leila has also burst into action, and is doing a seated dance, gracefully twirling her arms and fingers and moving her head in that particular Indian way.  Apparently she was here last night for the band seem to know her well, and are shouting encouragement and egging her on, which seems quite unnecessary as she is dancing her bum off in her chair, shouting back and egging them on, they are whipping each other into a controlled frenzy, despite the band being seated on the floor, and between the ten performers and Leila, there is a riotous party happening.  

 

Leo looks on smiling in pleasure and orders her another martini.  In a break between songs, she turns to me and confides she always drinks martinis, and asks what I am drinking.  When I reply 'water', she raises one chubby pinkie finger, waves it in the air, and says in a Zsa Zsa Gabor accent, "No wonder you are this size. So skinny.  And you are Australian!"   Yes, I am, how can she tell?  "Darlink! - because of your beaoooooootiful accent!  I soooooo want to come to Australia!  Leo, tell this Australian lady.  Don't I always say I want to go to Australia?"   Leo nods obediently and tells me yes, she definitely does. "Tell me!  Where do you live?"   I am about to reply when I notice Gerald's warning look and his silent demand - DO NOT invite them to come and stay with us.  I am not specific in my reply, instead asking her where they are from.   "Minnesota, but originally Iran.  We have all our outfits made there!"  It all becomes clear now.

 

But even the hypnotic allure of Leila and Leo cannot detract from the magnificent dancing, which is really what we are here for.   Three beautiful finely boned female dancers are dressed in full skirts of green and red trimmed in gold and are accompanied by seven turbaned male musicians, some of whom play instruments I have never seen before.  Each piece of music is long, yet undeniably exciting, stirring and repetitive, and increases in tempo and sound.  The first dancer completes her solo in an unbelievable series of spins, with her wide colourful skirt spun out in a huge ruffled circle;  she never stops smiling as she spins faster and faster and faster.  I try to count, but lose my place  - is it thirty spins?  An impossible forty spins?  Then, in a split second, perfectly poised and without a wobble, she stops dead with her skirts swirling around her slender ankles.  I leap to my feet and applaud this astonishing display.

 

The second dancer is younger with a tiny waist draped with a heavy silver belt of dozens of medallions.  What looks like an old fashioned metal milk shake holder is placed upon her head, on top of which a saucer and a glass are balanced.  The crowd murmur in disbelief, surely not?   She starts to dance, and as the music increases in tempo, so does she, she twirls and glides and leaps as we hold our breath, certain the collection of crockery on her head must fall.   Another mad swirl and she sinks slowly to the floor, as the first dancer brings two more glasses to add to the stack upon her head.  What?  The crowd suck in their breath, even Leila and Leo have been momentarily forgotten.  She dances again, with great energy and grace, balancing four glasses upon her head, and can you believe it?  Another one is added!  And then another!  I am sure the tower of glasses will hit the crystal chandelier above her, but she avoids it, she dips and sways, sensual and in her full feminine power, conscious of her magic over her audience.  But wait, this cannot be happening.  A metal bowl is placed upon the floor and the dancer slowly places one tiny foot and then the other upon its rim, and begins to stamp her feet, the bowl rocks from side to side, and the tower of glassware balances precariously.  

 

Leila is on her feet in a show stealing moment, dancing, swaying and stamping along with her.   The crowd have gone wild, Leila is giving her adoring audience plenty of opportunities to view her ample body from every angle, and they oblige, taking dozens of photos.  Even above the music I can hear the click of cameras. 

 

But, let us not forget our dancer.  Incredibly, she dances off the bowl to thunderous applause, led by Leila shouting "Bravo Bravo!", an accolade intended perhaps for the dancer, perhaps for herself.  Two more glasses are placed upon the ground, and dancer places a foot on each of them;  she dances and stamps, whilst balancing the stack upon her head.  My heart is in my mouth, surely these glasses must break?  Then two three foot long shining metal swords are placed upwards in a wooden holder.  Sharp blades scare me and I look away, she cannot ........?    But yes, she delicately steps on to these shining sharp edges, and stamps and sways, balancing her headgear, and smiles.  In an incredibly risky move, she steps off and dances around the perimeter of the floor interacting with the audience, paying particular attention to Leo and Leila and encouraging her to join in. Leila's participation and energetic dance moves become more extravagant with each martini.  I have watched as Leo simply raises an eyebrow, and a refill magically arrives.  

 

I am a nervous wreck, anticipating all kinds of disasters, and when a pile of broken glass is laid upon the floor, I have to look away.   Hiding behind my hands and looking through spread fingers, I watch our shoeless dancer stamp down in the way one might when killing a large cockroach, and on broken glass, she swirls and sways and dances with a fiery passion.  But there is no blood, and nobody dies. This death defying performance ends with another fifty swirls - yes fifty! - whilst the musicians, aided by the effervescent Leila, entertain the audience with stamping and shouts in an incomprehensible language, and multiple Bravos and Encores.  

 

We all give it up for Leila, she has surpassed herself, I have known her for two hours, and never seen her this self expressed.   She turns to me and says "We have paid for this, yes?  So let's enjoy!"  I fully expect her to join the dancer and take a bow, but she restrains herself, before taking over the floor and provides us with a spectacular finale.  I hear Leo comment "I think it is the martinis?"  And she yells back, "Yes, The Martinis!"  I am gasping in wonder of what we have witnessed and she takes my hand and says "Wonderful, yes?"  I agree and laughingly suggest she and I may be the entertainment tomorrow night, but she says "Not in my dreams, darlink."  

 

The dancers and the musicians are still sitting on stage when Leila points to them and shouts "MONEY! MONEY! MONEY!" to the audience in general, and Leo in particular.   Leo opens his handbag and grabs a a fistful of notes, strides across the floor to the musicians and in a very public display of generosity, hands them to each of the entertainers, who certainly deserve this tip.  Perhaps Leila knows something we don't, she is a frequent visitor after all, and once more she shouts, "MONEY! MONEY! MONEY!" in a demand to the audience again.  Gerald left his wallet in the safe in the room, but despite this, I am feeling mean.  Two men who look a little shame faced approach with money, and Leila shouts to the crowd "Yes!  It's the Americans! Bravo, Bravo, Bravo!"  Is every other nation in the room feeling mean too?  Is this what happens after dance performances in Our Palace? 

 

The dancers finally leave the stage; bowing in gratitude to Leila who blows them Diva Kisses.  Leo introduces himself to me for the first time, he speaks with a broad American accent which is somehow disappointing.  He takes my hand and kisses it and feeling a little flustered in the presence of such magnificence, I tell him how much I admire his outfit.  He strokes my black lace jacket as if I were a cat and says  "I love your jacket, this is beautiful!"  I simper at this comment from a man wearing four kilos of jewels, and open my mouth to reply, but Gerald sends me a silent plea which says "PLEASE DON'T!" so I don't.  But I will tell you.  I bought this jacket just for this trip, in Vinnies in Kiama (where my mother worked for years) and it cost me three dollars;  so far it has not failed to impress, so I think I'm getting value for my money.  People are tugging at his sleeve and asking if they can have their photos taken, and I realise I am so shallow I also want a photo taken with Liberace Leo and Leila;  they nod in agree, and meant and she powders her nose and reapplies her lipstick before they strike up a pose;  I join them as if on the red carpet and Gerald takes a dozen photos.  We say goodbye and thank them, but they seem not to notice as they are already surrounded by fans having more photos taken, and a queue waiting, so I imagine Leila and Leo will be holding court for the next hour generously attending to the needs of the masses.    As we leave I tell Gerald I'm sorry that I didn't I get their autograph, but he just raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. 

 

Glowing from our brush with royalty, we make our way to the Neel Kamal restaurant which I booked earlier.  The Malaysian family we met this morning are already eating, and tell us they have been to a puppet show, and show us a huge puppet they bought, which they will now have to drag around with them for the rest of their holiday.  I am always fascinated at what people buy (me and Vinnies for example) but there are a lot of people with a lot of money in the world, looking for ways to spend it.  

 

Our table overlooks the impossibly beautiful Lily Pond, and the restaurant is sumptuous, and gilded from top to bottom.   The carpet is so thick I think I may spring a little as I walk, there is a section of sunken seating, buttoned sofas and wide formal chairs, sparkling chandeliers, dark polished wood and shining brass and silver.  The staff are impeccably attired, speak perfect accented English and the service is faultless.  A cushion is brought for my back, a small table to hold my handbag, a cloth for a tiny spill of water.   Our order is taken, and I cannot resist turning the crockery over to discover it is Versace, which matches the gold brocade table cloth, the crystal glasses and gold cutlery.  I pick up a knife, it weighs about the same as a pack of butter. There is hardly anyone in here yet and there are more staff than diners as it is still early for fine dining in India, but we have had a long day.  Gerald hardly touches his food, but fatigue doesn't defeat me, and I eat a large, delicious meal.  There are four people serving us, clearing plates, topping up Gerald's beer, pouring water and offering dessert menus.  When a fifth man brings a silver dustpan and brush to sweep our table clean, we decide its time to retire. 

 

We cross a marbled courtyard in a gentle drizzle to Our Suite in Our Palace, and I sit at a desk overlooking the lake, and write.  Gerald anoints me behind my ears with the Night Queen Aurveyda oil, and I climb into that huge comfortable bed, with the huge soft pillows, a feather of a duvet, and best of all My Beloved.  Thank you God.  I sleep like a baby. 

 

 

Day 14 - 20th Sept 2016 - Udaipur - Taj Lake Palace

 

BACKSIDE YOGA, ELEPHANTS AND CAMELS 

 

I wake early in Our Suite in Our Palace (a Truly Ruly Palace my Dad would have said) and pinch myself.   This is called the Palace of Dreams, said to be the most exquisite in India, and one of the Twenty Best Hotels in the World.  I could be in Venice.  Or on a ship, our large picture window looks down across the lake to a vista of misty distant hills, dotted with a few low, white buildings.  There is not a boat to be seen, but a flock of birds fly by and I hear nothing but a loud silence, I breathe in the peace and quiet.  What a stark contrast to Varanassi.  

 

I have noticed that after the tidal wave of humanity, the poverty, the noise, the heat, the smell, the colours and the necessity of keeping your wits about you - we are in sensory overload, feeling elated yet bruised and weary, we need to find a quiet place and shut the door.  

 

Well, we can certainly restore ourselves here.  In the bathroom, I admire the array of expensive toiletries, and stand under the shower for twenty minutes, drying myself with a two metre long soft white towel;  there are ten of them plus hand towels and face washers stacked in piles.  I use a fresh one every time I shower, feeling guilty and decadent.  I am off to a 6.30 am restoring yoga class on the rooftop. 

 

The view from the rooftop spans 360 degrees and is breathtaking.  The call to prayer echoes across the lake, and sun is rising, and Mira, our smiling yoga teacher, introduces herself, and directs each of us to a yoga mat, laid out with two pristine white towels and two bottles of water.  There are just six of us and we start with a blissful meditation accompanied by Indian music playing softly in the background.  We spend time doing breathing exercises, then an an hour stretching finishing with several rounds of Salute to the Sun.  Mira's voice is heavily accented and hypnotic.  "Sloooooowly slooooowly relaaaaaaaaax relaaaaaaax breeeeeeeeathe breeeeeeathe." We are all going sloooooooowly and relaaaaaaaaxing and breeeeeathing when she confides  "This is very good for constipation.  Or indigestion."  Is is good for both?   Or is she uncertain?   "Slooooooooowly slooooooooowly relaaaaaax relaaaaaax breeeeeathe breeeeeathe."    We're all doing our best when she instructs "Put your foot backside."  I stifle a giggle.  Excuse me?  Followed by "Put your head backside."   Confusion ripples amongst us devotees, so she demonstrates.  Oh, I see.  "Put your neck backside."  I got this now.  It's a gentle practice, but revs up when she counts our movements backwards from 20 down to 1, a bit like physical education at school.  We practise a little more meditation, and end with a beautiful yoga nidra (relaxation), ending with the divine chants of 'Ohm', three times.  When I open my eyes and look around, the sun has edged up in the deep blue sky and I can scarcely believe the beauty of the place, I could sit here all day.  A flock of birds fly overhead, and a chorus of pigeons sit on the ramparts, coo-ing peacefully.   Perhaps I am not in Venice, but on a Greek Island? 

 

We have breakfast, my favourite meal of the day,  in the courtyard overlooking the LilyPond, under a large white cotton umbrella embroidered with elephants.  Smiling men wearing gold and red brocade and dazzling white trousers wait on us.  The food is a work of art, a vast canvas still life, laid out in intricate patterns on huge platters on enormous dark tiered tables.  It's a riot of colour, the flowers, food and fruit so perfect that nothing looks real.   Papaya, watermelon, pineapple, pomegranate, guava, apples, grapes, plums, Nashi pears, kiwi fruit, coconut, lychees, dragon fruit and bananas, fresh squeezed fruit juices in every colour, and there are fresh coconuts, dozens of mueslis, cereals, soups, yogurts, cheeses, pickles, salads, cold cuts and salmon.  There are towers of cakes and muffins and slices and biscuits, Indian breads, French breads and pastries in every shape, toasted treats, and English, American and Indian breakfasts.  If they don't have it here, it hasn't been invented yet. We eat our way through several Indian dishes, the dhosa is so divine I have to physically restrain myself, and the pickles, chutneys and fiery chilli fill my foodie's heart with happiness;  this is heaven. 

 

We watch the pigeons bathing in the lavish water fountains and laugh as they lift their wings up, as we might as we wash under our armpits, to get them really, really clean.  Up on the rooftop, we see a man with a long green rope, which he seems to be using as a lassoo, but for what?  Puzzled, we ask, and learn that he too has a designated role, that of "Pigeon Chaser".  He expertly flicks the rope being careful to avoid the birds and chases them off  - "So they do not make a mess in the pond, Maam".  This man has his work cut out for him, as there are hundreds of pigeons.  

 

This attention to detail is astonishing.  Last night, at dinner, I blew my nose, and a small package of tissues was discreetly placed on the table.  Back in our room, we noticed that a Taj Lake Palace  bookmark has been placed in our books, and the Nadesar Palace bookmark politely placed next to them.   In the bathroom, my toothpaste which is almost finished has been replaced with a new tube of Colgate and another of Sensodyne - just in case we have sensitive teeth I guess.  Our mobiles are placed on embroidered cushions, and our room key rests on another, our shoes stand neatly on cotton cloths, and my cosmetics laid out on a fine linen hanky.  Yesterday I watched a senior member of staff walk along a marble pathway lined with dozens of vases of gold marigolds.  One of the tiny marigold heads had fallen out of its vase, and he stooped to pick it up and replaced it.  I acknowledged him and he bowed gratefully, and when I looked back, I saw that it had once again fallen from its vase, and there he was, gently placing it back.  Perfection.  

 

We could sit in this glorious courtyard grazing on food and watching the pigeons all day, but we have a tour booked.  But I am already planning tomorrow, which is our day for chilling out. 

 

We leave Our Palace farewelled by four waving staff, we'll be gone at least a few hours, and they are already missing us; I swear I see a glint of a tear.  Our captain proudly welcomes us aboard Our Personal Boat, for the five minute journey to the mainland, pats cushions into place around us and expertly manoeuvres us out into the lake.  He has good English and is eager to share his knowledge about the lake with us. 

 

Pichola Lake is 330m long, 93m wide, and 33m deep, but back in 2004 it was bone dry as there had been no rain for a couple of years, and tourism ground to a halt.  It is full to the brim now, and its hard to imagine that just recently, it flooded the reception area of Our Palace, and as a result they have built a higher retaining wall at the entrance.  It is astonishing to me that all five lakes are artificial and each one has a different level controlled by a series of locks.  Gerald mentions the big fish he has seen and our captain tells us that the Government clean the lake with special machinery every day, so there are lots of fish, even crocodiles and turtles further upstream.   There are kids dive bombing and swimming, spouting water out of their mouths, so I am relieved when he tells us that unlike the Ganges, nobody can be cremated here.  

 

 Satish is waiting alongside his gleaming car, he beams as though he has just won the lottery when he spies us, and introduces us to Akash, who is our guide for the day.   It's already steamy and the air conditioner is a welcome relief;  we set off on orderly, almost empty roads to the Hindu Temple, Jagdish, where we climb 44 steep steps to the entrance, and with every step, the sound of bells and chanting grow louder.  There is a large hollowed out stone and Akash explains what we should do:  I place a tikka upon my head and we both rub 'pain afflicted' parts of our body on a holy stone, in preparation for entering the temple.  It is a happy atmosphere, there are perhaps thirty sari clad Indian women and a handful of men worshipping, chanting to the bells and singing along to the music.   Akash cups his hands and pours three splashes of water into them, which he drinks then rubs the rest through his hair;  it is a purification process.   He invites us to do the same, and I do, but before I can drink from my hands he says firmly "Don't drink it, it's for Indian bellies only!"   The temple is small and simple, it is covered in superb base reliefs of alligators, elephants, horsemen and celestial musicians;  I feel at home here, greeting the ladies who smile shyly and take my hands.

 

We walk through streets reminiscent of Turkey, past merchants selling silk, scarves, clothing, brass work, miniature paintings (which does not refer to the size of the painting but the detail of the painting) and past a collection show rooms selling clothing, rugs, pillow covers, pashminas, bags and a whole lot more.   We enter one and it is so big it traverses one building to the next, it's walls covered with photos of Roger Moore, Glen McGrath, Judy Densch, many celebrities and Australian cricketers, apparently all of them have shopped here.   The store owner appears to be a very good friend, but Akash says we won't be pressured;  so we decide today is not a shopping day.   This street is one of the streets where James Bond's classic film "Octupussy" starring Roger Moore was made in 1984, and as a child, Akash bunked school to come here one day to watch the filming.  

 

We head to the grand City Palace, home of the King and his Royal Family.  It is a vast structure which towers over Pichola Lake, dominating the shoreline.  The Maharana Uday Singh initiated its construction and succeeding Maharanas added several palaces to the complex but it retained a uniformity to the original design.  The main part of the palace is now a museum displaying a large and diverse array of artefacts, and is especially famous for what we have come to see, The Crystal Gallery, which houses a breathtaking collection of crystal.  Apparently the reigning Royal at the time visited England and fell in love with the crystal he saw there, and on his return home, as reigning Royals do, he had samples made in wood of everything he wanted making in crystal, but in an Indian, not European, style.  These were sent back to England, to the fortunate manufacturers, F. and C. Osler, who must have been clearly delighted with this order and spent the next many years making it up.   (I wonder what happened to the wooden Indian samples?)  There is a crystal bed -  the only one in the world - tables, chairs, a vast throne, chandeliers, footrests, bowls, cups, plates, saucers, swagger sticks, lanterns, fly whisks, and dozens of other items.   Unfortunately, the King died before its delivery, and as it was considered bad karma for a project to be interrupted in this way, everything was left in boxes in the cellar for decades, until one enterprising Royal, doing his audit, found it.   Literally thousands and thousands and thousands of items are dazzling on display in a vast gallery lined with portraits of royalty, and where, if you can afford it, you can have a conference, a party or even get married.   (And where did you get married?  Oh, in the Crystal Gallery in the City Palace, Udaipur.   Top that, mate).  

 

Akash takes us to another beautiful place, the 'delightful and discreet' Gardens of the Maids of Honour - I love that name.   It was built in the 18th century by the same Maharana Uday Singh, (that guy had money) for the ladies of his court. Akash says these gardens are in 'impeccable taste', with both a summer garden and a winter garden.  Fantastic fountains of the Sahlion Ki Bari spray sparkling water without the use of pumps, and function solely by water pressure.  The Maharana decided his ladies needed some 'time out', and built these gardens for their pleasure.  They are surrounded by high walls which were fiercely guarded to ensure the safety of the maidens.  Akash says they came once a fortnight to get away from the men, they enjoyed the freedom to play and to sing, to dance and to swim in the water.  Before I can ask, he adds "Of course they wore saris."  I tell him that two of my best friends and I did this just recently.  He casts Gerald a sympathetic look nods and says "My friend says that the man is the head of the house, but the woman is the neck.  Whenever she moves, he does."   

 

Sitting in the car and driving through the streets is an opportunity to learn.  I notice a number of European people, and Akash says there are quite a few English expatriates living here;  many have holidayed here for years, love it, and retire here;  their money goes a long way compared to England, they have cheap household help if they need it, and there are shops in this area that cater for them.  I have also noticed there seem to be many different kinds of turbans that the men wear.  Akash explains;  the green and white ones are worn only by the Brahmin caste, the red ones by the Warrior caste, and the yellow and pink ones by the Trader caste.  If you see a man wearing a white one with black printing on it, you know you are speaking to the 'Man of the Household', the one who can make decisions.  I shall remember this, and joke that perhaps I should get Gerald a white one with black printing on it;  Akash laughs.  He has very expressive beautiful eyes of the most unusual colour, somewhere between green and amber.  Why, I ask?  He beams, happy to answer my question and clearly proud of his eyes, as he is the only one since his great grandfather to inherit them, and he was from Kashmir, a Brahmin/Pundit man.  And, he says, people in colder climates tend to have paler eyes, I never knew that.

 

He gives us a short lesson about the names and the power status of royalty.  The King is considered Great, and there is also the Great Warrior King, and the Maharajah, but the most powerful of all is the Maharani.  The Kings here in Udaipur were legendary, as they never surrendered to the Moguls nor allowed their daughters to marry them, they were - and are - an intensely proud nation of people, and they fought to the end.  We see a grand monument of a huge white horse, whose name is Chetak, The Great Warrior Horse. He was the bravest of all horses, and led his King into war where a tremendous battle took place.  Despite a bad injury to his leg, Chetak carried his King to safety, then lay down under a tree and died.  I teared up when I heard that story.  Chetak is still today revered by the people for his courage, strength and loyalty to his King, and there are many monuments in his honour, including a train and a roundabout. 

 

Heading back to our private jetty, our private boat, our private captain and Our Palace  - I think I could get used to this - we take a scenic drive, this is a very beautiful place. Gerald sees a cable car going up a hill and asks Akash about it.  He shakes his head "It's very dangerous - it breaks down regularly and they have to call in the army to rescue them.  The last time it happened people were stuck there for 13 hours".  Gerald crosses that off his list immediately.  Then we see a camel.  A camel!  Two camels, no three camels! - lazing in the sun at the edge of the river, resplendent with saddles and braided finery, red reins around their necks, waiting for tourists to hire them for a ride.   And then, oh my word, it's an elephant, right in the middle of the traffic!  He is strolling along with a man on his back, there are cars and scooters all around him, nobody is paying him any attention, I remind myself this is normal here, but I nearly break my neck trying to take a photo through the window.   It's true, there are less cows and dogs and goats here, but who would have thought we would see camels and an elephant in the middle of the city?

 

We receive a rapturous welcome at the jetty, and another "Welcome Home" under the Royal Umbrella at Our Palace, and we are escorted to the entrance, and I stand, struck once more by the beauty of this place, Roger Moore filmed here too, I am on the movie set of Octopussy.  We are going to have to watch that film again.  I come back to earth as man with the Royal Umbrella is escorting someone from the entrance to the jetty.  It is an European man of our age, tall and stooped with a badly scarred face, and oddly dressed like a man half his age in seriously trendy gear.  He walks under the umbrella and his companion brings up the rear; a small Japanese woman in her twenties, her suitcase covered with child like labels of puppies and love hearts and smiley faces.   I wonder what that story is.

 

After a long cool shower, I sit and write before settling ourselves into the Jharokha (the little nook which overhangs the river), and fall into a deep sleep.

 

At five o clock Akash takes just the two of us out in one of the plush 'gondolas' which belong to the hotel.  It's hot and there is scarcely a breeze, and there are multitudes of kids are cooling off, their laughter carries across the water, such a lovely sound. We sail around the river checking out the real estate, there are only a waterfront houses left, as most of the shore line is now occupied by five star hotels.   There are a couple of large building developments, only just begun, and apparently abandoned.  Why? The Government is now restricting building around the lake, and these property developers are arguing their case in court.  In the middle of the lake, we visit Jagmandir Ghat, a "Recreation Island", the 'fun' place for families to visit; It has two restaurants, an interesting but small museum, and the Gol Mahal.  If anything indicates the scale of wealth the royal families had, this is it.  The Gol Mahal is a 'folly', a replica of the Taj Mahal, but much smaller, and built - just for fun, says Akash - by the Crown Prince after he first saw that extraordinary building.  Many weddings take place here;  just recently the son of one of the English Government Ministers married here in the beautiful gardens.   Weddings are big business in India, and these gardens are set up to accommodate every whim, with a huge stage for the bride and groom to sit on gilded thrones,  gazed upon the hundreds of wedding guests seated on swagged chairs below.  "Weddings used to go for two weeks but nowadays it's more like a week - so the families don't kill each other!" jokes Akash.  

 

Two women are walking behind us and I step aside with a gesture to allow them to pass, and one says "No, after you."  Gerald and I look at each other, in only three words, we can tell;  she is South African.  I catch up and introduce myself, her name is Anna and she is here with her sister Alexander on a convention with a large group South Africans who work for a pizza company.  As often happens in the world today, it turns out she grew up in Mufulira, a small mining town on the Copperbelt, about thirty miles from where Gerald and I grew up;  we are instantly connected and spontaneously hug.  Gerald and I grin at this revelation, who would believe it?  Two kids from Chingola meeting two kids from Mufulira, in Udaipur????

 

Back at Our Palace, we decide to forgo the entertainment tonight in order to secure a special table in the restaurant, and Gerald goes ahead to claim it.  On my way to join him, I walk through the gardens and see Leila and Leo seated in the front row waiting for the dancing to begin;  I cannot resist another opportunity to bask in the company of royalty and stop to say hello. She is resplendent in cherry red brocade, almost restrained compared to last night's gown, but the incredible array of jewels upon her head make up for her minimalist approach.  A cluster of gems are looped over a bun on top of her head, two large jewels hang from her ears and several more around her throat, another gleaming jewel the size of a pigeon's egg hangs between her eyes.   It reminds me of the famous gem Richard Burton gave Elizabeth Taylor decades ago.   She touches it, momentarily cross eyed, but straightens up her vision, and confides that it is an Indian antique - "I had quite a palaver getting all this sorted out today to wear with tonight's outfit."  She sighs recalling the challenges she faced today and continues "So I had to find a man to make a chain which they could loop through my hair to attach the gems to."  I sigh too, as if I comprehend such difficulties, and am about to ask her who the man is and who the 'they' are who looped it through her hair, when she is distracted by the arrival of further court members.  I realise I have used up my allocation of royal time and she waves me farewell with "Darlink! You look gorrrrrrgeous in that outfit?  Is it silk?"  It is, and it's a $25 bargain from Bali, but I don't tell her that.   I just smile and back away, bowing.  

 

I relay this story to Gerald and he says he thought he saw them checking out today, but realised his error when he saw that couple only had two suitcases.  Leo and Leila must have a truck load of suitcases, last night's outfits alone would have filled both of ours. 

 

We eat dinner sitting in a Jharokha which overhangs the river in the Jharokha Restaurant.  It's incredibly romantic, the sun has just set and we are the only people here as everybody else is watching the dancing. We can hear the call to prayer from the mosques, it gives me a shiver of pleasure and reminds me of Lombok and Turkey. 

 

This is what the menu says:  "A Jharokha is an overhanging balcony used in Indian architecture, typically in Rajasthan.  One of the most important functions it served was to allow women to see the events outside without being seen themselves.  In olden days this was a place for special get togethers, today Jharokha is a multi cuisined restaurant with scalloped arched frames overlooking the serene waters of Lake Pichola.  It offers a vibrant array of delicacies from all over the world.  Enjoy a contemporary world cuisine with Asian and Continental overtones.  Soothing views of the lake and City Palace add much to the restful ambiance."  

 

Dinner is an special occasion and we're having the time of our lives.  We hold hands whilst reading a menu which is so glorious, its food porn, and we eat till we cannot force another grain of rice past our lips.  Prabhu, the smiling young man who serves us brings us a brass platter, and placing  one hand on his heart, he begs "Just a small piece, Suh, please, just for me?  Please?  I want you to try this special sweet?"  We cannot resist;  it's a tiny oval of deep fried dough, drizzled with honey and milk;  its just one bite, sweet, hot, and nutty,  and explodes in our mouths.  We groan in delight.  Prabhu is delighted to have been the giver of so much pleasure and beams.  He is a very modern young man, buffed by working out in the gym, well spoken, and  technically very smart, full of information and enjoys helping me with a problem I', having with Facebook.  He asks us to guess how old he is.  Like so many Indians he is very handsome and looks very young, so with a straight face, I say "Twelve?"   He doubles up laughing;  he is in his late thirties and has a nine year old daughter, a 'very healthy' daughter.  "So healthy that when I ask her to come to the gym, she says no.  So healthy that when she gets on the scales, and I ask 'fifty kilos?' she says 'no Daddy, only 49.5 kgs'."  He nods his head, looking worried.  Gerald suggests that fifty kgs for a nine year old girl may not be 'very healthy', and Prabhu nods in agreement and says "My wife, she is very overweight too."   Which may explain why he is feeding us up this way, perhaps he thinks we are ill.  We thank him for his kindness and heave ourselves up from the table, and stagger around Our Palace.  We have already taken hundreds of photos and take several more, we watch the boats come and go with guests, and watch a large group of Italians having pre dinner drinks - and it's 10 pm.  They are in good spirits and head to the rooftop transformed from the yoga studio it was this morning to a fairy tale dining room, with hundreds of candles and a man playing an Indian harp.   It's breath taking, so we climb a narrow stone stairway to a higher level and for a few minutes watch their celebration, we listen to their laughter and their Italian, and soak in the dark sky and the inky water.  It's a little like being on the rooftop of our terrace overlooking the Bosphorus in Istanbul last year, only perhaps more beautiful. 

 

Reluctantly we leave and head to Our Suite.  The royal staff have been busy and left us a tray of sweet treats and tea, and everything is immaculate.  Soft music plays, the beds are turned down and our pyjamas folded, the bath towels replaced, and in another display of attention to detail, little scented bags have been placed inside our smelly walking shoes.  Masterful.  

 

We're tired but excited and there is so much to talk about, we don't even open our books.  Just today, we've seen and done and learned so much, we're slack jawed with delight.  Akash said something today about the windows here which fascinates me, and I haven't had time to ask Gerald what he thinks.  Apparently, a big window is a window to a room in which a man lives or works.  A small window indicates a room where a woman lives or works, and is designed that way for her protection.   I wonder if it is to keep her in, or the men out?  Gerald thinks it's to keep the men out.   I think it's to keep the women in.

 

Day 15 - 21st Sept 2016 - Udaipur - Taj Lake Palace

 

THE SHAH AND SHAH-RESS HAVE LEFT THE PALACE.   

 

I had intended to go to 6.30 am yoga, but wake only at 6.45 am, but today is a rest day, and I lie back on a pile of cushions, reading my book and drinking several cups of the my Beloved makes.  We are not eating lunch today, which gives us justification to eat a very large and very late breakfast. 

 

Our Royal Suite is being serviced (I love saying that, 'Our Royal Suite is being serviced'), so we laze around reading for couple of hours in one of the King's ante rooms which overlooks the lake, it's filled with big soft couches and spectacular art work.  I leave Gerald there and visit the Palace shopping mall, a glittering expensive selection of artwork, clothing and gifts.   I decide against the elephant made of carved camel bone, discounted to just US$2000 plus US$100 shipping.  I give the pigeon egg sized diamonds and rubies a miss too, but wonder whether this is where Leila got her Third Eye Jewel sorted out yesterday, and leave empty handed. 

 

I have massage and a steam booked in the Jiva Spa;  it is a luxurious place, there are rose petals scattered on the floor and their perfume fills the air, the lighting is gentle and the music is soft.  I want to live here forever.  The Spa Manager greets me with much formality and introduces me to 'My Therapist', Beni.  I am alone in a steam room tiled in tiny blue and white marble squares, and there are two matching, elaborately tiled lounges.   The steam is so thick I can hardly see, I lay down on my towels and feel my body surrender.  Some while later, I am woken by Beni's gentle tap on the door, I wrap myself in a big fluffy gown she hands me, and follow her to the massage room.   She is an intuitive and professional masseur, and nurtured with fragrant oils and completely blissed out, I fall asleep once more. 

 

My Beloved awaits me in our Royal Suite with a perfect gin and tonic and I write, before joining a tour of the hotel with a historian.  It's fascinating. The entire island is only four acres, and 250 years ago when it was first built it was very modest, with only six rooms;  since then of course, there have been many additions.   The Royal Family have reigned here for 76 dynasties, and in 1961, it was the 62nd Royal who decided to open it to the public as a hotel.  They faced the enormous task of turning this ancient building, with no electricity and no plumbing, into the world class place it is today;  and was bought by the Taj group in the early seventies.  It has been a Mecca for celebrities from all around the world and our guide quips "Now it is for you, Maharanas and Maharinis!"  Celebrities like Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, Nicole Kidman, Roger Moore, the Queen of England and Prince Philip, royalty from all around the world, Jackie Kennedy and her sister, the Shah of Iran, Prime Ministers and Presidents, including Barrack Obama, have all been guests here.  Our Royal Suite is in the oldest part of the building, and the courtyard outside our door is where the King would sit every night to watch the dancing.

 

Gerald and I are leaving tomorrow and we want to ensure we secure good seats for tonight's entertainment. We arrive in the courtyard early but Leo and Leila are nowhere to be seen;  discreet enquiries reveal that they have left The Palace.  I am disappointed, for me they were an intrinsic part of the entertainment, and whilst the dancing is undoubtedly spectacular, the Hollywood glamour is missing.   

 

Tonight, a plump He/She of our age stole the show.  He started a graceful dance, then had a glass placed upon his head, and I had the thought we have seen this before, but no, we hadn't.  He danced some more then knelt to have three large terracotta heavy pots, stacked on top of each other, placed upon the single glass balanced on his head.   Then he took off swirling and swooping for some minutes, before two more pots of smaller size were placed on top of the three already on his head.  We all gasp in disbelief as he recommenced his dance.  Unbelievably, to the collection of his head four more terracotta pots were added, plus two small brass pots, an upturned metal plate and two upturned sharp swords.  Then, balancing all that, he was handed two swords on which he balanced plates which he started to spin - and he continued to dance!  He danced on one leg. Then the other. He stood on one leg and lowered himself to the ground and back up again.  He stuck his leg straight out (reminiscent of backside yoga) and twirled and twirled and twirled.  I was clenching my teeth and watching him through my fingers, expecting it all to come crashing down.  It was impossible, it was riveting, we were watching something but could scarcely believe what we were seeing, and the applause was well deserved and thunderous.   I knew that Leila and Leo would have loved it, and felt sorry that they had missed it, so I threw in a few unabashed extra loud 'bravos' on their behalf.  Leila would have liked that.

 

Then three ladies in splendid skirts got up to dance, and dragged up a few reluctant women from the audience to join them.  I, however, needed no invitation and leapt up to join them.  It was such fun making fools of ourselves, attempting to be graceful, amongst these beautiful, sensual, colourful women, and we all laughed a lot.  I was grateful for the opportunity to learn a few new Bollywood moves, which will come in handy when I audition for my starring role in a major Bollywood production in a couple of weeks time.  It was a long dance and the women, including the young ones, started to tire, leaving me as the sole representative of the guest dancers.  I was exhausted and when they got to the 'Let's do fifty quick spins part' -  no doubt to get rid of me - I left the floor, to modest applause.

 

My ever efficient Beloved managed to secure us a Jharokha over the water in the restaurant, and we shared a splendid farewell meal, starting with a complimentary dish of Raj Kachori, a cold but incredibly crispy pastry filled with nuts, vegetables and a subtle, delicious sauce.   We ate plates of steaming spicy chicken, fish, vegetables and rice, and ended with another complimentary dish of sweet cheese with nuts and almond milk.   

 

We took an after dinner walk around Our Palace, past the incredible swimming pool which we have not had time to use, and head to our Royal Suite.  Tomorrow is a Big Day. 

 

 

Day 16 - 22nd Sept 2016 - Bhainsrorgarh -Bhainsrorgarh Fort

 

AN UNFORGETTABLE ROAD TRIP, FORTY CAMELS, A FORT AND A TRAGIC TIGER TALE 

 

I wake up before the alarm and reluctantly leave this beautiful bed with the biggest pillows and the feather light duvet.  I am careful not to wake Gerald, he has been coughing in the night, have a quick shower and a cup of tea, and close the door quietly. There is only me, an ever present army of cleaners and several strategically placed staff who could possibly be professional "Good Morning Greeters".  I make my way across checker board marble floors and a life size peacock studded with gems, past ancient sculptures and swags of gold tasselled curtains, gleaming chandeliers and sparkling fountains, and climb a narrow stone staircase to the rooftop.  There waits Mira, our yoga teacher, who asks accusingly when I didn't come yesterday.  I slept in, I say feebly, she is unimpressed, but cheers up when I ask to take her photo and takes mine too.

 

There are only four of us today.  It is not yet 6.30 am and sun is rising in a haze over the vast City Palace in the distance, I settle on my mat and close my eyes.  I hear the flapping of pigeon wings and feel a soft breeze flow across my already sweating body.   Mira speaks.   Reeeeeeelaaaaaaaaaax.   Reeeeeeelaaaaaaaax.  Sloooooooollllllly, slooooooooowllllly. Exxxxhaaaaaaaaaaaale.   I'm trying but there is nerve caught in my back which pinches painfully and there is one determined fly bothering me.   In both Africa and Australia flies are a real problem, and I am astonished at how few flies there are here, and so unusual that even one presents as a problem.  I flap ineffectually whilst trying to follow Mira's instructions, although I am now an old hand at 'backside yoga', the three newcomers need instruction, and ever helpful, I endeavour to demonstrate.  "Make your toes straight out and your heels outward."  (Flexing)  "Hands clamping."  (Clasped) "Foot backside, neck backside."  (I've already explained this one, so if you ever come here, you won't be confused)   "Legs together both."  (Self explanatory)  "Hands outside both." (This is worthy of a Master Class)  And - exhaaaaaaaaale.    I like Mira and tell her how grateful I am, that I have enjoyed her class and she beams.  I think of my yoga teachers at home and my yoga friends, and think how much they would love this experience. 

 

The charming Prabu serves us our last breakfast, we sit overlooking the beautiful Lily Pool.  There are pigeons taking a bath in the fountain, and the two Pigeon Chasers are running back and forth, energetically snapping their ropes trying to keep them out of the water.  Prabu tells us that originally the King brought two pigeons here for his bride who liked the sound of their coo-ing, and from that humble beginning, the population is now in the thousands, but they are a sign of peace' and are protected, regarded as family and fed, and each one has their own special sleeping spot up in the domes.   There are 15 designated Pigeon Chasers employed here, part of the army of 350 - 400 staff who service guests in 81 rooms and 19 Royal Suites.

 

We farewell Prabu, and have our photo taken together;  he asks if we can connect on facebook and be friends.  It strikes me as amazing that we are in a building hundreds of years old in an ancient land, yet wi-fi can connect us in an instant.  I tell him we are friends and hug him goodbye;  he bows and places his hand on his heart.   Back in Our Royal Suite, I say goodbye, something I always do, and thank the space for taking care of us and try to imagine the hundreds of people who have slept here before us. Fifteen years ago, I occupied the same room Queen Elizabeth and Phillip had vacated a week earlier.  I was the guest of our good friends, Priscilla and Jack Holmes in Vergelegen, South Africa, in the majestic Anglo American estate.  It was a heady experience imaging her Majesty sleeping in that same vast four poster bed that required steps to reach, and I don't want to breach confidentiality, but I can't resist telling you that she broke the toilet.  When I sat on it as the first guest after the Royal Posterior, the seat moved abruptly sideways and I nearly fell off;  it could have been nasty.  You would think she would have reported it to maintenance.   I did.

 

Our Royal Palace was originally called Jag Niwas, but whatever it is called, it is hard to leave.  It has exceeded every expectation, this place of Kings and Queens, money, power and wealth, of sterling service and beauty unparalleled.  I feel emotional as we are escorted to Our Personal Gondola by a majestic man, resplendent in crimson and gold livery, who hands us a beautifully wrapped gift.  There are a team of staff bowing and waving us goodbye as we pull away from the jetty and sail to the shore. 

 

Rajnu, the representative of Mysteries of India is waving hello to us from the shore.  He has driven here to escort us from the gondola to our driver, Satish who stands alongside his polished vehicle.  Rajnu's handsome face glows as if this five minute process is his personal privilege.  Satish is grinning in delight and claps his hands and says "We are now together for twelve days Maam!'   He is a happy man of big gestures who over the next days tells us many amusing stories, some of which we don't understand, but his laughter is so infectious and he laughs at his own stories that we belly laugh anyway.    I feel very good about the next twelve days as our jolly threesome sets off on our next adventure. 

 

Satish says our drive is three hours, up until now, everything has happened like clockwork, but I have not yet factored in Indian time.  Gerald sits up front with Satish and I settle in the back seat in air conditioned comfort with my pashmina, my neck pillow, the Times of India and the India Today magazine.  I laugh out loud at the adverts, they are so typically Indian, and a soap opera unto themselves.   In one for Raymond Fine Fabrics, there is an incredibly suave and handsome Indian man with just a hint of five o clock shadow, wearing an impeccable suit and overcoat, staring moodily into the distance, a super star is in his own "The Bold and The Beautiful".  The words say:  "As stunning as the snow, as beautiful as the sky, as compelling as the human spirit". And in finer print "Three piece suits and overcoats, tailored from a range of elegant suiting and jacket in fabrics for your sartorial pleasure."   Sartorial?

 

Surprisingly, it takes only minutes before we are out of the small city of Udaipur and speeding along well maintained highways with two lanes in either direction.  There herds of water buffalo coming towards us on our side of the road which Satish expertly sideswipes and colourful buses with dozens of people sitting on the roofs, tractors decorated with flowers, feathers and painted pictures with loud music blaring through loudspeakers mounted conspicuously on the outside, as the drivers, who all look incredibly happy, sing as they drive down the highway.  This myriad of vehicles are all travelling at the same speed we are, 80 kms per hour, and weave deftly around each other, missing the goats crossing the highway, impervious to the danger, and between cows lying peacefully asleep on the road.  People cross the road without any urgency, dodging traffic.  Aman said the other day that there is a golden rule in India "Do not run on the road - it confuses people."  The drivers are masterful, it's all chaotic yet everything works and we never once see an incident of road rage.  There appears to be a calm acceptance of everything and anything that happens. Satish explains  "We have no problem with these things, Maam. It's all OK."  Oh, we have a lot to learn in Australia. 

 

We are two hours into our journey and my bladder is bursting, but there are no garages or restrooms here, and I hold on.  A painful half an hour later, I ask Satish to stop, and he pulls up at a dodgy looking restaurant and Satish leaps out and ensures they are happy for me to use the loo.  Surprisingly, it is clean, a squat, with a bucket of water and a jug to flush it away, and there is no charge.   Grateful, I climb back into the car when a curious man puts his face six inches from my window and stares at me intently for some moments.  Perhaps he is surprised white women need to pee?  We are often disconcerted by the ongoing and unabashed curiosity at our presence, but at no time during our time here have we once ever felt threatened or afraid of theft.  

 

Satish returns from his smoke break and our smooth run comes to a halt, as the road he was expecting to take has become inaccessible, he has to ask directions to an alternative route, and he appears a little embarrassed.  It's been interesting to observe that often, when Indians speak to each other, they appear to be in the midst of a heated argument, when actually they are just communicating.   Satish is yelling at a man on the roadside and the man is yelling back, but when he returns to the car, he speaks calmly and tells us we have to head back in the direction we have just come.  

 

Our journey to The Fort takes us off the highway and on to a narrow dirt track, deeply rutted and dotted with hazardous pot holes, some two feet deep, and as this car is not a four wheel drive, we make slow progress.   For an hour we travel through rural India, where women carry pots on their heads and sheaves of grass on their backs, there are more cows, kids and goats, and many small houses;  we are fascinated.    Satish stops to check his GPS in this isolated spot, and I burst out laughing when an American voice starts giving us directions.  This was supposed to be a journey of three hours and we have been travelling for longer than that, so Gerald feels confident we must be close to our destination, Satish nods and says "Yes sir, another one and a half hours."  Oh.  My bladder is bursting again and the rough bumping of the car aggravates my condition, but there is nowhere to go.  I tell Satish I am happy to go behind a bush, but he is appalled.  

 

We come across a repulsive sight, four dogs are tearing the flesh off a dead cow at the side of the road.  Satish explains "We do not bury the cow if it is killed, some things will eat from it.  Everything must eat."  This kind of fatalism is seductive, it appeals to me, and I can see the peace it must provide.   All in its time, all in its place, all if good, just the way it is supposed to be.  Except for the poor guy who hit it, who is in big trouble, and will be heavily penalised.   

 

Outside a small house, there is a cow standing on the top step in front of the closed front door.  Why?   "He is waiting for his chipati Suh.  He comes at the same time every day for food from the mother of the house."   It is pure logic to Satish;  apparently in the mornings, the cow is the first one to be fed a chipati, then the family eats, and lastly, the dog.  "It's good karma to feed the cow."  I make a silent vow;  if I have the opportunity to feed a cow, I shall seize it.

 

We come across a large expanse of water which cuts the road in two, we can proceed no further, but there are several children and water buffalo bathing.   For the first time, I detect some concern on Satish's face, a slight "What the fuck now?" but he quickly regains his upbeat smile, and he and Gerald plot our next move.  Suddenly, a solution presents when a motor bike appears on the other side, travelling slowly through the water, which isn't as deep as we feared.  Satish lets out the brake and we progress sloooooooowly slooooooowly through the water.   I think fondly of Mira and yoga, was that only this morning?   It's a breath holding few moments and I expect the water to start seeping in through the doors, and when we reach the other side, I applaud enthusiastically.   Satish clearly loves the acknowledgement;  he is proud, he has taken care of his guests and overcome another obstacle.  He says modestly "It is my job, Maam" and nods his head.  

 

We drive on for miles, avoiding the cows and hundreds of goats being herded by men in white tunics and turbans, and I wonder how they keep their clothing so pristine in this heat and dust.  There are slender women and small children carrying large sticks herding sheep, and one comical herd of sweet baby lambs decorated with orange dust, who look as though they belong in a child's story book.  I long to hug one of them. 

 

Satish comes to an abrupt halt a short distance from an amazing sight - camels!  I quickly count them, there at least forty trudging nonchalantly down the road.  I grab my I phone and run towards them, taking photos and try to find the video setting, but in my excitement, fail.  I have seen very few camels in my life, and this is astonishing, this is a camel extravaganza!  There are camels of all shapes and sizes, even my untrained eye can see there are pretty ones, ugly ones, unfriendly ones and yes, these two cantering towards me look pretty intent on being my friend;  one dribbles some unattractive goo on my shoulder, and I move quickly to avoid being trampled.   This massive herd belongs to one man, Satish says, and is moving them from one part of the country to another.  As they depart, I climb back into the car, excited and happy about my close encounter.   I ask Gerald if he got some good photos of me with the camels.  No, he says.  What? Why not?   He looks uncomfortable and says he was focussed on the camels, not me.  What the?  I'm upset - how could he have missed it?  My husband who is intent on taking photos of almost every man, woman and child he sees in India - except me, his wife, and my once in a life time opportunity to be photographed with forty camels.  I stare at him stonily and tell him this incident will be remembered, and he shifts uneasily in his seat;  even Satish looks downcast.  

 

We are all saved from this award incident by the welcome appearance of a service station of sorts, which has a locked toilet.  Satish hurries off to get the key, as I hop up and down outside its door, and I am delighted to find its spotless, and its a regular Western loo.  I sit gratefully, emptying my bladder for what seems like several minutes, smiling with happiness, when I suddenly have a vision of my Mother, and I have the realisation, I am becoming my Mother, I look like my Mother. This is exactly the kind of thing my Mother would do, and on this trip, I am even dressed like her.  I wear sensible $9 Rivers cotton three quarter length baggy trousers with elasticated waistbands and pockets, a pair of canvas rubber soled slip on shoes - a $5 Ezibuy special - and cotton long sleeved blouses from Vinnies.  My plastic jewellery is also Vinnies, including some my Mother bought for me from that establishment.  I have three cotton dresses which were made for me ten years ago in Nepal for $3 each.  The overall effect is very colourful but shapeless from head to toe, and its working exceptionally well - let us not forget the compliment on my black lace jacket from the Shah at Our Royal Palace - I can eat till I bust, change my clothing four times a day, wash it in the shower and stamp it clean then dry it in two hours. Brilliant. 

 

On the subject of toilets, an unfortunate incident happened at Our Royal Palace a couple of days ago.  Warning:  This is a graphic loo story, if you have a nervous stomach, read no further.  Gerald and I had experienced only mild Delhi Belly, but on that day, wandering about the hotel, my bowels started to gurgle and gripe, I knew I had to get to the loo quickly, and I raced into the nearest ladies toilet.  Thankfully, there was nobody in there, as my bowels exploded violently and painfully.  I sat there for several minutes until I thought my insides would fall out, then gathered myself together, flushed the toilet three times and feeling faint, staggered out.  There was a large American woman waiting to use that toilet.  "Oh dear!" I said "I would not advise using that loo, my stomach is upset, and it smells ghastly in there."  She smiled and reached for what she thought was a can of air freshener, but it turned out to be hair spray, and she replaced it.   She was a courageous - or maybe desperate? - woman and said "No problem!" and went into the loo, but a split second later, defeated, she came out.  "I'll wait!" she says.   I apologise again, feeling embarrassed, but she knows the deadly Delhi Belly personally.  Her name is Debbie and she is from California, and she spent several minutes comparing India holiday stories. You make friends in the strangest places.

 

Our journey continues, but the the stretch of tarmac has ended, and we are back on a ruin of a road which is flooded in parts, and a few times, I think we will not make it, but Satish is determined and drives carefully and slowly through.  He is, I think, a little embarrassed as we are way over his 'three hour journey' estimation.  Gerald and I are not bothered at all, this is an exciting adventure and we are enjoying it, now that my bladder is empty.  There are photo opportunities everywhere we look and there is something oddly familiar about this place, and now I understand why Viv, our tour organiser, wished us to come here.  Gerald and I exchange a look and have the same thought 'We could be in Africa' - it is so beautiful, and my heart swells in gratitude.  There are so many similarities, the red dusty road which turns in places to sucking red mud, the grey green doringboem (thorn trees) covered in dust, oily puddles, naked children with white teeth and pink gums in their dark faces, women carrying loads upon their heads, the flocks of birds overhead and the relentless sun in a perfect blue sky, the heat and humidity is relentless, and we are miles and miles from anywhere. This is a place few tourists ever get to, so its no wonder nobody recognised the name of it when we told them we were coming here.  "We are getting close to the Hoe-Till" says Satish "actually it is a fort!" - but he is mistaken, as our American GPS lady keeps giving directions for another hour.  

 

From our itinerary, for your information:

 

"Bhainsrorgarh (pronunciation is variable and we settle for Byne-sor-ga) is an impregnable fort, inhabited from at least the 2nd century BC.  It is dramatically positioned between two rivers, the Chambal and Bamani. It had passed through the hands of several clans before becoming the seat of a premier noble of MEWAR, the large region around Udaipur and Princely State of the Sisodias clan.  It contains five temples dedicated to Devi Bhim Chauri, Chiva and Ganesh and our palace, which is 'for rent'.  The present fort is 260 years old and was built in the 1740's.  Bhainsrorgarh Fort has now been converted to a luxury heritage hotel run by the erstwhile Royal family and is a very popular tourist spot for tourists from around the world." 

 

Bring it on. 

 

Five and a half hours after leaving Our Palace, we finally spy Our Fort on the top of a ridge, so far from anywhere.   I have the thought that if we had a medical emergency and needed to be helicoptered out, it would be a challenge.   The Fort is protected by a vast, moss covered wall nine feet thick, and we enter through a stone domed gateway, and go back a few centuries in time.  We drive slowly through cobbled streets so narrow I could touch the houses as we drive past where women peer back at me through open doorways.  The children are afraid of the car and run crying to their mothers, and cows obstruct our way.   There are ancient minarets towering above us, pagoda like structures blackened with age, yellow and white crumbling ruins covered with mould and mildew and thick jungle vines creeping over everything.   Satish parks and escorts us up deep hollowed steps to a courtyard filled with terracotta pots of flowers in a riot of colours, temples, Gods and terraces.  We did not know what to expect but this takes our breath away.  It could be a neglected Italian mansion or we could be in Zanzibar or Turkey.  It's a fascinating combination of Muslim and Hindu and Arabic and Moorish and Roman and French castles, palaces and forts, and has trees, grass and bushes growing on top of it's walls. It is built on a vast scale and it dominates everything;  it is indeed impregnable, built between two mighty rivers, with a 360 degree view of everything for miles and miles.  I cannot imagine the huge responsibility it must be for the owners to take care of such a crumbling treasure.   It is unique, I have never seen anything like this in my life, I am so happy to be here.

 

We are met by Rajveer, a man of royal bearing who is the owner of The Fort.   He proudly tells us he is the seventh generation to live here and that this land - which initially had 150 villages - was granted to his ancestors by the King.  At one time this fort had an army of staff, three elephants, and 71 stables for 71 horses, but after independence in 1947, things took a turn for the worse when the Government asked for the land to be returned, and the family were sadly reduced to one horse.  He says that in his ancestors time, there were many, many tigers here, that they were protected, and were killed only if one habitually killed villagers;  and only the King was allowed to hunt them.  But after independence "It became a free for all" Rajveer says sadly, and now there are no tigers left here.  Later I examine a glossy coffee table book in one of the lounges, and it shows pictures of Indian royalty and the Raj, standing triumphantly over the bodies of dead tigers.  It says:

 

"The 'sport' of tiger hunting is called Shikar.   This was a winter sport, and there were two methods to get a tiger, used by the Shikari.  The beat and the bait.  In a beat the Shikari party would take their positions and the beater would encircle the tiger, drumming constantly. They would bring the tiger near the guns by closing into the prey in decreasing circles.  The other method was to tie the bait, generally a buffalo, in the thick of the jungle.  The Shikari would then climb on the Machan, platforms on top of the trees, and wait for the tiger to appear. Once in sight, they went for the kill, but there were some like Maharaja Jai Singh of Alwar who reputedly used children as bait for tigers.  The Maharaja however, maintained that he never let a child get killed, as he always got the tiger before the child could be harmed."

 

Well, that's reassuring.

 

"Annual hunting parties were elaborate affairs, and over time they disintegrated into ill repute.  Were the tigers drugged so visiting dignities could boast of a kill and sign concessions for the organisers in his excitement?" 

 

What?

 

"At one time there were 40,000 tigers in India.  They were at some point protected, and only the leading rulers had the right to indulge in the sport. What is interesting is that the number of tigers grew, in spite of the Maharajahs competing to bag 500 to a 1000 tigers each.  They chopped off the tiger's heads for trophies." 

 

Oh my God. 

 

Raj walks us through the courtyard and tells us he decided to turn this into a five star luxury hotel about ten years ago, it has eight suites and plans for another seven, but restoration is painstaking and extremely expensive.   It has been, and remains a mammoth undertaking.

 

On the way to our suite, we walk through an impossibly eclectic collection of rooms and objects, I don't know where to look first.  It's the Mad Hatters Tea Party and Alice in Wonderland and Nightmare on Elm Street combined.  The rooms or 'chambers' as he calls them, are enormous with high ceilings and polished stone floors, the walls hung with faded ancient tasselled rugs, there are animal heads - and tigers too - on the walls, dainty Victorian furniture which seems entirely out of place in such a rugged environment, but somehow works, heavy dark wooden Moghul furniture inlaid with brass, alcoves of stained glass filled with cushions, crystal chandeliers, there are carvings and fretwork, paintings and sculptures, smaller alcoves on every wall containing objet d'art, low tables and high tables holding brass jugs and vases of all shapes and sizes.  We walk along verandahs which overlook courtyards and there are arches everywhere, some so low that even I have to stoop to get through, there are doors two inches thick inlaid with brass, so heavy they are almost impossible to open, and door handles made of heavy brass rings, which also adorn every ceiling.  What for, I ask.  Raj looks a little evasive and says "Hanging things, mosquito nets, etc.". Really?  In such odd places?  What things would one hang from such a high ceiling?  People?  Drying clothes?   Kinky sex, maybe?   It may be hard to imagine what I have told you, and you would be forgiven for thinking it would look downright ugly and confusing - and it's definitely decorating on steroids - but it somehow appears stately and elegant, and to me, it's eccentric and remarkably beautiful. 

 

There are four stories, and our suite is on the second level, so we climb two flights of narrow, circular stairs, the white paint has worn and polished stone shines through, we cross a vast balcony scattered with rugs and comfortable furniture, to an ornately carved doorway, so low that Gerald has to duck down. Our suite has three large rooms, Raj calls the one we are standing in 'the ante room', but it's the living area, and has double doors enclosing an archway which is actually a balcony of the same shape and size, built so the women could see out but not be seen themselves.  The curtains are a strange maroon muslin, hung on brass poles and rings.  To the left is a bedroom dominated by a vast white bed, with thick cotton floral curtains, there are brass lamps in alcoves in every wall, and double doors which lead to a protected balcony.  On the other side of the living area is a bathroom as big as the bedroom.  

This is not your every day bathroom as much of it is Moorish and made of stone, and half of it is the shower, with a small stone edge to stop it flooding.  It has a massive antique wardrobe with his and her bathrobes, piles of snowy white towels and designer toiletries, and a twentieth century toilet and sink.  Our jaws have hit the floor yet again, whilst this is not the luxury of the Taj Palace, this is more "The Third Exotic Marigold Hotel" but way more upmarket.  We look at each other and grin. 

 

The heat is suffocating, and Gerald puts the air conditioner on in the bedroom, but the anteroom and the bathroom remain sauna like.  I pull back the curtains to see the view through the Ladies Window and switch on a small table fan, which is ineffectual.  The bathroom has a fan with seven feet long propellers, and it takes off as loudly as a jet plane and with such force that a hand towel flies across the room, my blouse flaps loose and the toilet paper unravels, flying like a Nepali prayer flag.  I hastily turn it off.

I can understand why back in the days of the Raj many of the Poms went 'mad with the heat'.  People live here, without water and electricity, and never seem to sweat.

 

We climb more stone stairs to eat lunch under a dome surrounded by gun ramparts, on the rooftop.  It has magnificent 360 degree views of both rivers and an endless horizon, and we are relieved to see that there are no enemy armies approaching.  There is a modern bridge not faraway carrying with trucks, buses and a herd of water buffalo.  It is after 3 pm and I am tired, but the food is delicious and plentiful. It's a delight to sit quietly with my Beloved in a gentle breeze and listen to pigeons coo. 

 

I am sticky with sweat and desperate to shower.  It's always a challenge when travelling to a new place to find out where the light switches are and how things generally work;  I often get up in the night and flip every light switch I can find without a result, I turn the air conditioner off and on in error and unknowingly change the temperature. There are seven switches in the bathroom and I try them all without finding a light, then I try the shower without producing water.  Gerald is so good with technical things and thankfully he is with me and produces both light and water.  The air conditioner is chewing up electricity and the room is so cold that I climb on the bed, cover myself with a pashmina, and sleep.

 

At 5 pm we head out 'on safari' in a Gypsy, a small open sided jeep, to visit a Tribal Village.  The setting of Bhainsrorgarh Fort and the Chambal River is picturesque, it's landscape dotted with small villages and farms growing wheat and mustard.  There is no electricity.   Raj drives fast along rutted roads and speeds through the villages, scattering kids and cows in every direction.  I think these people are accustomed to the King's power and tend to get out of his way.  He seems unfriendly and seldom speaks and provides us with only limited information, but he asks us to tell our friends about this place.  We stop at a tiny village called Balapura on the edge of a beautiful lake, or perhaps it's a reservoir?  Under the shade of a vast tree is a raised platform that gives a panoramic view, and spread upon it is a red blanket.  This one scene is so perfect, I can imagine a set designer spending hours to get it just right, then calling casting to bring in the goats and dogs who are happily mingling beneath it.  We set off for a walk with Raj striding ahead and Gerald and I stopping every few seconds for another photo, although we already have thousands, no matter how many I delete.   The houses are built very low, and on the rooftops are a series of platforms, what for?  Raj explains that in winter people sleep inside their houses to keep warm, but in summer, and monsoon, they sleep on these platforms to avoid the snakes and the scorpions.  Half an hour later we are back at the tree with the red rug, and tea and biscuits are being served at the water's edge.  It's a scene of tranquility, temple bells ring and the villagers are busy with evening chores, butterflies flit and birds sing, but Raj says there may possibly be 'jungle cats getting ready for their nocturnal prowls'.  Oh, I hope so.  A friendly dog wags his tail and introduces himself to me, then lays down on the temple steps, looking like a God himself.  I break a biscuit into pieces and place it in front of him, an offering to the Dog God.  He wags his tail but ignores it.  I am puzzled, aren't these dogs hungry? Cino would have inhaled it in a nano-second.   A second dog arrives and lays down with his mate like two book ends, and he ignores it too.   Gerald suggests they may not know what a biscuit is.  Is that possible?    

 

We climb into the Gypsy jeep and head back to Our Palace in Our Fort;  we are the only guests there, Raj says, so it really is Ours.   The sun is setting as we bump along, and I can hear the mosque call to prayer, what an adventure we are having!  I look at Gerald seated behind me, and he is smiling from ear to ear.  Oh, I love this man.  (Even if he focuses on the camels and not me in a photo opportunity.  I told you I would not forget that mishap).  I know we are feeling the same thing and we share a glance that says "Africa!"  This place reminds us of Africa and Africa is the oldest land.  But it is India who is called Mother;  Mother India.  

 

Back at Our Palace, I have my fifth shower of the day, stamping on my clothes which I hang to dry.  Gerald pours us a gin and tonic and we sit in our throne like chairs, beaming at each other, then head up another two flights of worn stairs to the rooftop where we had lunch.  It is inky black and the only lighting are two small candles on our table, I cannot even see my feet, and have to precariously feel my way to find a chair.  This is surreal and impossibly romantic, Indian music is playing somewhere faraway and drifting across to us, it seems like we are the only two people in the world, a thought which ends when three men arrive with fragrant food.  We cannot see what we are eating, but it's delicious.  I have heard of an 'experiential restaurant' where you eat in the dark and have to try to work out what you are eating;  perhaps the idea started here.   We're tired and head to bed;  I nearly break an ankle when I fail to see a two inch step, and we cautiously feel our way down the dark stairwell.  We put the light out at 9 pm, its very hot and we sleep under a sheet, but I am soon up to get Gerald a lozenge, his cough has got worse. 

 

Another day in unimaginable India.

 

 

Day 17 - 23rd Sept 2016 - Bhainsrorgarh - Bhainsrorgarh Fort

 

A BOAT RIDE, TWO TINY HORSES AND KRISHNA 

 

We wake early and after a quick shower and a cup of tea, and by 6 am we meet one of the hotel staff, who is taking us to the Chambal River for a sunrise cruise.  He carries two elegant wicker baskets from the Raj era, and at tea time, I discover that one has small individual compartments in which bone china tea cups fit snugly, and others for biscuits, crockery and napery.  So royal.

 

We walk down to the river through thick tropical jungle along a path strewn with smashed slate and broken stones.  Our basket carrying man strides ahead, and I am battling to keep up with him, and I thinking that at the Taj Palace I would have at least three men helping me through this, maybe even carrying me through this, but I am at a Fort, and I am expected to be tough.  It is treacherous, like trekking in Nepal, you can only look at your feet to ensure you don't fall over the edge, and cannot look up to admire the view.  There is so much hidden amongst the overgrown trees and thick vines:  numerous temples, crumbling ancient moss covered buildings, and stone treasures just lying on the ground.  There are no security guards and anyone could pick up these priceless relics, nobody would even know.

 

Inside a large hole is a massive ancient lingham and yoni, and there are stone Gods decorated with layer upon layer of square sheets of silver and gold plate.  There are so many photos to take and so much to see, and through the foliage, I see the Chambal River.  From here, I can see that this river is different to the Ganges, which rages;  instead this is a lazy river, it moves as slowly as congealing blood, taking its time to journey around river bends.  It's a strenuous walk/descent, and fifteen minutes later we arrive at the riverbank, where a bright red boat and  two oarsmen are waiting.  Mist is rising off the river and cloaks everything in silence, and as the boat pulls away, all I can hear is the creak of the oars.  Our man is sat at the back hugging the two picnic baskets as if they were favoured children.  Gerald and I face each other, grinning, and that look passes between us again as we are rowed silently through tropical jungle 'This could be Africa!'   Ninety minutes later we arrive at a swinging bridge which spans the river, it looks precarious but there are women walking across it and people bathing beneath it.  We sail past an island, along a tributary of the Chambal called the Bamani River, and along the length of the fort wall, which is partially submerged in water. There are hundreds of birds;  white throated kingfishers, their blue feathers a stark relief against the thick green jungle foliage, pied kingfishers and a large colony of fruit bats who take flight when our oarsmen shout and bang the sides of the boat.  I feel a flash of anger, this is their territory, we have no right to disturb them, and I try to explain this to them, but they do not understand me.  We hope to see a mugger (a crocodile) but see only a mighty splash as one hits the water as he leaves his 'hole' (rather like a wombat hole in Australia and something African crocodiles do not habitat) and when the water settles we see a pair of eyes floating just above the water.   There are lots of monkeys with very long tails, much longer than those of African monkeys, swinging through the trees so fast, that I cannot photograph them.   The boat stops and our 'Man' serves tea and biscuits from his British baskets, we sit and drink it without speaking, and I feel the peace of the morning rest gently on my skin.  In the distance I can see Our Fort and Our Palace rising high above this river, and from this vantage point, the enormity of its length and breadth becomes evident.   

 

I could sit here all day, but its time to head back to shore, and its a slow climb up the ravine as we stop several times to take photographs.  At Our Palace, Satish is cleaning his car in the courtyard, he says its a job which will take him five hours.  Five hours?  He says "This is my job Maam" then takes Gerald aside and whispers that he has bought him two large beers which are cooling in his ice box in the car.  "When you need them Suh, tell the 'servant' you need your driver, and I will come."   Satish is a man you want on your team.

 

With aching legs we climb the stairs to the rooftop for breakfast, and  I feel guilty when I think that our 'retainers' have to climb five narrow flights of steep stone steps to bring us our food, and they are up and down constantly.  Water?   No problem, and off our server goes.   Sauce?  No problem!    More coffee, Suh?   Up, down.  Up, down.  No wonder they are all so slim.  This is where the guests eat as this is where the breeze is, and this is where we breakfast on papaya, green pancake, the lightest of omelettes, served with fresh juice, green tea and coffee.   I make up a tray of toast, marmalade and fruit for Satish, as I think he may not be eating well, but he insists they are providing him with breakfast, lunch and dinner, so I return it to the breakfast table. I ask about his accommodation, and only when pressed, reluctantly admits that his room is hot and stuffy.   I offer him my fan but he says "No thank you Maam.  I am fine."  And he gives an Indian nod.  The matter is finalised.

 

I sit for some undisturbed hours in the rooftop alcove, writing.  If ever there was a place on earth to write a book, this is it.  I drink two big pots of tea and add two pots of boiling water to make it go further, and enjoy a pre lunch gin and tonic with a bucket of ice.  I gaze down at the river through ramparts overgrown with greenery, and I think about the soldiers who once lined up here with cannon balls. But now, green parrots chatter and chase each other whilst flocks of swifts dive and swoop, and then all is silent as a majestic eagle soars overhead, his wingspan as big as aeroplane propellers.   It's just me sitting here quietly, and this gives courage to the squirrels, who are running back and forth across the walls, and one is daintily eating a piece of apple we left him.  He is perfect, child's picture book, such a tiny slice of life, making his way in the world.  There are no pigeon chasers here, so there are many, their coo-ing as sweet and soothing as a Mother's lullaby.  One has spread her wings out on the hot stone, I imagine she is having a sauna, when a male arrives (I know their gender because my Bird Man Husband told me) and chases her off, reclaiming the spot for himself, then spreads his wings in what was her sauna.   Sound travels so far that I can hear women talking and laughing and smashing their washing on the rocks on the other side of the river, and I hear the dim noise of traffic and the sound of music being played in buses on the bridge faraway.

 

Gerald arrives and so does lunch, so I have to make room on the table next to my IPad for curried mutton, rice, naan, dahl and vegetables.  I have been in Writers Heaven all morning and could sit here for the next six months and write, something I suggest to Rajveer when he arrives to tell us two more guests are arriving later today.  He beams, and says "Yes Maam!  That will be good for me!  Ensure you tell all your friends!"  It seems only minutes since breakfast, and we eat very little.  We have a cold beer instead.   

 

The prospect of air conditioning and a siesta in the big white bed calls us.  It is only 34 degrees but feels so much hotter, yet apparently, we are heading into the cooler months, so I cannot imagine how hot July gets.  I wistfully recall the cool, blue water of the pool at the Taj Palace yesterday morning and I have a cold shower instead.  The walls are dotted with pale gheckos and reminds me of Lombok, and fall asleep to the peaceful sound of chanting from a nearby temple.  Ten minutes later I awake to a loud crash. Gerald has fallen asleep reading on his I pad, which slipped on to the stone floor, and the screen is cracked. 

 

At 4 pm, Gerald takes me on the same walk he did this morning whilst I was writing, through the village inside the walls of the fort.   He returned wet with sweat and a dozen stories of what he had seen and done, and now he wants to show me.  He photographed a tiny lady, in a red sari who was hand stitching a small toy.  Did you buy one, I ask.   No, but we can go back.  The heat of the narrow cobbled streets and the stone houses rise around us like a sauna, and each house painted a different vibrant colour;  its like Bokaap, the Malay area  in Cape Town, and complemented by the bold colours of the saris of the women.  Children call out 'Bye Bye!" as we sidestep cow poop, goat poop and dog poop and pig poop.  There are pigs all over the place, and a huge mother pig lying in the shade next to a house with six of her piglets fighting to suckle at her teats.  I laugh out loud at the dogs who look very well fed and lie in regal positions on high steps and ledges, gazing down on us minions with disdain.  There are white and brown and black Brahmin cattle who have distinctive humps and commandeer the road, they have right of way and they know it.   

 

Women have set up small stalls and are selling vegetables and I watch as other women buy small quantities, just enough for tonight's dinner.  There is a lot of laughter and chatter, this little market seems a companionable place to be.  Gerald is trying to find the tiny old lady in the red sari, but thinks he may have lost his way as we've looped back to almost where we started from.  I suggest he shows the photo in his camera he took of her this morning to a woman standing in a doorway, and she smiles excitedly and directs us to her house just around the corner.  The lady we are seeking stands in a doorway with her back to us and a baby on her hip;  I cannot believe how small she is, she is half my size.  Gerald calls a greeting and she when she turns and sees him, face lights up in recognition, she is clearly excited, and hands the baby to a younger woman, who we discover is her daughter.  We bow and smile and Gerald introduces me, saying "My wife!  My wife!"  Using sign language we ask to see the toys she was making this morning which takes time as nobody here speaks English, but eventually we get the message across.  She nips into an adjacent doorway and returns with a small hand stitched decorated horse made of white fabric, and stuffed with hay.  It's beautiful.  I clap my hands in delight and she beams a toothless grin, which she quickly covers with her hand.   We attempt to communicate that we would like to buy it, would that be possible?  But this takes even more time and they wave their hands, which looks like a 'no.'   I reluctantly hand it back, but she hands it straight back to me, perhaps we can buy it after all.  Gerald takes out some money, but she looks mortified and shakes her head in a definite 'no no no!'  She does not want any money, it is a gift.  My heart has begun to crack when she disappears briefly and brings me another horse, with a silent and universal 'take it take it'.  I am so moved by the generosity of this lady who lives in the humblest of homes;  we cannot possibly take the horses without paying her, so what can we do?  How can we pay?  She shakes her head again 'No money.'  Gerald has a flash of insight.  He smiles and points to her grandchild then holds the money out to the babe, who reaches for it with a loud sigh, and everybody laughs.   We all recognise that this little one is a budding businessman, so Gerald adds a generous wad of notes to the transaction.  A large interested crowd has gathered to watch;  so much has occurred here in the last twenty minutes, I feel so emotional and humbled and happy.  I hold those little horses to my heart, and bowing, I clasp my hands in namaste to the tiny lady in red.  She reciprocates and smiles her gummy grin, and I mime 'Will you pose for a photo?'  The crowd roars in agreement, for this brief time she has become an Important Person in the village, and all her kids and grandkids are grinning with pride watching her pose with the white lady as Gerald takes several photos. I bow in thanks and turn to leave when she places her hands on her forehead, then her heart, before bending to touch my feet.  don't know how to respond, although this happened to me years ago in Nepal when a teacher I trained asked to kiss my feet.  I feel so undeserving, so humble, so shocked, so white and so superior.  She rises and I start to cry and she looks alarmed, so I put my arms around her and hug her tight, her body feels like a tiny bird, but she hugs me back with surprising strength.    

We pose for even more photos as the whole family line up to shake our hands and farewell us, she has become a celebrity this afternoon in this village. Her name is Gumbanji and I will never forget her.  We walk back up the hill to the Palace in silence, we cannot put into words the magic that happened today. 

 

We're drenched with sweat and have another shower before heading out with Satish and Akir for the Badoli Temples Complex which is 8 kms away along an asphalt single lane pot holed road.  A hair raising split second decision has to be made when oncoming traffic approaches about who is going to leave the asphalt, and the drop to the side is significant.  Satish is an excellent driver and his tyres take a hammering as he leaves and returns, but he doesn't actually leave the road very often.  He explains "Maam, we are carrying VIP's, everyone must get off the road."  Really?  "Yes indeed, Maam.  Our vehicle says so."  It is true, it says "TOURIST" on the side.   

 

There are tractors spewing diesel pulling trailers with mountains of slate and rock, their exhausted shock absorbers struggling with a load two or three times more than it was ever destined to carry. There are enterprising yellow tankers carrying water who travel to these remote villages where people line up to purchase a bucketful.  Can we begin to imagine what that must be like?  There is a very, very pregnant pig eating a mound of garbage and a pair of dogs stuck in the act of copulation, who we see in the same position on our return journey an hour and half later. 

 

A young girl smiles and waves at us, and Satish tells me she is married and asks me to guess her age.  Fourteen?   Yes.  He tells me that he and his wife had an arranged marriage and had never seen each other before their wedding day;  he is only 41 and already has two daughters, a 21 year old and a 16 year old.   He speaks candidly.  "We learned to love each other.  Even today, Maam, when I am running busy to get ready for work, she is following me and putting food in my mouth."   This is love in action, and I understand.  He asks about our son, and is visibly shocked that at 39, he has a girlfriend but is not married. He asks "Many girlfriends, like Krishna?"  How many girlfriends did Krishna have?  "16,000 girlfriends."  No, not that many.  He consoles me "But perhaps we can pray for a wife?"  Maybe.

 

When we get to the town where the temples are, it looks pristine and appears uninhabited, the cars are upmarket, and there are many grand modern residences, one with a two foot high gold lettered sign above the portico, announcing "The Shree Ram Residency."  Clearly Mr. Shree Ram is doing well, and unafraid to display his wealth, as is the nearby "Denys Mansion".   This is at the other end of the scale compared to  what we have seen this morning.

 

Here is what our itinerary tell us about the Temples:

 

"The Baroli or Badoli Temples are a work of architectural brilliance.  Though the history of the Baroli Temples is not very clear, they are reported to have been built during the Guriara-Pratihara Empire in the 9th/10th/11th Centuries.  British historian Col. James Todd, in his Annals and Antiquities of Rajasthan (which is a compilation of the History of Rajasthan) wrote that these temples were built by the Huns who ruled this area during the 9th century AD.  They are one of the earliest temple complexes in Rajusthan.  A carved stone image of the God Nataraia was stolen from the Baroli temple complex in 1998.  It has been traced to a private collector in London but the statue has not been recovered so far."

 

We reflect on this behaviour and Satish says "There are bad people who want to make money" and I reply that I think that is very bad karma.  He laughs and says "Not everyone has a kind heart like you Ma'am.  Now he is rich.  But he lives with bad karma!"  Something in the way he says it has me wonder if he thinks living with bad karma was worth being rich for, and it wouldn't be hard to do, as there are priceless relics lying all over the ground.  A peacock struts by displaying his magnificent tail feathers, there is a chorus of birds singing, and monkeys chatter and leap over each other on the walls.  These are not the black faced monkey, different to the ones we saw this morning;  these are rhesus monkeys, more like our African monkeys, and have tails of normal length. 

 

These temples are dedicated to Shiva and are a different design to anything we have seen before; the detail is so intricate and looks as perfect as if they have been patterned and stamped out of a machine, yet each piece has been hand made. They must have had a major incident and fallen down at some point, as even to my untrained eye I can see that some stones have been replaced incorrectly, and there are places where a quick repair job has been done by piling a stack of stones to hold up a vulnerable section.  Decades of neglect and weather and theft are apparent;  its a gruesome scene and there are bodies without heads, elephants without trunks and legs, limbs, broken statues, heads, columns smashed into pieces, and piles of rock and stone everywhere.  It's vile treatment of a national treasure, and my heart aches for the loss of something so precious.   To cheer us up, Satish takes us to visit Shiva, where there are numerous rows of glorious linghams and yonis, and in one temple we see a lone lingham.  I ask Satish why.  He says sadly "Someone has stolen his yoni."  I say I think it is a sad thing when a lingham has had his yoni stolen, and he guffaws.  We put some money into the donation box for Shiva, he certainly needs all the help he can get, and are blessed with a sandalwood bindi between our eyes.

 

We leave this amazing place and back observing life from my seat in the car,  I am still astonished at the vibrancy and colour and the friendly faces everywhere.  An old man, skinny and dark skinned, walks by, wearing a white dohti and a huge orange turban.  "That is the colour of the farmer" says Satish.   I am clad in orange from head to toe and I suggest that I must be a farmer too.  "No maam, there are different oranges."  I shall keep my eyes open.   Satish tells us that those turbans are nine metres in length and are used for many purposes:  to keep the sun off the head, as a towel, as a sleeping sheet and as a tent. The dohti are the white wrap around pants, in either two or three metre lengths, and and depending where you live in India, are tied in many different ways.  

 

Thankfully it has cooled down, and back at Our Fort in Our Palace, we sit on the vast Arabic/Italian/Turkish balcony and drink gin and tonic as I write. We climb to the rooftop terrace, where we sit in the dark, feeling and hearing, waiting for dinner. I am getting used to not seeing and every other sense is working overtime. The smell of  garlic and chilli tickles my nose, the candlelight glows golden, the call to prayer sends chills down my spine, I hear the mosquitoes and feel them in my hair and on my arms, but I am covered in mozzie repellent, and am not bitten.  

 

Dinner is served by three dignified men;  it's a relentless array of delicious food, and we eat enough to feed a local village.  To the great disappointment of our retainers, we do not eat dessert and despite their fervent pleas, we refuse to even look at dessert.  Their sadness is palpable, their hospitality has been refused, and they clear the table as solemnly as if a family member had died.  As we prepare to leave the rooftop, we see the only other guest who has arrived today, his travel partner was unable to make it.  We introduce ourselves to Christopher who is from Sydney Australia and has white hair and a young face.  He tells us he is here on a 'nostalgic journey' as he fell in love with India over forty years ago when he first visited the Taj Lake Palace.  This is his first time here at the Fort as its way off the beaten track and hard to get to, although he says its been on his bucket list for many years and has heard so much about it.  He is looking forward to the sunrise cruise tomorrow, and is delighted when we tell him what a glorious time it was for us.  He tells us he is from Queensland originally, and hopes to see some Indian crocodiles.  We share some laughs and a few travel stories before heading to bed. 

 

In my final shower of the day I realise that after twelve showers I have mastered the lights, the fan and these taps.  I now know the taps work in the opposite direction to most places, that the central control needs two strong hands to inch it to 'on', that the left tap is for cool and the right tap is so boiling hot it can peel skin off your flesh.   My Fort Training is complete and we leave in the morning.

 

 

Day 18 - 24th Sept 2016 - Shahpura - Shahpura Bagh

 

THE ARTIST, UNSCHEDULED TOILET STOPS AND A RHODESIAN RIDGEBACK

 

I wake early and enjoy a lengthy wifi session as I am uncertain if we will have the signal this good again.  On the rooftop terrace, overlooking the lazy Chambal River, we meet Christopher, the Aussie we met last night, and invite him to join us for breakfast where we sit under the Arabic looking dome.  The view is stunning and I am sad that we are leaving today and that he will become the sole guest in what was Our Fort/Our Palace, which will now become His Fort/His Palace.  He is a compelling story teller, a charming man who is at ease with people, accustomed to an audience and apparently an artist of some renown.  He is also a veteran of India, having been here over a staggering thirty times.  In the seventies, during his 'hippy phase' he travelled through Asia for many months using the  "Asia on $2 a Day" bible as his travel guide, and at the end of his stay in Thailand, he learned that in Udaipur India, you could stay in an amazing island hotel where you could blow your budget;  he was sick of living on the smell of an oily rag and decided to come.   He arrived at the Taj Lake Palace at 5 am with four beauties from New York who wore expensive clothing and jewellery;  he wore board shorts and long hair.  It cost him $35 a night compared to the $2 a night he had been paying in Thailand but they were the only five guests there, and he was introduced to a lavish world he never knew existed.  He was shown to a beautiful room which he fell in love with, a room which became 'his', a room he has returned to many times over the last 45 years, and although today it costs him a great deal more money, he feels he belongs there, that he is truly 'family' there.  

 

I am spellbound, sitting in that rooftop setting listening to this man speak.  He tells us the story of the death of his lifelong companion four years ago, and recalls intimate moments and emotions in vivid detail, his eyes redden and his breath catches, we are there on the kitchen floor with him as he holds his dying partner;  he is clearly still deeply grieving the death of this man.  When he finishes, a respectful silence descends.  I am moved to tears;  I take his head in my hands and kiss it several times.  His eyes fill with tears "Please don't make me cry", but he is already, and Gerald says, "That's good.  Cry."  We sit and hold hands and talk in quiet tones, we are the most intimate of friends who met just last night. 

 

Life and time are highlighted when a farewell is imminent, and before we leave, he wants to show us a magazine, produced by the Taj Lake Palace more than twenty years ago, which explains ts history.  The last chapter is devoted to Christopher, and highlights his many paintings which were selected to be hung there, and I am astonished at his work.  Its Miniature Art, which you may recall is not necessarily a small painting - actually this is on a lavish scale - with work so tiny and detailed, you can see individual eyelashes, nails and hair, which Christopher has not only painted but also told a mythical story which explains the scenes depicted.  The work is meticulous, and filled with humour, debauchery and curiosity. One called "The Polo Team, Detail" features crocodiles and naked men, another has more crocodiles and a surreal likeness of the Taj Palace, "Rani Boolaboy's Baths" and "Rani Boolaboy's Babies" and a very whimsical "'Lady Chatterji's Chopper" which depicts a helicopter landing over mountains and terraces.   I understand why Christopher wants to see crocodiles;  perhaps he'll paint Gerald and I and the crocodiles in The Fort.  The magazine is called "Mischief in Miniature" and it's cover line says:  "Miniature paintings have been around for hundreds of years. Glowing, jewel-like, full of incredible detail, they have been prized possessions.  One dark and starry night twenty years ago, Australian artist Christopher Boock visited the Lake Palace Hotel. So inspired was he, that he started a new whimsical gorgeous trend ..."

 

I could listen to him talk all day long, but Satish is waiting, so we promise to connect when we get home. We have a four hour drive ahead of us to Shahpura Bagh,, and we are already late. Four hours, yes, I have heard that before.  Satish insists "Maam, Our Standard Departure Time is 9.30 am";  he is military trained and precise.  We leave twenty minutes late after a rushed farewell to Charming Christopher and the Royal Rajveer.   As we leave, we meet Raj's older brother who also lives here.  The brothers hare the same dignified royal bearing, and he wears the dhoti and kurta. He seems to be particularly pleased to converse with us and enjoys the opportunity to use his excellent English.  It seems to me that older people appear 'honoured' to be in the presence of white people, their faces light up in pleasure to be in our company, I feel awkward, but he is delighted with this brief exchange;  perhaps it is a a hangover from colonial days. 

 

Before we leave, Gerald places some money in the Staff Affection Box.  I love that name.  Yes, I feel very affectionate towards the staff today, so I shall place some money in the Staff Affection Box.  Why thank you, ma'am.

 

A road trip in India is not to be missed, but you need an excellent driver, which Satish is.  Apparently traffic lights are 'just a suggestion', as are zebra crossings, and it is terrifying but entirely acceptable for buses and trucks to hurtle down the wrong side of a four lane highway, heading directly at you.  'But it's OK maam.  We accept.'  This country is also a photographers heaven, there are a hundred photos begging to be taken in every direction, and the sights and colours smack you in the face, so much life and vibrancy and poverty cannot be ignored, it's breathtaking, it's amazing, it's heart breaking, it's delightful and it's exhausting. There is so much to see and experience;  in Australia we would drive a thousand kilometres from Sydney to Melbourne on a multi laned immaculate highway, have a couple of toilet stops and eat some food, take a couple of photos, and arrive tired but unchanged.   Here, travelling just a few kilometres presents you with so many life altering experiences and sights and emotions, you have to take shelter. and recoup.  

 

We see plentiful wildlife and birds, and as Satish and Gerald are both bird men, they are able to identify every species between the two of them.  Shrike, egrets, kingfishers of several types, Indian rollers, green bee eaters, drongos, sparrows and swifts.  We stop the car to photograph all kinds of monkeys, rhesus, black faced and pink faced monkeys, many with babies, sitting on stone walls at the side of the road;  Satish says they want bananas.  Today is Saturday, which is fortunate for the monkeys as Tuesdays and Saturdays are Hanaman Days, which is the day that people feed the monkeys as a tribute to the monkey God.  So these monkey families know what day of the week it is and are waiting for food, how clever is that!  Sadly, we also see dead leguans about fifteen inches long and hefty, and Satish laments that drivers go too fast, and fail to see these lovely creatures.  We see a large dead donkey, and many dead cows, dogs, goats and sheep. There is a woman herding goats, she is tall and slender with the posture of a ballerina, like so many women here.  The goats are walking in an orderly fashion except for one rebel who is recalcitrant and determined to do his own thing;  she looks harassed and is having a hard time getting him into line.  I think briefly about the people I know who behave like that goat, then see a cow I identify with, she is a beautiful caramel colour but has white spots as if someone has thrown a bucket of bleach at her.  A cow with vitiligo, like me. 

 

Satish and Gerald engage in non stop conversation, but from time to time I fall asleep.  I awake to hear them discussing Satish's next guests who are coming from Europe.  I ask who his favourite guests are, which country they come from.  He is discreet, gives an Indian nod and says "All, Maam, I like them all."   A short while later he confesses that sometimes the English think they are 'The Royalty, and not friendly - but that is OK, maam, that is just their way.' 

 

There were major floods here recently, and the roads are in a shocking condition.  We see dried grass and garbage stuck way up in trees and on posts, whole bridges and sections of road washed away, pot holes big enough to drown a cow in, in several places water still floods the road, which Satish navigates expertly, there are unexpected detours, metres of mud and piles of broken roads and rubble everywhere;  it looks like a scene from a Mad Max movie.  To add to the chaos, there is an absence of road signs, and even ultra prepared Satish has to stop for directions, whilst dealing with sleeping cows on the road, and huge trucks speeding directly at us who make no attempt to avoid us.  Satish handles it all, but it takes a certain strength, some might say stupidity, to be a passenger in a car here;  Gerald rides shotgun and has worn a hole in the floor as he keeps applying the brakes. 

 

Its a long journey, but there is plenty to see.   We are in farming country, and its a riot of colour;  we are surrounded by crops of sesame seed, mustard seed,  rice, bananas and mangoes, of which there are144 varieties.  A motorbike driven by a man wearing a vivid shirt purple overtakes us, we pass a group of women wearing saris of red, yellow, pink and orange, there are men in white dhotis and orange turbans alongside the deep petrol green of flood waters, the garish painted buses belch greasy black smoke, they have people hanging out the doors and windows, and others who sit on top, and mud splattered tractors playing loud music, decorated with flowing coloured ribbons and flowers.  There are french blue tents at the side of the road and gypsies living in makeshift houses with piles of steaming rags on their roofs.  Motorbikes often carry four or five people, and I see man riding confidently along holding his safety helmet in his hand.  'Just in case he needs it!' says Satish.  

 

The recycling men carry the biggest burdens on bicycles and motor bikes which can scarcely be seen below the towering mass of tyres, plastic, bottles, bags and wood, which is at least four times the size of the man and the bicycle;  it looks like some prehistoric creature making its unwieldy way down the road. There are large beehive shaped structures made of woven grass, which Satish explains are 'for storage of animals'. 

 

The buildings here look quite different to those we have seen elsewhere, and what looks to be a cemetery but isn't as they don't bury their dead, just rows of fret worked concrete slabs which look like gravestones, set in a square.  Satish solves the mystery, they are there to protect the trees from the cows.  That is very extensive protection, I say, but doesn't the heat of the concrete dry out the soil around the trees?  'No maam'.  OK. 

 

There is an enormous truck broken down, its open tray overflowing with rocks and sand with another truck parked alongside of it;  a team of men are transferring the contents, spadeful by spadeful, from one truck to the other.  'It has to get where it is going Suh.'  This is labour intensive country.  

 

We see men on motorbikes laden down with six or seven huge shining brass containers, carrying milk.  There are children dressed in immaculate school uniforms going to school and coming home from school, as there are two sessions of school a day to ensure everybody gets to attend, they all wave and smile, and run to get their friends who may miss the opportunity to wave at us.  There are merchants selling samosas and naan and chipati and golden deep fried sweets, which look and smell delicious but Satish reminds me 'They are not for your tummy maam'.  

 

There is more rubbish and garbage on this stretch of road than we have seen since Varanassi, it shocks me and I try to avoid focussing on it, as my stomach churns.  We make our way through a large town, Kota, and Satish tells us proudly that they are building a vast new bridge which should help the traffic, which is very bad, but the drivers all give way and smile.  I tell Satish that in Sydney if you make one small error someone sits on their horn or gives you the finger, and he nods.  "But here in India maam, the guest is God."  Excuse me, Satish, I didn't get that?  "The guest is God, maam.  Everybody in India wants our tourists to have such a happy experience and holiday here, so we all try to make it happy for you.  You are the God.  You bring money to our land, and buy flights and hotels and food and buy things, and we are very happy about that."   Another humbling moment.

 

There are dozens of men standing peeing, not trying to hide they fact they are peeing, or seeking a tree or a bush to pee behind, but just standing, peeing.   I peed just before we left this morning, and within two hours was anxiously hoping to find a toilet, but here are no 'facilities' on these roads, and every bush has either a cow or a human behind it.  Our hero Satish finds an Indian Oil service station, which is basic but mostly clean, and my hand sanitizer saves the day.  Two hours later I am in the same predicament, but this time, there is no Indian Oil service station and Satish is devastated he cannot provide me with a facility.  The bumping of the road and the shrill voice of the American lady on the GPS are making matters worse, I feel I am going to pee all over the back seat, and I command Satish to pull over. Gerald opens the front and back doors as Satish discreetly moves away and lights a cigarette, I squat with my bum on doorframe and in great relief, pee into the mud. I see nobody, but I cannot guarantee that nobody sees me, because there are always eyes.  I envy Gerald who has a bladder the size of a large bucket and never has an urgent need.  Not only that, but he can poo on command, before or after an event, during a two minute TV commercial, between phone calls, or just when it's convenient, a skill I am deeply desire.  I never know when I am going to want to poo, and when I do get the message, its urgent, and I need to poo now, and I'm grateful that we haven't yet had to address that issue in India.

 

India is a well kept secret, with so much to see and do, so much history and culture and beauty, yet Christopher remarked this morning that he felt it was a shame that many people do not visit India because they are afraid.  It's true that so many news reports, books and TV shows present a dangerous, unsanitary and chaotic place.   Yet not once have we felt threatened or in danger and we have encountered only the most gracious of receptions, in the most luxurious establishments and also in the poorest of villages.  We often try to make comparisons to Africa, which is ancient too, but Africans did not build on the scale Indians did;  you could spend the rest of your life discovering beautiful things here.  Africa has wide scale poverty too, but this surpasses Africa, without doubt.  There is accommodation and food to suit every price budget, places of unimagined beauty, and always a friendly welcome.  I urge you to come. 

The journey takes us four hours and forty minutes, longer than expected, not surprising given the roads. 

 

Finally, FINALLY we arrive at our destination, Shahpura Bagh. This Palace was built in 1621 and is the home to some of the Royal Family in Rajasthan.  We meet Sah out walking his three dogs, shortly  after we arrive.  His dog walker has the dogs on a leash, and when I approach smiling and extending my hands, Sah instructs him to release them, is a 2 year old Rhodesian ridgeback called Zula, who is playing with a long peacock feather, an overweight black Lab called Folly, and a white and brown spotted dog, called Dali (after Salvador, he explains.   Zula, the Rhodesian Ridgeback sleeps on their bed, Maya tells us, so even a nine foot wide bed seems a tight fit.   He and Maya had Zula made a huge thick cotton mattress to put in a corner of their bedroom, and the local man who made it thought they were expecting another child and was very excited.  When he learned it was for Zula he was shocked.  Zula however, prefers their bed, and only sleeps on his mattress when Sat insists, and then, very reluctantly.  Sat is very tall and lean with a handsome face and large moustache, of Royal bearing.  We meet his wife Maya, who is almost as tall, she tells us she married into the Royal family, and considers this beautiful palace a place of value and beauty, which they now share with visitors from all over the world.  They are both more British than the British, says Gerald, they have impeccable English and all the nuances and humour of the aristocratic Poms.   Royalty, though.  They opened their home ten years ago in 2006, and Maya says they returned from Delhi to help run it, as their grandfather was not well.  I think she said that Sat was a designer photographer, but I shall quiz her more tomorrow.

 

The staff members here all come from the town of Shahpura and the surrounding villages.  The regions agriculture based economy region has few employment opportunities so the local people welcome the chance to work in this hotel.  The family have a policy that tourism should operate in partnership with local people, and ultimately provide employment and economic benefits for the community.  They train the staff themselves in every aspect of hospitality, food and beverage, garden, housekeeping, pool, general maintenance etc.  There are 35 members of staff here to take care of 18 guests.  But they emphasise that in spite of training, some of the staff may lack the 'polish and sophistication' of a larger city hotel.  "Please be patient if they appear to have difficulty in understanding your needs.  And please do not hesitate to ask one of the family members for help.  Please do help our family in our endeavours to provide employment with dignity to our village people."

 

I love that.

 

Let me describe this place.  There are two residences Nahar Nivas and Umaid Nivas on the 45 acres property.  We are in Nahar Nivas, where the royal family resides, and where all the meals are served.  Of course.  It is like being on the set of Upstairs Downstairs, in a vast English estate in the 1920's, the decor is an eclectic mix of Art Deco, refined elegance, shabby chic, the kind where you don't have to show off, there is confidence enough to have worn rugs and faded drapes, brightened up with floral cushions, crystal decanters, silver framed photos of family members playing polo in jodhpurs, walking the dogs, ancestors in huge frames on the walls.  Glass topped bevelled tables, binoculars and pictures of classic cars, a hat stand with hats of every kind and a large umbrella stand.  There are massive mirrors which measure ten feet by fifteen feet, and the ceilings are twenty feet or more by our calculated measurements.  Four small tables set for dinner with napery, silver and crystal in one of the ante rooms, and unexpectedly, a child's high chair - this is a family home, after all.  Jazz (BeBe King and Tracey Chapman) plays softly in the background, and several of our retainers hover. I fully expect Edward and Mrs. Simpson to arrive at any moment for a tiger hunt.  At the dry least, Maggie Smith.  There are antelope heads, plus a tigers head and a leopard head, in fact, it's half of their bodies - on the wall in one of the many elegant, restrained lounges, plus antelope and deer.  There are bottles of Bombay Sapphire gin and whiskey on silver trays, and ice buckets, ashtrays and matches thoughtfully placed for the after dinner cigars, and bowls of flowers. The drapes are drawn to keep out the heat of the sun, it's shadowed and there are shafts of sun where they drapes don't quite meet, and dust motes float.  It smells of vanilla and jasmine, frangipani and spices, and I am intoxicated, immediately. 

 

We are greeted by two men clad in white dhotis, who placed garlands of orange and yellow marigolds around our necks.  Our rooms are over what I have described above, through a cool darkened room, hidden by heavy drapes, and up a steep spiral set of forty stairs, surrounding a gigantic central column, all made of whitewashed stone, with the stairs painted terracotta, and each stair edge painted in gloss white - shades of Africa - it gives the impression of a large fan, unfolding.  They lead to a large mosquito door, and on to a vast, truly vast, white painted, porticoed terrace on three levels, and to the right up two steps, is our private terrace, and under a portico, cane sofas and chairs, in brightly printed cotton.  Double French doors open to a vast room, with chandeliers, fans, mirrors and ceilings which go up to the sky, an intricately patterned marble floor, and a bed nine feet wide.  There are four large sets of French doors which open on to balconies, covered with heavy floral drapes across mahogany carved rods, and a marbled bathroom as big as our bedroom at home, with two basins, a big bath, a shower, a toilet, and a bidet.  Oh I love bidets, you can use them for so many things. 

 

We shower, and we sleep, and we head for a walk through the grounds, where peacocks roam and climb trees.  I have never seen that before.  The pool is magnificent, blue and turquoise tiled with two enormous domed porticoes under each of which is large white mattress covered in cushions, there are flowers in pots and big blue striped towels.  The scale of everything is big, very big.  We immediately rush back to our rooms and change into bathers, and are in that pool in a flash.   Lying there on that white mattress, with a cool breeze drying my skin, drinking gin and tonic, watching the peacocks find a safe place to sleep is like a dream, and I pinch myself.  Gerald is doing laps, and one of our retainers is cleaning the pool in a hurry, he wasn't expecting us, and after the wind storm we just had, there are leaves in the pool, heavens above.  Maya is issuing instructions, and now there are four men removing covers and pool cleaning, fetching towels and more ice.  Within ten minutes it is picture perfect, the sun is setting, the pool lights come on, and candles will be lit all around the pool shortly. 

 

Dinner is at 7.30 pm, and we dine alone, on tomato soup, spiced cauliflower balls, a rich mixture of tomato and spinach which is divine, tandoori chicken, naan, rice, and a chick pea cake in a nut sauce.  Oh my word.   Dessert is the first one I have enjoyed in India, which tends to have a very sweet tooth, its a mixture of fruit in a creamy, somewhat sour sauce, and ends our feast decadently.  

 

We are in bed with the lights out by 10pm.   I leave  a candle burning in the bathroom, in a big crystal bowl.  The fans whir above, but we still need the air conditioner, which has a bright light which shines all night long, casting an eerie blue glow.  When I get up to pee I feel I am in a Sci Fi movie.  Tonight, I shall ask Gerald if he can find a way to hide.

 

Acacia trees and doering boem  galore, so so African. 

 

I have a small orange leather book I make notes of things I want to tell you, and trying to decipher what I have written in the back of the car on those bumpy roads is difficult. 

 

 

 

 

Day 19 - 25th Sept 2016 - Shahpura - Shahpura Bagh

 

MARMITE, ALI BABA'S SHOES AND AN UNEXPECTED ATTACK

 

Today is my brother's birthday, he will be sixty years old, and we have not spoken to each other for six years.  Happy birthday, Ian, my baby brother. 

 

I wake at 7.15 am in this beautiful room and Gerald is already on his computer.  I fling open four sets of heavy cotton curtains to the wrap around, whitewashed terrace.  love the curtains - they are a pale yellow with prints of tall orange canna lilies and they ten feet long.  "I wonder how many showers we have had in India?" ponders Gerald.  We are stamping our laundry like winemakers in the shower with soap suds, and hanging them on hangers to dry, another Groom cost cutting method of travel. All four tables are full at breakfast, and on each table are jars of marmalade, and a jar of Marmite.  As Vegemite is to us Aussies, so is Marmite to the Poms.  The sustenance of Kings and The Raj.  We eat pineapple, papaya and pomegranate, yogurt and cereal, Marsala omelettes and tiny jam pancakes, and a bowl of fluffy turmeric and chilli rice.  Both Sat and Maya come to chat, I wonder if I should bow, they are so friendly and informative and informal, both with a good belly laugh.  Sat roars with laughter telling us about the villagers, 'charming friendly and illiterate people, who nevertheless have worked out how to use mobile phones, and emoticons!'  His family work with local people who have severe medical problems, and recently sent two youngsters with severe issues to Delhi, to the best hospital, 'a hospital where our Prime Minister and his Ministers go'.  The doctor who treats the kids is a small, fierce woman, a highly experienced and educated doctor who chases off the Ministers if she thinks the kids need her more, 'she is quite frightening, despite her size, everybody listens to her.'  Gerald nods sagely, and points to me, "I know someone else like that" - and Sat roars again.  He has long strides and moves with purpose, now he is going to get me some history on this palace and this area, for my inclusion on my blog.  Maya suggests we may want to miss the "Farm Tour" given we have seen much of rural India already, but 'we must not miss' the Dhikola Fort and village tonight at 5 pm.   OK.  She is someone you automatically listen to, and she strides off as purposefully as her husband.  No wonder their Grandad was so happy with their return to run this palace. 

 

Sat finds us an hour later, by the pool.   I have found a small spot of shade at one end, and set myself up thus:  sitting on the edge of the pool, with my feet on an underwater ledge about a foot from the pool lip, I have placed a table IN the pool, with my I Pad and my keyboard and cup of tea.  Swathed in sunscreen and my hat, I write this blog. This is one of the nicest writing experiences I have had, the water temperature is like blood, and our retainers are at work in the garden. I could get used to this.  A couple arrive to interrupt this peace, large but quietly spoken, I nod and say "Tough life, huh?" but am unsure if they have understood, as they do not respond.  I continue writing and Gerald continues lapping.  Sah comes by, and engages Gerald in a conversation about the diversity of their guests, from all over the world. One young woman currently here has travelled solo, doing it rough, through Asia and India for six months without a phone or a computer, she lost a few, and gave up on technology, and survived to tell the tale.  Another woman was here recently, aged 68, with three Mongolian men whom she met whilst riding a horse through Mongolia last year for several months (her husband stayed home in Canada, not a lover of travel.). She had a reunion with this three Mongolian men here.   Another couple from Iceland just left.  How do they find out about it, Gerald asks me.  The same way we did, I guess.

 

The large young couple are back in the pool, and I hear them speaking, at first I think it is Dutch, but no, it is Afrikaans, from South Africa, and I go up to speak to them.  They are from Cape Town, my birth place, here for just two weeks, and headed to the Taj Lake Palace tomorrow, 'oh you are in for such a treat, I tell them.  They tell us about the problems they experience in South Africa, the burning of the schools and universities, the sense of entitlement they feel young black Africans have, compared to young Indians, and the massive problem it is.  They are only in their early thirties with no kids, and he is thinking long term, and wants to leave the country, they both have excellent skills in engineering and food biology, but she comes from a large Afrikaans family, and the thought of leaving them breaks her heart.  I tell her of our experience of leaving Zambia, how we did it as we knew we could never have a child there in that place of mayhem and murder and corruption and terror, and we went to Australia full of hope and trepidation, and that I cried an ocean for my mother and my father, my friends and my life in Africa.   And the washing, ironing, cooking and cleaning nearly did me in.  But oh God, I am sooooo glad we did.  He seems determined to leave, he is of German ancestry, he can go to that place tomorrow, but he says "There Germans are odd people, we think Canada or Australia would be the place for us."  We encourage these two and wish them well.   

 

We are off for a walk to the Shahpura old bazaar, and the Ram temple.  The sun is relentless, but it takes us only five minutes to get to the temple, dodging cows and goats, tuk tuks and buses.  It's a beautiful, painted pink place, with dome after dome after dome all painted delicately with images and flowers, we leave our shoes at the gate and are guided by an elderly lady in a sari to bow at the temples of certain Gods, and then she takes us to the top level where twenty or more brightly sari'd ladies are singing, whilst a young man films them.  We sit for ten minutes, but the sweat is pouring off us, Gerald's head is beaded with sweat and he is red faced, so I get up to leave.  Outside is a rare sight, a huge walkway with not a soul on it, even the locals are staying indoors to escape the heat, but as we approach the exit, a pretty young girl approaches and asks for a photo, her name is Poonam Maheswari, and she is so persuasive, that in three minutes we are face book friends, a fast worker, clearly.  We have all kinds of photos from every angle, and she is very very happy.  Then a group of young men, emboldened by Poonam, approach, may they also have photos?  So we pose with them too.  It seems rude of me not to take photos of them when they have taken photos of us, so then I have to take five photos of them too, but it's all good fun, lots of hugs and laughs, and typical of the generosity and warmth of this wonderful place. 

 

Dying of heat, we head back to the hotel.  Gerald stops to talk to Satish, our driver, who is very happy with his accommodation here.  He has been out and bought Gerald two Kingfisher beers, only 100 rupees each, about $2, compared to the 350 rupees each in the hotel, and he carries them sneakily in a bright Indian cotton bag back to our room.   Another Groom cost cutting measure.  I notice one of the staff is walking alongside a guest, carrying an umbrella over her head.  Only in India.   I order beer, (the ones Satish has ordered are not yet cold) a bucket of ice,  a dish of sliced lim, gin and tonic, and climb that spiral staircase, wet with sweat - my dress which I have had on for only an hour, is saturated and stuck to my skin, and I am exhausted.  There is a lady in a sari, crouched with her bum almost on the grass, painstakingly weeding, with a small tool.  There is an old fashioned push mower, at least forty years old, with its bucket full of finely chopped grass, and a man sat next to it, the lawn manicured to an inch of its life, talking on his mobile.  

 

Another shower, and another round of laundry stomping, a cooling drink of mosquito repellent, and a shared apple and banana, pilfered from breakfast.  (Yes, a cost cutting measure) - and a good lie down.  Oh, and this blog.   I sit on our terrace and drink tea, and it is hot, so I switch on the overhead fan, but nothing happens, I try every switch, every which way, with no result.  One of our faithful retainers passes by, and I ask him how to turn it on.  He too tries every switch with no result.  Puzzled, he calls someone on his mobile phone, and shouts at them for a minute or two, and somebody shouts back, I can hear it.   He goes back and tries all the switches again, with no result.  More shouting on the phone.  He goes back to the seven stitches and does something, and the fan whirs into life.  "What did you do?" I ask.  He nods his head and says "It will be fixed now Maam".

 

Clouds are gathering, it is the end of the monsoon - which has been 'very very good' we are told over and over - and it is hot hot hot, so we dash to the pool for a quick swim, the wind is blowing a gale, and our retainers are removing all the umbrellas and chairs in preparation of a massive downpour.  Gerald laps and I submerge like a hippo, but we leave soon for fear of a lightning strike.  Yet as suddenly as it whipped up, it's gone, and it's business as usual.  No matter, we are leaving soon for a tour to the Dhikola Fort, which stands apparently majestically on a hill, with magnificent views surveying a vast expanse of verdant green land and equally green lakes.  

 

There are two vehicles waiting six of us guests, one is a brand new white Mahindra Skorpio, and a beat up red 1980 Maruti Gypsy, like the one we travelled in at Bhainsrorgarh Fort with Ramveer.  It is rusted, it has no air conditioner, and the windows are rusted open, and I opt for this one for Gerald and I.  Whilst the the South African couple, and the mother and daughter from Australia travel ahead to the Ram Dwara Temple we visited alone this morning, our driver takes us to the Old Bazaar, past fruit and veggie merchants, and more cows than cars.  There is a man selling hand made leather Indians slip on shoes, many in a plain tan leather colour, and others of leather, but decorated with colourful cotton designs.  The shoe maker hands me several pairs which are way too big, and I have a huge foot for such a small woman, a size 8 Aussie, but even he misjudged the size of my feet, and eventually finds one smaller pair, which fit. I feel like Ali Baba in them, they have a pointed toe and a pom pom, coloured with green and orange and red and blue - and we cut a hasty deal with the aid of our driver.  400 rupees, about $8, and his kids are grinning their heads off.  "You must have some black car tyre rubber attached to the bottom Maam" says our guide "to prevent the hand stitching coming free.  Then you can wear  these splendid shoes for ten years."  That's a plan then, and just today, Satish returned my orange sandals which were repaired overnight.  I am in shoe heaven.

 

We bounce down a rutted dirt track where people are carrying huge loads on their heads, backs,and bikes - they are harvesting now, and the crops must be transported.   We make out way to that most revered of roads, the Toll Way, "This is a very good road Suh". There is chaos as trucks and buses and bikes and cars try to inch ahead of each other in the queue, to a filthy building with paint peeling off its walls, a grimy glass window, and a man with two keyboards and electronic equipment, and a small, hard working fan.  "He is a rich man" we are told, undoubtedly, I can see he has piles of notes stacked beneath both keyboards, little piles of coins scattered, and his till drawer is wide open, and empty.  "Maam, if I have lost my wallet, I can just come through here, with no problem, my friend will allow me because he knows me, I am a reg'lar."   Half an hour later we reach the Dhikola Fort, I am not expecting much after our sensational experience at Bhainsrorgarh, and we inch up tiny lanes crowded with water buffalo and kids, people everywhere screaming "Bye Bye" - and something I see for the first time, people blowing kisses to us!   I blow back, and they are very, very delighted.

 

This 250 year old fort was until the seventies a school for the local kids, and there are still the wooden frames of the blackboards attached to the fortified walls.  It is black with moss and age, there are turrets and ramparts, stone stairways, tunnels and secret passages, all overgrown with bushes and trees, and alive with mosquitos. It dominates the horizon, its walls ten feet thick, and we walk across uneven, broken cobble stones to a dodgy set of stairs, and then to a ladder of sorts, which takes us up to the rooftop.  No Occupational Health and Safety rules here.  The view is breathtaking, it is across verdant green fields and lakes, you can see to the horizon from every angle, and breathless, we pose for photos as the sun sinks.   Our faithful retainer, wearing a red turban, whom I noticed jogging by an hour ago carrying a Raj basket filled with wine and which I pointed out to Gerald.  "Wishful thinking, girl" he said, but it is true, he was making his way to this rooftop terrace just for us.  There is red and white wine, crisps, and oddly, cellophane bagged biscuits, two to a pack, as you would get in an Aussie motel, laid carefully on a plate.  All three couples pocket two packets, we are all going on a long road journey tomorrow, and we may need sustenance, and we are all it appears, in the business of cost cutting. We talk about African politics and sport, and the South African couple tell us that their elite teams are now not chosen for their excellence, but chosen so that each ethnic race is represented 'fairly', so there are equal numbers of black, white and coloured, and the people do not like it.  The black and coloured sportsmen who made the grade 30 years ago feel their excellence has been diminished, that choosing people on their skin colour is an insult to the people of South Africa, and I agree.  

 

It is getting dark, and we have to get down flights of the fort's steep stairs, and the ladder, and we have all had a glass or two of wine.  In the fort it is pitch black, and our guides switch on their I phones to light the way "Sorry but the lights are broken."  Luckily we all make it to the car without a death or an injury, we are friends now, having experienced this spectacle together, and survived the hazardous journey down the steps.  There is a smell of rain, there is a cool breeze,

 

Every time I experience something awesome here I think to myself that it cannot get any better, but it does.  

 

Dinner is waiting but we need a shower, I wear the silk kaftan I bought in Australia a year ago for $75 on sale, only now I realise it was made in India.  Maya comments on how beautiful it is, she sits and joins us for a chat.   I like her, she and Sat have an easy manner about them, taking time to talk to each guest, treating them like a friend of the family.  Our South African couple have hit the jackpot, and are sitting in a vast dining room at a vast table, all by themselves, with Sat holding court.   We dine at the same lovely table we did last night, but the other tables are full.  We acknowledge Maya and her family for the great work they do in the community, for the large tract of land they donated to the community and the large school they built, and she smiles modestly, saying "We can all help."  She tells us of her best friend, an anaesthetist, whose husband is a neurologist, he and his team do 7000 operations a month at a major hospital in Delhi.  When she saw the plight of the local villagers and the medical emergencies they faced, she invited these two for the weekend, and then took them to see what she saw every day.  The neurologist took it upon himself to take care of a man who had been incorrectly diagnosed, a poor, illiterate farmer, and ensured he got the right, and the best, medical treatment.  Since then, he comes every year with his anaesthetist wife, and they work for a couple of weeks locally.  He says "I have spent my life taking care of the middle class and the wealthy.  Now I want to work with the poor."  Maya herself works with a travelling medical group, complete with doctors, nurses, surgeons, anaesthetists, X Ray machines, Cat Scan equipment - they travel the country, and when they come here, she volunteers.   Her family have bought X Ray equipment for the local hospital here, and she speaks with humility and grace.  Good one, Royal Family.

 

We eat far too much delicious Indian food and as we leave, we see the South African  couple, finishing their meal at the grand dining table with Sat, and at his feet under the table, is Zula, the Rhodesian Ridgeback.  Without warning, the dog suddenly lunges at Gerald, teeth bared, barking furiously.  Gerald staggers back, and is saved from falling by the wall, he is shocked I can tell, he has never been attacked or threatened by a dog before.  Sat says "Oh, you scared him, you blew your nose."  What?  I walk away, and I hear my husband APOLOGISE for scaring the dog.   Back in the room, I check him out to ensure he is unharmed and ask hi why he was apologising?   "It's the South African in me," he says.

 

We leave tomorrow for Jaipur, our itinerary says - 'a 4 - 5 hour APPROX drive'.  I will need those biscuits and a plan for unscheduled toilet stops I reckon. Wish me luck.

 

 

Day 20 - 26th Sept 2016 - Jaipur - Rambagh Palace

 

JACOB, THE CHAMBER OF PRINCES, AND THE QUEEN TAKES A SWIM BY MOONLIGHT

 

Early morning mediation on our big bed and despite the two fans whirring above us, it's already very hot.  We sleep naked under a sheet only, and even that has to be removed.  It's cotton, but has the texture of a paper napkin, and rustles when we move.  Last night, Gerald stuck a piece of tape over the Sci-fi blue light on the air conditioner, so it dulled it just a little, adjusted it to a good temperature (he won't let me near that remote) and then he fell asleep before I did, and the job of Night Preparation fell to me.  You know by now that technical and mechanical stuff is not my forte.  Faced with three banks of switches, four sets of French doors, plus another lot for the bathroom, I approached my task with determination. After a few goes, I got the bedside lights off, a relatively simple task even for me, just a small switch on a three metre electrical cord.  The overhead lights too, after switching eight or nine buttons on and off, I succeeded.  I lit a candle in the bathroom just for fun, then decided to tackle the fans, which proved a challenge.  I managed to switch them both off and on, and one would spin at the right speed, but the other was spinning like a jet propeller.  When I got the second one at the right speed, the first one was spinning like a jet propeller.  No matter what I did, or how many switches I flipped, I could not alter the speed.   Defeated, I put the light out, and with the sound of the fan above me so loud, I had to adjust my ear plugs, and pin the sheet down under my chin and the pillow for it was flapping in the breeze.  Gerald must have awoken in the night and rectified the matter, as when I look up, they both spin in synch, very lazily.

 

Lying here thinking about Africa and what the young couple said yesterday, something I had not heard before.  She is Afrikaans, and when speaking to the Aussie mum and daughter, I spoke of the 'Afrikaaner'. He corrected me, saying they should actually be called 'Afrikaan' meaning  'White African' rather than 'Afrikaaner'.  We never got a chance to take this conversation further, but I wonder then what constitutes a white African.  I am a white African by birth, and so is Gerald, are we not? 

 

There is an absence of guns amongst the animal heads, polo chocks, fishing rods, binoculars, sporting equipment in the living areas down stairs.  Lot of evidence of the Sport of Kings, Polo - but no guns, I am happy to report.   But Maya tells us that Sat is a fine marksman, and recently won the National Championships for shooting.  I am aghast.  What does he shoot?   Maya snorts at my ignorance, "Targets!"   Oh, thank God for that.   Khan the young man employed by them to take us to the Fort last night speaks of them both very fondly, 'they are good people and help the community very much'.  He is an artist and when they saw his work some years ago, offered him employment to take their guests out on short tours, they pay him 10,000 rupees a month, ($200 Aussie) and he is able to set up his stall and sell his miniature paintings to guests, very generous.  Gerald offered him a trip on our return, which he gracefully refused, saying "Suh, please place it in the box for us all to share."   Now that is integrity, in this country of such poverty.  The South African couple are speechless, that would NEVER happen in Africa.   The Aussie girl says she left her jewellery out and when she returned, they had placed it carefully in a little jewellery box, a gift to her.  The Africans are wide eyed "There would not be a thing left in Africa."  True.  

 

I hate leaving this lovely place, and reluctantly pack.  I swim in the beautiful pool and we have a delicious breakfast, Maya and Sat come to sit and talk.  They are truly a charming couple, I think we could make a good friendship, I like their humour, their wisdom and their compassionate hearts.  I say so, and Maya says "Because we have so much in common."  I ask the fragrance of the diffuser in our room, I think it is vanilla.  No problem, Maya brings out a selection, and I think it is Indian Spices.   She gives it to me, and I resist, but she insists, 'please take it.'  This is what I mean about the generosity of the Indian people we have met.  From a member of the Royal family to an illiterate poor Grandma in Bhainsrorgarh.  And yes, Sat was and still is a fashion and design photographer, and still takes on projects.  Their daughter at 17 is a champion horseman, she came second and third place in the India First equestrian events for dressage and hack, her father is a crack shot;  she goes to a strict boarding school, and tomorrow Sat is taking her to Delhi for some career counselling, like many kids in Australia she is uncertain what she wants to do, she is very bright, but does not wish to take over the family palace.  She is destined for a different life to her parents and ancestors, she will have her own say in whether or not she has an arranged marriage 'the option will be hers'.  Sat and Maya's marriage was arranged, the parents got the horoscope charts and they met only once before their wedding, and they have been happy for twenty years 'so far so good' says Maya with a laugh.  "The thing is, she says, you marry the family, not so much the man.   Even today, if Sat and I have an argument, my mother in law will take my side."   I really, really like this!!!   Maya's grandfather went to Sandhurst, and he married a woman whose painting he had only seen on a wall!   Apparently the grand old gent said to him "This is what my daughter looks like.  What do you think?" And he was sufficiently impressed to accept, and that too, was a happy marriage.   Perhaps I should put the word out that we are accepting horoscopes and see what happens. 

 

Both Sat and Maya apologise for the behaviour of Zula last night, it was unexpected, but they think she was being very protective of her Master, something Maya has witnessed in other Ridgebacks.  

 

We leave behind our glorious room and the colourful terrace, and Satish is waiting, the car is polished and we wave goodbye, I will never forget this place.  As we drive, Satish entertains us with anecdotes, and shows us the fourth volume of his testimonials, this man is acknowledged the world over for his professionalism, his humour, for going beyond the nine dots, and he is our guide/friend/advisor for twelve days.  How lucky are we with Satish Kumar?

 

One of his guests left a jacket behind, no problem, it was there when she returned two weeks later.  Another wanted to see a Bollywood movie, but the tickets were sold out, he has a friend who is the general manager of the movie house.   One woman would only drink one certain brand of water, as that was the first one she had when she arrived, and she hadn't been sick.  Satish explained that as long as the seal was unbroken, it was healthy water, but she would not be swayed.  He drove all around that town, buying up boxes of water, just so she could drink that brand during her entire stay.  They speak of his 'famous' sayings.   "Everything is possible in India."  "Good horn, good break, and good luck."   I love the musical way he speaks, excellent English coupled with things we cannot understand, and he nods his head and says "This and that and all."   I don't think there is anything we could ask him for, and he would not do a everything in his power to cause it.  I am humbled to be one of his guests, it is all OUR honour, but he thinks otherwise.  He finds me toilets, he chills our water, and every time I thank him, he responds as if it was what he was born to do.,  "As you wish, Maam.  My honour." He is a magic man, can do anything, at any time, with the utmost discretion and efficiency.  The best driver in all of India, the world, we are told.  I agree. 

 

We learn more about India as we travel.  Dowries are illegal today, but they still operate in a clandestine way, for example, "My son is an engineer, and we have spent a great deal of money educating him."  In other words, pay up, you will have a secure financial future with my boy. When Indian families have girls, they are considered poor, but when they have boys, they are considered rich. The men at the side of the road who appear to be speaking to themselves, are speaking to their water buffalo, water buffalo language.  "Come here, stay there, get off the road."   They understand this, Maam.  What we call a road hump in Australia is called a 'sleeping policeman' here.   There are times for eating:  breakfast can be 7 - 9.30 am.   But lunch is 'standard time' 1 pm - and for the banks, to 2.30 pm.  Dinner can be 8 pm onwards to 10 pm.   My sleeping time, I say.   Mumbai is the Chaiwallah capital of India, millions of meals delivered daily, with no computer, 'all in the head'.  He nods, but many people have different ways.  True, thank you Satish.   The man with the yellow turban driving a motor bike with his dainty wife whose arms are covered in bracelets, is a trader, a merchant. "Kamagari" in Rajasthan means "Namaste".  If you see a man without a moustache, it means his father has died.  

 

Today I see beautiful finely boned women in beautiful colourful saris, doing road work.  It seems to be that a truck has lost its load of grass, no says Satish, it is lentils.  They harvest the lentil plants, and lay them on the road for the trucks to drive over, and they are threshed this way.  Then in a day or so, they come and separate the pulse from the chaff.  How clever is that.  We see a man driving his motorbike in a very odd fashion, he is sitting on the petrol tank.  Satish explains, his back tyre is flat, and he needs to get it to the nearest repair place without doing to much damage to the rim of the wheel.  There are two men on a motor bike, between them a very large bright blue metal door.  Another bike, and two more men, carrying a huge sheet of glass between them, barely visible.  And we see a very, very bad accident, two huge vehicles, smashed to smitherines, a large black stain on the highway, there was clearly a fire.  "A night time accident" says Satish.   We pass a huge flatbed truck, which has no less than TWELVE brand new blue tractors on it.   There is a motor bike carrying so much harvest, you can scarcely see the bike, let alone the man driving it.   A lady walking with the posture of a ballerina, carrying two brass pots on her head, and one in her hand.  The larger of the two on her head carry 20 litres, the smaller 15 litres, and the one she is carrying is another 15 litres.   Just try that tomorrow.   I feed Gerald and Satish a biscuit, a banana and an apple, and we stop the car to feed the skins to a cow.  The first, a young one, is not interested. "Not a hungry cow" says our driver.  The next cow is hungry, and slurps up the banana skin he offers.  I cannot wait, and she takes it from me, her soft pink tongue and lips wrapping around my fingers.   Gerald grimaces, "I don't need any more food from those hands today."   Four beautiful girls, in matching pink saris, the uniform of a university.  We see a beautiful elephant, accompanied by four men wearing saffron robes, strolling through the traffic, like its a Sunday walk.  I leap out and take photos, and they mob me for money.   Satish says it's OK, the money is used to look after the elephant, so Gerald pays up.  Later, a handsome man, leading a camel along the highway, he poses regally, and I snap away.   We need to pay him too.  Fair enough, we want this camel taken care of too.    

 

And long ago, the British found it hard to say the original name of Mumbai, which was (and the spelling may be wrong, but phonetically it is so) 'Umche Mumbai' which means My Mumbai.  The Poms managed Bombay, and so it became that. 

 

There is a particular old vehicle here, completely made by hand, and it is called a Jugdahd. It can be a tractor, a passenger vehicle, a wagon, or a ute.  The basic element of the vehicle is a water pump, which is the engine, and powers the vehicle.  And every part of it is made up of bits and pieces from other vehicles, including gearbox, steering wheel, tyres, and wheel base.  Wood bits and iron bits are welded on, and it is highly decorated with flowers, streamers just like we would put on our Christmas tree, and balloons.  A happy vehicle.  As it is illegal, it cannot be registered and the driver does not need to be licensed, but in rural India, people turn a blind eye., and it's everywhere.   It makes a cute sort of pop-popping sound as it travels, as the water pumps through.  It reminds me of a Noddy car somehow. 

 

We are approaching Jaipur, The Pink City, and there are pink buildings everywhere.   The clothing on the locals are modern, and so are the cars and very smart, very different to where we have just come from.  There are a lot of metal workers here, and there are intricately styled gates of all shapes and sizes, along either side of the road.  "There are more than 10,000 jewellers in Jaipur" we learn, this is a rich city, and we see one jewellery shop which looks like a lotus flower the size of an apartment block.  There are shining showrooms selling flash motor cars, and Royal Enfield motorbikes, designer shops selling top end everything, and I see Bata shoe shops, which we had in Zambia.   Good shoes, I say.  "Yes ma'am, Bata sells good leather, Tata sells good steel and everything else." 

 

And thank you for your good wishes today.   My bowels co-operated prior to departure you will be happy to know, and I only needed one toilet stop to pee, we found an India Oil, and it was spotlessly clean.  

 

We are looking for a place to buy beer and tonic.  Beer is easy to find in local shops, but tonic is elusive, is called 'an energy drink' and only available in the English Wine Shops.  "Maam, that is a funny thing here.  They sell not only English wine but wine from everywhere.  But it is still called English Wine Shop."  The Poms have it here.   Satish goes to get the beer, and comes back saying that the English Wine Shop owner was a tad upset he didn't meet Satish's guests.  "He asked me where you from?  I say Australia.  He say he want to meet you.  I say to him, 'I work for him, he doesn't work for me."  And we all laugh our heads off.  Everybody wants to meet the tourists.  Poonam, the young girl who asked for a photo yesterday and made friends of Facebook has been messaging me regularly, wanting pictures of the inside of Shahpura Bagh, inviting us to her house, and sending emoticons.   I feel a little uncertain how to handle this, but trust that it will work out without disappointing her.

 

Satish is so happy for us to come to the Rambagh Palace, it is so lovely and you will have everything!  We sweep through the Royal gates and the manicured acres of lawns and rose gardens could be the Old Country, England and up a winding drive flanked by trees a hundred years old.  The palace, a pink majestic panorama which fills the skyline, with colonnades and turrets, tessellated balconies and terraces.  There are two Rajasthani proud and regal men, clad in Royal red and gold brocade, brilliantly moustached, carrying large red umbrellas tasselled in gold, to greet us and welcome us.  I feel sweaty and dirty but I am told "A Royal Welcome Ma'am!  Welcome to your Palace!" and rose petals shower down upon us from a smiling woman on a terrace, five feet above us. We are garlanded with sweet jasmine, handed a cool towel, and a pink lychee juice juice, pink being the colour of welcome.  And this is Pink Jaipur, remember.  Oh my word.  It's happened again.  I feel a mix of emotions, joy and gratitude and undeservedness and happiness, they truly look so happy to be doing this.  I am their Guest God, and here spending money, and they will make it absolutely wonderful for me. 

 

A representative of Mysteries of India meets us, a sombre man who intones rather than speaks, and he tells us about tomorrow, it's a Big Day, leaving at 9 am and back at 5 pm, that may not sound much, but in this heat and with the assault of language, culture, noise, and learning, it will be exhausting.  So we decide to spend the last few ours of this day resting in this magnificent palace, and do the whole big tour tomorrow.   We are shown the Moonlight Courtyard, a place the size of six football fields, around which this palace is built, the corridors are marble and pink and wide, the gigantic vases of brass and silver and marble and filled with exotic plants and set smelling flowers.  There are banks of crystal filled with lotus flowers, and staff arrayed in fine fabrics and all namaste-ing and smiling, classical music plays softly.  We are shown the restaurants, which include a Rajasthani fine dining, fit for the King and Queen of the World, oh my word, the decor and the decadence and one on the terrace which leads to an indoor dining, stuffed with cushions and crystal and napery (the informal one.) There is also a restored Colonial train in the grounds, which serves international and Italian food, not far from the spa and swimming pool area.  What a place this is.  We swim there after unpacking.  Sue Hobson, listen up.  This is Your Place in the world.  An Olympic size indoor pool, with domed ceilings and hand painted walls, softly lit from below, soft beds and crested towels, hand maidens for your bidding, golden fountains and a change room you could spend a month on holiday in, lounges, paintings, cool drinks a steam room and a sauna.  Outside, is a brightly tiled much smaller pool, surrounded by tropical plants, polished white stones, fountains, and a hot spa.   In the gardens live one hundred peacocks, and there are pigeons coo-ing.  As delighted as kids on a school outing, Gerald and I have a go in all of them.  Gerald has taken advantage of the showers where an attentive retainer offers him lotions and potions, hands him towels and treats him like the Raj he would like to her.  They offer to dry our bathers, but I say, I will place them on the balcony, she says 'that is a hot place maam'. She asks after our trip, and seems genuinely interested in where we have been and what we have done.

 

Our room, and I appreciate you may be getting bored with this, is enormous and quite spectacular.  There is an ante room with an amazing marble patterned floor, a large mahogany carved wardrobe, and a bar area.  There is a dressing table 'for the ladies' and a cute brocade stool, and a desk 'for the men'.  There you have it, the pecking order in India.  It is completely different from every other hotel we have stayed in.  The furniture is black with polished brass fittings and decorated with gold inlay, the walls are tromp de lei (spelling?) the floor is marble, the bed covered with brocade and the four posts are carved, the heavy mahogany doors are twice the size of a normal door in Australia, and heavily inlaid with brass, so heavy I need two hands to open or shut one of them, the lamps enormous and Italianate, with heavy satin shades, and there are two huge windows with deep heavy pelmets crested with the Coat of Arms of the Royal Family (and so does the toilet paper) and gold tassels, these lead to a balcony which overlooks the beautiful gardens where one hundred peacocks roam.  This is where we dry our laundry, careful to avoid the skyline, and so look like one of the local slums.  But the bathroom, oh my God, the bathroom.  The bathroom is so very OTT, Over The Top. There are three mirrored walls, all Art Deco and crystal and sharp edges, and if you stand in front of one, you can see yourself seeing yourself seeing yourself seeing yourself all the way to infinity, glorious back and front views.  All my gay friends would love this, it's black marble everything, my darling Graham Soljan would have been in heaven here, and alcoves, heavy silver taps and chandeliers, and there are two coach lamps the size of street lamps on either side of the central mirror. There are piles and piles of soft huge fluffy white towels, and when we return from dinner, someone has thoughtfully scattered the bathtub with rose petals, 'so Maam can relax.'  I could get used to this. 

 

It turns out we cannot work the air conditioning, so it's not just me.  Even my highly experienced technical support man cannot.  It is like a fridge in here.  A man comes and explains that there are not one, but two, aircons in this room.  He sorts the problem, and then says "I am sorry for that.  If is a problem, I can fix."  He takes responsibility as if he had personally caused this issue and it is now his life's work to ensure it never happens again.  

 

We have received an invitation on thick gold embossed paper to join the management for cocktails at 7 - 8 pm.  In the Chamber of Princes.  Somebody rings to double check we are coming.  So, I have to leave you now, and get gussied up to possibly meet a Prince.  My $5 black lace Vinnies jacket gets another outing, but you may recall, and I don't want to brag, but the Shah of Iran (a friend) did comment on its fineness.   There are people greeting us all the way down the corridor, and the Chamber of Princes is a silk draped, marbled, porticoed reception room, with many exquisitely dressed older Indian people with many jewels, regal men in turbans, who look extremely important and very wealthy - how did WE get in here? - and then a group of young Indians sweep in, chattering and waving their hands about, and the atmosphere changes immediately for the better.  We meet Matthew and Jill, the parents of nine year old Henry whom we met at the pool earlier today, and I invite them to join us.   Matthew has very, very black hair and eyebrows, which are at odds with his complexion.  They are from New Zealand and have been living in Shanghai for a year, working for a food company, where they have had an absolutely wonderful time, and are now on their way home. We are plied with canapés and are offered champagne, wine, cocktails and every kind of alcohol imaginable, served by impeccable staff in rich colours, turbans and tasselled jackets. Gerald is served a red Shiraz, a Jacobs Creek which costs a maximum of $12 at home, but costs around $200 a bottle here.  I think he drinks a whole bottle over 1.5 hours, and is very garrulous, I give him a look now and then, but he is in his cups, and having a wonderful time with a captive audience.  I have a gin and tonic, the first hits the spot, and the second must be a triple, I have to ask for more ice and tonic, but as you can imagine, I too am now feeling very genial, particularly as this is all free - and enjoying the conversation.  One of the general managers Ram Rathore asks to join us, a man who takes his job seriously, asking questions, ensuring we are well served.  I pity the man who whilst bending to serve Matthew toppled over a blue martinis which hit him full on.  Ram, whilst issuing cleaning up orders in a quiet yet formidable voice, is a force to be reckoned with.  I pity that poor retainer, who profusely apologies and is mopping Matthew from head to toe.  I find Jill interesting, she is at a time in her life and career when she wants to give back to the community, and she and a couple of friends are setting up something to support the disadvantaged.  She only met Matthew when he was forty, and she says, his mother was faint with relief when he met Jill and they married.  She too, laughs and says 'there is time for your son'.  India is determined to marry Joshua off.  Their son Henry has been learning Chinese and has become quite adept, but they lament that he won't learn the true accent, just a couple more years and he would be proficient in every way.  

 

I want to stay in the Chamber of Princes and drink more gin, or possibly champagne, or even Jacobs Creek, but we four are the only ones left, and Ram is looking a bit crossed eyed at Gerald's detailed description of our last five overseas journeys.  We are escorted by Ram to a table on a lawn, and I sigh.  The palace looks like a pink Buckingham Palace is lit with golden up lighting, there are two men drumming on the other side of the lawn, the air is balmy, and I have had several gins.  Life is good.  But it's late, we have been going all day and the alcohol has blunted our appetites and we have eaten so many canapés, so missing dinner at these inflated prices is another cost cutting measure.   We sit and drink Himalayan water and talk to Balram, our server, a young man also beset with a mother who is determined to find him a wife.  He tells us has has a girlfriend, but can never take her home to his mother, it has to be a secret.   This must be terribly hard for young people here.

 

I want to go for a swim in that gorgeous indoor pool again, this time with underwater lights and candles surrounding the marble walls, so we walk there in majestic, long, fluffy gowns, mine is made for a man three times my size, and it trails behind me like a train.  I do feel Royal.  I call beforehand to ask if it's OK to walk through reception, which you have to pass through as the pool is a fair distance away, 'of course maam'.  So we do.  My husband, who is never seen in anything other then full attire, strolls through this vast marble reception like a Raj. 

 

We are the only ones in the pool, it looks like a grotto, the lights are soft, the air is scented, and the water warm.   I sink into it, but my Raj gets to ankle deep, and retreats, screwing up his face, "Yoi Yoi Yoi! - that is toooo cold."  What a wuss.  He lies on the lounge whilst I swim up and down alone in the moonlight for twenty minutes, he is sound asleep.  That Jacobs Creek is responsible.  I wake him and we prepare to leave, when a faithful retainer notices Gerald is walking barefoot.  He dashes off and returns "Slippers for Suh."  Gerald stands on one leg and points the other out, whilst each slipper is placed upon his feet.   He would not be doing this were it not for the effects of good old Jacob I remind him, but he gives me a superior smile, and shuffles off daintily in his slippers.  We walk back to our through gardens and then through the sumptuous, fountained, marbled reception in our trailing gowns.  It is 10 pm but there are a large group of Italians checking in, half of whom turn to witness our procession across the floor. Gerald is OK with one retainer, but not an assembly hall full of tourists, he is embarrassed in his gown and slippers, and not enjoying this I can tell, but I stop, smile and bow.  They smile and several bow back, enjoying the humour and the fact that the Queen has acknowledged her subjects.  Gerald says, a tad irritated "Why did you do that?"  and I respond "Because I enjoy it."  

 

I wake up in the night, stifling, I think there could possibly be condensation dripping from the ceiling. I wake Gerald as per his instructions to do something about it - please bear in mind that Advanced Air Conditioning is not my forte.  He fixes it and falls back into a deep sleep, whilst I lay awake in the pitch dark.

 

 

Day 21 - 27th Sept 2016 - Jaipur - Rambagh Palace

 

SECRET SEX, A SNAKE CHARMER AND LOTS OF GOLD 

 

I have been awake for a long time and am grateful I can finally draw the drapes at 6.30 am and put the kettle on.  Gerald who was all gung-ho for yoga last night, is not now, so I go alone.  I am the only attendee, and they hastily bring a female staff member to join me in a white octagonal building, with an elephant patterned silk canopy beneath its domed roof.  There are two yoga mats laid out for us, and our yoga instructor is wearing all white.  He starts with a long series of chanting which I have never heard before, and my colleague knows all he words, so I hum.  He explains what we are going to do and the philosophy of yoga. 

 

These are some of his instructions:  Rilax.  Inhil.  Exhil.  Rilax.  We are going for the PORSTURE.  Let's go for the prahcess.  Try to maintain that PORSTURE.  Keep maintaining that PORSTURE.  You are thoughtless.  You are without a thought.  Nothing inside.  We are going for the PORSTURE.  Let's go for the prahcess.   Now we will start to breath.   Breath.   Breath.   Now alternit nahstril.  Left finger.  Left finger.  LEFT FINGER!  OK, starp that alternit.  Now we will chanting.  We are humming bee.  Now we are Capalbati, the stroomak must in and out.  Do not looking.  Shutting those eyes.  And try to maintain the PORSTURE.  Rilax.  Inhil.  Exhil.  Rilax.   He chants for a couple of minutes, and we end by lying in the dead man's pose, with a number of deep Ohms.  

 

I love it, and I love him.  Here I am in India, in this beautiful place, with a man devoted to his spiritual practise and no matter what he says, or how he says it, his beauty and his physical presence touch me deeply. 

 

We breakfast served by several men and one woman, beautifully dressed.  The men wear ruby red calf length jackets, with matching turbans which trail a five foot scarf down their backs, and white pants.  But they are somewhat sullen, unlike the Lake Palace and Nadesar Palace, who were sunbeams, these guys seem a little preoccupied and tired, and service is slow, although the food sensational.  The room overlooks a huge balustraded terrace, and has a jewel coloured floral silk carpet, there are heavily embroidered cloths and shining glasses, heavy cutlery and ornate chairs.  I place my bag upon the floor and the lady rushes over with a 'bag table', shocked to her core that my bag has touched the floor. 

 

We see the Aussie mother and daughter from Shahpura Bagh and greet each other like old friends, they too are travelling to Agra tomorrow, and staying in the same palace that we are.

 

At 9.30 am we are in the foyer to meet Dalpat, our guide for the day.  He is a tall, slim and handsome man, his left arm is in a sling, what happened I ask, he briefly explains, 'I fell from a horse.'  We learn later that he was playing polo, a sport he took up 12 years ago aged 44, he had just hit a chocka or a pukka or whatever it is called, and his horse narrowly missed the goalpost, but unfortunately Dalpat didn't.  He won't play for three months and is very disappointed. He walks like a horseman, as if he has just dismounted, a sort of slow rolling gait, he does not hurry;  he wears highly polished brown shoes, brown corduroy trousers, and a cotton shirt.  He doesn't speak much at all, he goes through the motions in a bored monotone and an expression which tells me he would rather be somewhere else, perhaps on his polo horse, instead me makes do by talking on his mobile a lot of the time. We notice that affable, talkative Satish is very quiet in his presence.   Something to pursue with him tomorrow.  I ask Dalpat about a statue in the middle of a roundabout, "Who is that?"  Briefly looking up from his mobile, he says "A freedom fighter," and returns to his phone.  A minute later he looks up and adds "Against the British."  

 

Jaipur is the state capital of Rajasthan and owes its name, planning and foundation to the Maharaja Jai Singh II.  In 1727 he decided to move from his hillside fortress at Amber to the plains, and thus Jaipur was conceived.   It is also known as the "Pink City", derived from the pink painted sandstone from which the buildings in the old walled city are constructed.  It was painted this colour, which is the colour of welcome, to honour the visit of Edward 7th.  The city is endowed with great architectural elegance and beauty, with magnificent historic palaces, temples, gardens, museums and an amazing observatory built by Jai Singh. (I have never seen anything like this place, Sam Hobson our godson, would be in observatory heaven.  The sundials tell the time so precisely, one to within two seconds, one to a minute, and the other is sixteen minutes behind the centre of India.  They are huge edifices, and there are hundreds of people, posing and taking photos, many alongside their Zodiac signs, so we do too.)

 

Despite his inability to relate, we enjoy the drive, we see buffalo swimming, cool in the waters, their heads peeking out.  The city is very well planned, placed in a bowl of land, and yes, it is pink, very pink.  We drive through one of the many city gates, there are 3.5 million people in Jaipur, and it is very, very busy.  70% Hindu and 30% Muslim, who 'most of the time get on well here."  It is also clean.  The King used a sort of feng shui to build it, and created a very structured lay out of the city, and then moved many people into street upon street of pink accommodation.  We stop for a photo opportunity of the Hawa Mahal, the Palace of the Winds, an intricate and beautiful structure which looks like a palace, but is merely a facade, built to impress, in the middle of the city. We drive out, we are heading to the Kings Palace, and drive past ten camels, lying at the side of the road, wearing colourful saddles and reins, waiting for tourists. Satish thoughtfully stops, he knows what I like to see, and I get out to take photos, the camels seem to be like me, and Gerald says he took a photo of me with the pretty one.  We stop for photos at a palace in the lake, which could be another Taj Lake Palace, 'many times the idea has come up, but nothing happens' says Dalpat.  The first floor is constantly underwater.  We see elephants trotting up the hill with their mahmouts wearing big turbans.  We are in the middle of a fairy tale. 

 

The Amber Fort took 600 years to build.  600 years.  It is seven miles from the city, in the rugged hills that surround Jaipur.  Here I am to take an elephant ride up the steep road to the fort (Gerald is clear he will not do this, he thinks the animals are treated unfairly and it is undignified.  But I have such a love for elephants in Africa, Nepal, Thailand and India, I succumb.   Anna Martin, take note.)  The ride will take me through huge gateways and pillared pavilions to the Rajput Fortress/Palace which was constructed in 1592 by Raja Man Singh II, and is a superb example apparently, of Rajput architecture.  Within the fort is Jai Mandir (Sheesh Mahal - Palace of Mirrors), renowned for its architectural designs using mirrors of varied shapes and sizes in the intricate design of its wall decoration.  

 

The place is thronging with people, it is International Tourist Day, and all the monuments are free today, and everybody in Jaipur is here.  There are dozens and dozens of people shoving stuff at us, wanting us to buy, persistent but we have been told not to look and not to say a word.  I am tempted when I see a man selling the most beautiful peacock feather fans, and he catches my interest, I have to quickly look away.  I cannot take it back into Australia anyway.  But we are here for the elephant ride, and press on through the crowd.  There are twenty elephants lined up - and many of them appear to have vitiligo, kindred spirits - and hundreds of people waiting to ride them.  I feel pangs of guilt, and I say a prayer to the elephants of the world, and the one in particular who will carry me. I do not wait long, it helps to be white and a woman and have a guide, my elephant arrives and I silently ask his permission, I honour his presence, I wait and people behind me are huffing - then I get a response, and so I step off a high platform onto his back and into the Howdah.  His name is Lucky, he is 27 years old, and the mahout is Gamahl, he looks after Lucky and rides him every day.  Gerald is trotting up the hill in the suffocating heat, taking photos of me - ever conscious of The Camel Incident, he is working hard to rectify that mishap - this morning with the tourist camels and now here with the elephants, I have to give him credit - and there are elephants and people and photographers everywhere.  They call your name, then take your shot, and try to flog you pictures at the end. A man wants me to buy some elephant cloth, and when I ignore him, he throws it up at me.  I throw it back, quick as a flash.  Ten minutes later we are in the fort, and I dismount from Lucky on the high platform.  I kneel beside His big head, and stroke it, I bow in respect and place my hands in prayer to my forehead, then to my lips and to my heart, and I thank Him.  Ganesh, the God of luck and prosperity, He has allowed me to ride on His back.  Gamahl is aghast, I don't think this has happened before.  I hand him the 50 rupees Dalpat advised me to have ready as a tip and he looks at it disapprovingly.  "Maam?" I proffer it again, and he takes it, unsmiling.  I feel bad, and question it again with Dalpat, 'no, that is the standard tip'.

 

We take a city tour through the bazaars of the Maharaja's City Palace. Part of it is now a fine museum with a comprehensive display of historic artefacts.   A small portion of the palace is still used by the Royal family of Jaipur, it is built in the style of a fortified campus one of the palaces is the Hawa Mahal, known as the Palace of the Winds (see above.).   There is a wall which is 36 kms long which surrounds this city, the third longest in the world, the first being the Great Wall of Chinq, and the second another here in India. The logistics of this blow our minds, and the palace is constructed of Italian marble from Carrera and sandstone. Ganesh, the God of luck and prosperity, is evident here, and the King fought against the Moghuls, from northern Afghistan, and their weapons were guns and cannons against knives and swords, but they resisted them for 27 rulers.  (I think this is correct, my notes are difficult to read here, but you can google this if you want to know more.)  The paintings, the tiles, the work, the ladies screens (which they hid behind but could view what was happening below), and small windows from which they threw rose petals to their King as he arrived home.  He had twelve wives, and twelve apartments, one for each, with secret passages between them, so they didn't know whom he was visiting, to avoid upset and jealousies.  Dalpat is speaking to us, and a young man walks straight through the middle of our threesome, without blinking an eye.  Neither does Dalpat.  This kind of intrusion appears to us as rude, and we look at each other, but it is not considered so here.  We see two vast solid silver water containers, which the King had built when he visited Great Britain, back in I can't remember when.  He took two of them filled with the water of the Ganges with him, as he did not 'trust English water'.  The water pots alone weighed over 300 kgs before the 500 gallons of water were placed inside.  And then he brought silver water pots back.  Kind of in reverse today, when us Westerners don't trust Indian water, but I do think he was a bit paranoiac about it.  There are also vast water reserves here, so that if under siege, or if there was no rain, the King and his people could survive - there was enough water for two years for five hundred people.  There are also hundreds of those brass rings hanging off the ceilings, they are for fans and for silk canopies, to keep the place cool, says Dalpat.  I still think it's somewhat kinky, someone isn't telling the whole truth.  We visit one of the palace museums, a collection of the finest clothing imaginable, worn by the Maharajahs and their Mahanranis, the finest embroidered silks, pashminas, robes and dresses, muslins, cotton and net - and one King was seven feet tall and four feet wide, and a pair of his trousers were proudly displayed - they are those sort of wrap around pantaloons, and they were seven feet wide.  He weighed well over 500 lbs and died at 42, I am surprised he lasted that long.  

 

We visit the artisans who the palace supports, and here I buy a selection of beautiful scarves as gifts.  No matter we have not got our credit card - they will be delivered to the hotel tonight, and we can pay there. 

 

Satish magically appears with the car with the air con going full ball as we leave the palace, and hands us two chilled bottles of water.  God Bless this man.   Not far from the palace gates he stops the car for us to take a photo of the skyline, and as I snap away, I hear music.  There is a man behind me, cross legged on the floor, with a flute, and climbing out of his basket is a black cobra, 'dancing' to the music.  I am spellbound.  Gerald murmurs "Don't take a photo, it will be more bhaksheesh" (as it was with the camels and the elephants) - but this is too good to miss, and I ask him to pay up.  The man has put his snake away until we get this financial deal sorted out, and once paid, he opens the lid on the basket and that black eyed creature comes at me, swaying from side to side, and I snap away.  I have seen cartoons of this, but never imagined it to be real, a Snake Charmer!  Wow!   

 

Now I see pink everywhere, the buses are pink, the school uniforms are pink, the houses are pink - it lives up to its name, but is so different to the rural, much quieter, much less money oriented places we have been.  I would not hurry back here, but I am glad to have seen it. The sales people are persistent, and the beggars tap at the car windows, their eyes sad and yellow with pus, making the sign of eating, a woman with two stumps for arms laughs almost gaily, waving them at me, another woman holds out a bundle which contains her baby to me.   It is hard not to give to everybody, but we have been told over and over again not to encourage begging, the Government is strictly against it. 

 

Satish has had my orange sandals repaired, the soles were flapping loose and they are as good as new, he has bought beer for Gerald and tonic for me.   His pride in his job, and his ability to meet his clients needs are five star, he is one of the nicest people I have ever met. 

 

We are not hungry and would like to keep going with our tour so that we can get back to the hotel for a swim and for me to write, but Dalpat wants to eat, and Satish will do whatever Dalpat  wants.  On our way into the restaurant, which is frequented by whites, I hear him call to the owner "Complimentary meal for the guide," then ignoring us, takes a seat and eats a huge meal, talking all the while on his phone. whilst Gerald and I drink a beer shandy a couple of tables away.  This is strange, every other guide has been so friendly, so informative, so genuinely interested and interesting, this man does not fit into the picture well at all.  I go to the loo, and after I wash my hands, there is a smiling old man in white, holding out a plastic bag of paper napkins for me to dry my hands on, and his right foot on the pedal of the garbage bin which is open for me to drop my napkin into.  Now that is service.  Another man appears, this is right outside the loo door I might add, holding a selection of books I may wish to browse, and with a sweep of his hand gestures to a long trestle table, handily positioned "Souvenirs Maam?"  I decline, and am glad to see that Dalpat is wiping up his plate with his last piece of naan, which means we can go.

 

But now I have to say, we are feeling templed/forted out.  (Note, not palaced out.). It is terribly hot, so hot I feel nauseous, despite drinking bottle after bottle of water, we see one female tourist vomiting her heart out into a plastic bag, I feel so sorry for her, and I understand.  I think at twenty days into our holiday, we need a week to recoup before the last twenty days of temples and forts and heat. 

 

There are more monuments and museums to see, and artisans work to view.  We decide against the jewellery and opt for the textiles.  Here we see men making dhurries and rugs, and using the most crude of tools, a clunky pair of scissors and a blade, cutting the edges so finely, you would think it was a machine at work.  Another two men making the most beautiful block prints on cotton, we watch as a man skilfully, using just his steady eye and hand, stamps his way around the edge of a large piece of cotton, he has done this for 27 years, in the heat without lighting and smiles widely as I acknowledge his work.  He then presents me with the small demonstration elephant he has just made. We walk through floors of marble and brass and silver and paintings and rugs to a huge showroom, filled with silks, cottons, wool, and pashmina.  I want to buy some hand block printed Indian cotton, and a few gifts, and spend the next hour and a bit happily being shown everything I ask for.  Shawls, scarves, table cloths, blouses, kaftans, sarongs and a whole bunch of stuff I am not interested in.  He is a very good salesmen, and we spend close to $200.   Same deal, it is to be delivered to the hotel tonight, and we pay then.  

 

One last fort and a long, hot, tiring drive home through honking traffic, bumper to bumper in all directions, but hey, there are three traffic lights here, and things are marginally less chaotic.  The hotel is a blissful oasis of calm and cool, welcomed like family with doors being opened enquirers as to our day.   I hit the shower and do a laundry stomp, I like the heated balcony for drying purposes.  I sit and write and drink tea, whilst Gerald works on his emails.   And shortly we visit the pool complex, Gerald does laps, whilst I take  a swim in the outdoor pool, the hot tub, and then the indoor pool, you have to try everything, you have to maximise your financial outlay, after all.  There are a million Indian Mynah birds singing in the trees, but even so, I can hear the honking of the horns of the traffic just behind the wall.  I count eight peacocks striding gracefully through the gardens.  Our exertions rewarded with a home made ginger beer and lime drink in a plastic cup, which I sip from as I swim.  Indulgent. 

 

Our deliveries arrive at different times, one inconveniently during dinner.  I am very very happy with a richly coloured silk Kaftan, and cannot wait to wear it.  We sit on the balcony watching four chubby Indian ladies dance on white marble in the centre of a big green lawn, with a golden fountain behind them.  We order two tonic waters, which cost $11, and some ice and lemon.  When backs are turned, I pour a slug of illicit gin into them from a plastic bottle secreted in my handbag.  Cunning, hey?  

 

Dinner is ultra special.  We dine in the majestic Golden Palace, we have never eaten in a restaurant as opulent, as beautiful, as fine, as excellent as this.  We are shown to a table which we love until two businessman arrive at the adjoining one, talking loudly about profit margins and such.  We ask to move, no problem, they move everything, including the golden ice bucket and the cushion they have plumped for my back, smiling as if this is the very thing they were born to do, "This is our job Maam". We are served by dignified Rajasthani men in deep blue silk calf length jackets, white pants and red turbans with the long scarf trailing behind, they all have twirling moustaches, and wear white gloves, the tables are laid with gold platters on which Versace golden edged plates sit, gold cutlery, and gold goblets, gold everything - the walls are padded with ivory damask and finest silk.  Italian alabaster marble lamps and chandeliers catch the light and cast golden shadows.  We have three valets attending to our needs.  "This is your opportunity to relive the splendour and the lives of Royal princes and princesses while dining at the Suvarna Mahal."  We do just that.  We order a chicken curry and a lamb curry with rice, they bring a complimentary tiny first course and salads, garlic naan, and a selection of chipatis and a bottle of very expensive water.  We refrain from the wine list, or even the juice list, we figure we had more than our fair share of complimentary wine and gin last night, and we also didn't eat dinner.   So tonight is the budget for two meals.   And that amazing, extraordinary Royal Experience costs us $80.

 

Back in our room, I am drinking chamomile tea which I brought from home, they don't do chamomile tea bags here, and writing this blog.  My Beloved is already asleep, he hiked up that hill to get fifty pictures of me on the elephant today.   Lucky and I are both lucky.

 

Tomorrow we leave at 'standard time' (9.30 am Maam, says Satish) for Agra, a long drive of six or more hours.

 

Bring it on.

 

 

 

 

 

Day 22 - 28th Sept 2016 - Agra - The Oberoi Amarvilas

 

TALKING VERY RUBBISH AND SHOUTILY, THE KINGS HAREM, AND AN EARLY BIRTHDAY

 

Our journey was very very long and very very hot, and I shall tell you about it shortly.  We left at 9.45 am and arrived here at 5 pm, tired and grubby.  I am lost for words about our 'hotel' and will tell you that story when I rediscover language and am not so tired.

 

But I will start with our journey. We leave the grand entrance, down marbled staircases and through the security at Rambagh Palace in Jaipur and are escorted to our waiting car and the ever smiling Satish under the Royal Umbrella with a cricket side of people farewelling us with deep bows and namastes.  Their uniforms are so elaborate, just the sleeves of the jacket are gold embroidered from the cuffs to the elbows.  There is an old Plymouth parked in the sweeping circular driveway, and the chauffeur offers to take me 'for a spin maam' - regrettably, there is no time, but I pose for a photo.  "So Satish, just 1.5 hours to Agra then?" says, this is an old joke by now, but both he and Satish never lose its laughter element and both slap their thighs with laughter.   "Yes Suh! If we are flying!"- and they both roar with laughter once more.  I smile thinly, this joke has had it day.   Our journey is supposed to take six hours, but it takes 7.5 hours there I accomplished an hour's shopping along the way, in what is clearly a tourist bus stop.  It is on the other side of a four lane highway, and to get there, we have to cross over to the other side of the highway and for a couple of hundred meters, travel in the opposite direction, ie into the oncoming traffic, of which there is fortunately none at this point.  Satish bobs his head "Only once Suh, we can try it, OK?"   Sure, why not!  It is worth it, as I buy a fine heavily embroidered white cotton Kurta and a heavy brass ornament;  Satish had told us that whilst he could not bargain on our behalf, as 'next time they will not like me Suh" - I was to offer at least 30% below the asked for price.  They wanted Aussie $70 for the blouse, Gerald poo pooed this, and we got it down to $52 almost immediately, and then $50, and when we came to pay for the two items, they said it was US dollars.  I put both items down and walked away, they rushed up "OK OK, Aussie dollars" - so God knows what the real price is.  But at least I never had to battle the heat and the people following me down the street and the haggling and the guilt trip.  I know I paid too much, and it's OK.

 

Satish advises me whenever there is a camel alert, and today we see some very special ones, their coats have been decorated in intricate patterns by knotting the hair and twisting it, they look every inch the catwalk.  he understands my fondness for elephants, camels, donkies, sheep, pigs and cows.  He points out a couple of dead snakes, but fails to point out the many dead dogs we pass by as we whiz along the best highway we have travelled on, Gerald says perhaps dogs are not the problem to smash into that cows are, maybe people don't even swerve.  Instead we talk of Daisy his overweight golden Labrador, who he clearly loves to distraction, whom he misses more than his wife.   We are passing by major markets of Udaipur green marble, either side of the road is lined with kilometre after kilometre of the stuff ready for paving, and carvings of every kind and every size.  I comment on how much there is, Satish says this is a small one, the big one a few kilometres away stretches for twenty kilometres.  One marble market, and they bring it here to sell from the source one hundred kilometres away via trucks and wagons.  There are fields after fields of what appears to be very large bee hives, like circular baskets, but no, these are created from grass to store the cow pats, which are the source of heating, and in some of them, we can see neatly stacked, almost a work of art, of flat, dry cakes of cow poo. There is a frisson of excitement as we enter a tunnel, it's new, and a kilometre long, but decorated on either side with columns of flowers and elephants and gods.  It's this attention to detail that I love here, one of the many things I love here.  Where else would anybody decorate a tunnel for God's sake?  It's also somewhat exciting to see a traffic light, and even to stop at the Toll Road, although the roads are so dodgy in some places, Satish reckons they should pay him to drive on them, the damage it does to his tyres and shock absorbers. He drives up up to the filthy blackened cubicle, God knows how much toxin these men ingest, and shouts 'SINGLE!'   Then laughs aloud and shakes his head, "I am not coming back this way Suh, so it's a single!"   Get it?  The man who serves us is young, and his pinky finger has a curved nail about two inches long. We are talking about how many people there are on the buses and on trucks, and how they all fit it.  "In India, Maam, you have to push.  You don't push, you don't get anything.  You must be pushy."  Oh I like this man, he validates me without his even realising it. 

 

We pass a truck, a huge truck so loaded with hay that you can scarcely see it, and it's taken a lean to the left, and lost some of its cargo, men who look diminutive next to the size of the truck are attempting to put it all back.  Good luck with that, guys.  Another truck which seems to be twice as long as ours, carrying ten tractors.  Jeeps carrying upwards of twenty people.  A man on a scooter laden with buffalo skins, 'for shoes.' Do you know that in Gudjarati you cannot buy alcohol?  Gerald immediately crosses that off his list of possible places to visit.  "It was because the people were falling down with drunk Maam, and talking very rubbish and shoutily."  Having been guilty of talking very rubbish and shoutily myself, I fail to comment on this.  Satish himself only drinks modestly, but is happy to purchase beer and energy drinks for us, and he never, never never drinks when he has to drive.   "That would be the cost of my job maam.  I can leave the car and walk home, or take a tuk tuk."  Good advice in any country.  There is a white line down one side of the road, a very wobbly white line, and I suggest perhaps the man who painted it was someone who was talking very rubbish and shoutily, Satish slaps the steering wheel and hoots with laughter, 'oh yes, ma'am, that is a true word!'  We pass by a young man and an older woman on a motor bike, Satish says "That is a mother and son."  How does he know?  "The mother is allowed to place her arm across her son's back like so, but if it is the husband driving, she cannot touch him in such a way.  That is not good Maam."  I wonder what they think of Gerald and I holding hands and the odd affectionate kiss?

 

We pass several "Lay Byes".   I like that.  There are lots and lots of eucalyptus trees here 'from Australia,' Satish advises.    And a man with one of those water powered 2 cylinder engine vehicles, a small one, selling sugar cane juice, in the middle of absolutely nowhere.  Who stops to buy that from this entrepreneurial man?  "On the left" says Satish, and instantly winds down the automatic windows for us to take a photograph, a huge 'Hanuman and Shiva' gateway, in lurid pink, blue and yellow, an entrance to a fun park.  He chants "Ram ram, ram ram, ram ram", and explains that your soul is purified when you say this, it's like "In the name of the Lord." 

 

I love how Satish speaks, when he is on a roll, and into one of his long and involved stories you have to pay attention, as the characters change frequently, and he lapses into the odd Hindii word on occasion, then uses quaint antiquities from our English language that Queen Victoria may have done.  It is peppered with charming sayings like "this and that" and ends many sentences with "and all" - as in, "We will see many temples, monuments, forts - and all! - today."  It is said with a great sense of anticipation, as if he is not going to reveal all the information lest you lose the surprise coming your way.  He also uses the phrase "And all, like that" to signify many things of a similar nature.  Many of his clients come to India and just do the Golden Triangle, which is Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, and we meet a young girl from Iran yesterday who is here for FIVE DAYS with her sister, 'just a short trip, as we have to get back to University.'  Satish says that happens quite a lot, and he has clients who keep coming back to him, he drives all over India so 'I can pick them' - don't you love it?  Don't you love him?  So if you want  Satish to 'pick you' from anywhere in "My India" and drive you anywhere else in "My India" - and I highly recommend you do - let me know.  He tells all his clients "After lunch rest a while.  After dinner, walk a mile."   He shares this with an intense look, he really believes this, and that 'really helps his clients'.  He has 'with my clients' seen the Delai Lama four times, how many people could say that?  The Festival of Colours is one of his favourite times of year, when people throw paint at each other - I mean, it's either your thing or it isn't - and he says there are many jolly things happening, 'that paint can last a long time!' and dancing and singing and much good food.  His whole family get together for the big celebration, and sometimes drink whisky, heaven forbid.  He knows so much about the Gods, and describes the blue Rama, why Hanuman holds Raman and Laxman (he is helping them fight, they look bigger on his shoulders).  We pass a motor cycle carrying two men, and between them is a lamb, it's gut on the seat, with two legs on either side of the saddle.  Satish says that sometimes, when the lambs are small, they place bags on either side of the saddle, and place many baby lambs into those bags, it looks very funny Maam.   "Anything is possible in India Maam". Even two men carrying two large metal doors between them. And a man carrying no less than five beds, stacked one on top of each other, behind him.  True.  A man in the middle of nowhere, painting the background to a sign giving mileage to the next towns, about forty feet square, with a paintbrush about three inches wide. Which you can buy at the side of the road from a man on a bicycle, if you should with struck with the desire to paint something in the middle of nowhere.  We see a very big, fat black pig crossing the road.  "What a healthy pig" says Satish.  Fat is regarded as healthy here, which is alarming.  And if you are looking for a place to send your children or grandchildren for further education - I have just the place.  THE BRAINWRITE SCHOOL.  Not far from Agra. 

 

I feed the men food from a box thoughtfully provided by one of the Balram at breakfast, filled with fruit, juice, Danish pastries and water. Satish says to me when Gerald is elsewhere, "Maam, you are a verrrrrry nice and thoughtful lady, kind in your heart," he bobs his head and places one hand over his heart.  This means a lot to me.  At 1 pm we arrive at Fatehpur Sikri, a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Our itinerary says "It was built by Emperor Akbar in 1569, in honour of the great Saint Sheikh Salim Chisti, who blessed Akbar and prophesied the birth of a son, who later became Emperor Jahangir.  It is in a superb and complete state of preservation, and within the walls are palaces and the Jama Masjid.  The main entrance is the 54 metre high Buland Darwaza, the Gate of Victory."

 

We are met by Anil, the Myseteries of India representative here. He is mid thirties, with thick prematurely grey hair, and just two months ago, weighed twenty kilos more.  He has been walking one hour a day and eating less and it ends to lose more weight.  He is married with one six year old son, whose nickname is Rudi, but he 'used to be a ladies man', and I can see it.  Good looking in a rugged way, he is charismatic and can tell a good story.  His English is excellent, he is also a very good photographer, and captures several amazing pictures both on Gerald's camera and my IPhone.  He has an MBA and is about to start a doctorate in Social Science, this information is shared as we walk and board a bus and happens in snippets.   "Ignore the merchants, do not make eye contact, do not speak, one word is enough to encourage them, and nothing inside the wall there is free.  If someone smiles and offers to take your picture, say no, I am here to take care of you."  We have to take a bus from a car park to the fort about a kilometre away, and there are 50% more people on this bus than there should be.  I meet two Indian women from Canberra, a mother and daughter, who moved there ten years ago for the husband's work, they are back to see family, she finds Canberra very cold, but preferable to this 'blistering heat'.  Anil is hardly sweating and I comment on the coolness of the women, and the fabulous colours of the saris on the women, and his says "When God created the world, it was night time, and everything was dark.  Then he created India, and everything became colourful."  I have never seen colour like this before, it still stops me in my tracks, and I want to capture it on film.   And the light is unlike anywhere else.  The Diwali Festival is the festival of light, when everybody burns candles and lights, to make the black night like day.  

 

The building is bigger than anything we have seen, heading in all directions, made of various colours of pink sandstone, palaces, a mosque, vast courtyards, anterooms, gardens, pools and kitchens.   And it is as hot as hell in the middle of all this sandstone holding its heat, we are almost in the hottest part of the day, and sweaty, red faced tourists trudge past us, mopping their brows and sighing heavily.  There was 'air conditioning' in those days, they would hang thatching from the rooftops, and spray it with water, which cooled everything down. Remember in a previous palace, where they had water running down the walls and through small drains? - the same principle, and we think we are so smart today.  There are many steps to climb, and many gaps to negotiate, and I wonder how many overweight people I see manage it, and what is happening with their hearts. The water was brought here for the Emperor from the Ganges, 200 kms away, and stored in vast vats.  Anil asks if our son is into Pokemon, I say no, but he is, and he is checking it frequently as 'this is a place where there will be many hidden' - yet somehow, he never fails to be present to us, he laughs and lot, and shares himself and his knowledge generously.

 

Being an 'ex ladies man', Anil is keen to share with us about the Emperor here, who had three wives and 5,000 ladies in his concubine, and he moved them all to this amazing fort, along with goodness knows how many children.   The three wives were Hindii (to keep the Indians happy), Muslim (to honour his heritage) and Christian (to ensure the Poms were happy) and each had their own palace within the fort.  The smallest palace belonged to his Muslim wife, she was his favourite, and her palace is closest to his quarters - and it is the most beautiful, it was once lined with tiny mirrors and jewels, most of which have been prised out and stolen.  She was the only wife who bore him children, and she had many, several of whom died, and of the remaining sons, there was much fighting and jealousy, a couple were banished to the jungle for fourteen years, and on their return, discovered that two of their siblings had been killed by the most power hungry brother.  Anil says "You can be grateful therefore you have only one son.   These kinds of things will not happen."  True.  We visit the Kings bedroom, and boy, his Bed is something else.   It is ten feet above the ground on carved sandstone columns, and twelve feet by twelve feet square, and was covered with cushions and rugs.  When he chose his Queen for the night, she was accompanied into his bedroom, which had a few inches of rose coloured water on its floor, which she waded through (for fragrance and coolness) and assisted up the ladder, which was then removed, so nobody could 'come to get the Queen or disturb them".  On the nights he did not choose one of his queens, one of his henchmen would choose one of the 5,000 women in his harem.  He had to have many markets in the premises, as they all liked to shop.   For jewellery, saris, and oils.   Gerald sighs in relief.   Saris, he said, did not originate in India, but Iran, and it was only the influence of the Moghuls who insisted that women 'cover up', that sari's became standard dress, before that they wore the 'dress of the Kama Sutra, you must have seen them, yes?'  Anil is a library of information, I wish I could remember to tell you all the interesting facts and figures and amusing stories he told us, but my brain was beginning to fry with overload and with heat.  I am missing my son.  I tell these guides how clever he is and how creative he is, and how good looking he is, and even I can hear that I am bragging, but they all seem interested, and all ask questions, the first of which is always "Is he married?"  

 

Diane McCann, we learned about Amrit today - it is Holy Water (but he didn't actually tell us where it came from) - and to drink it purifies the body, gives you power, and makes you feel alive.   Birth control was also practised back then, with herbs and unguents, and the children of concubines were often castrated at birth to serve as eunuchs to the ladies of the palace.   

 

Agra is in the newly named state of Utter.  Agra was the capital of the Afghan King Sikandar Lodhi's empire fro 1501.  It passed to the Mughal's soon after and in 1526 Emperor Babar transformed Agra, giving it a unique character and beauty.   A great patron of the arts, he made changes to the culture and lifestyle of his people, which in turn brought forth some of the finest craftsmen, artists, statesmen, warriors and nobility ever seen in this part of India.  Over the next few centuries Agra witnessed a rise in pomp and pageantry under the rule of three great Mughal monarchs - Emperors Akbar, Jehangir and Shah Jahan.  All lavished their love and riches on this fabled city, making it one of the great centres of art, culture, learning and commerce. 

 

The gates to the Oberoi Amarvilas are modest, and there is a large marble wall with a gateway, in front of which the car stops.  Beautifully attired men greet us and we step through into a vast courtyard in which there are five hundred fountains spouting, interspersed with squares of emerald green grass, more men await at us at the door, and a sari clad lady places a 'good luck and prosperity tikka' on my forehead.  Surendra, the Mysteries of India representative is here to greet us, for all of ten minutes, and we pass through a chandeliered reception area, with silk screens, a black and white marble floor, classical music playing, and men in orange and white floral mid calf jacket carry trays of cool cloths and ruby red cool drinks for us, which we drink as we complete our formalities.  Surendra is carrying the bootleg beer and tonic water, which he hands to us with a bow, it is in a garish maroon and yellow floral bag which Satish has loaned us.  We look a little like the hillbillies.  

 

Our room is large, with exquisite silk rugs in turquoise and cream, scrolled lamps and octagonal gold mirrors, a padded headboard twelve feet wide, absolutely sumptuous with a huge bed, and one wall of windows, which lead to a big balcony.  Our retainer sweeps aside the curtains and there in the distance is the Taj Mahal.   My heart skips a beat, it really is the Taj Mahal!   Out there, right in front of me.   I feel a well of unexpected emotion.  Nature often does this to me, but not buildings.   I look down, and below us is a navy blue swimming pool, navy blue ponds, green terraces and trees and shrubs and sweet scented gardens of flowers, banks of emerald lawn, layers of sandstone steps on either side, roof top terraces, purple bougainvillea, pillars flanking several layers of terraces, vast bowls of flowers, a hundred or more fountains, and spouts, and waterfalls, black and white checkerboard floors, and fifteen tables being set up for a group.  Each table has a sofa behind it, one in glorious red, the next in black, the effect is breathtaking, and we watch this group later, trying on the turbans of the staff, and having photos taken.  Some people are wearing shorts, and Gerald wonders at this, in this glorious place, would people not make an effort to dress respectfully as a nod to the heritage and culture and beauty of this place?  

 

Do we need the services of a butler to pack and unpack for us?  Well, sure I do.  No, we decline, I think what's in my suitcase may put off the most dedicated professional unpacker.  But packing and unpacking become a pain after three or more weeks, and it would be nice.   Gerald gives me a look, 'just don't Sandra,  just don't' so I don't.  

 

Oh God, the shower feels good, although it takes me five minutes to decide that Advanced Shower Skills are not in my kit bag either, yet it takes Gerald another three minutes to work it out himself, it's a complicated combination of shower head and hand held shower, with knobs and dials and a button, all of which have to have the right combo, otherwise it's boiling hot or freezing cold, or nothing.  I wash my hair, which has been stuck to my head for two days, but I haven't had the time to wash it.  I feel a kilo lighter when I exit the shower, and grateful for the gin my Beloved hands me. 

 

As the sun sets, we sit on our balcony and gaze at the Taj Mahal, drinking our illegal booze, and on the rooftop terrace, and the pool beckons, we cannot wait to get there.  It is blood warm, and at one end it is a kind of grotto, filled with big cast iron lounges filled with fat cushions, and a large framed peacock blue picture of Ganesh, and many Moghuls.  We peruse the menus for both restaurants, and both of which are astronomical, Dom Perignon, Brut 2004 is 30,000 rupees (Aus $600) Moët and Chandon $320, and by the glass $56, a Chardonnay from Vitoria, Chinkara Pavilion is $140, but the difference in price for food between the two is negligible, so we decide on the extra fancy one, not Bellevue, where we will have our (included in the cost) breakfast.  The service charges are astronomical and add 27.5% to the bill.   Dressed in our finery, ahem, we glide into Esphahan, which is small, and are shown to a table right in front of a musician playing a kind of a piano, with silver instruments.   The food is served with such reverence and such skill by such smiling men, Abilaj serves us, smiling, he is 23 and lives 120 kms away and sees him family only every three months.  When we compliment him on the deliciousness of the food, he says thank you with such happiness, you would swear he had cooked it himself.  Gerald and I share an entree of three enormous prawns cooked in the tandoor, and a main course lamb Rogan Josh with rice.  We order two tonics and ice and lemon, and I do my sleight of hand and pour a slug of gin into each glass when our retainers are not watching.  (They probably are and thinking what cheapskates we are.)  Two tonics, an entree and a main cost $130, but the experience was priceless.  The price of this magnificent hotel will triple on the 1st October, so if you are thinking of coming to India, do it in this shoulder season. 

 

The chef comes to enquire if things are to our liking, and I gush that yes they are, and how did he prepare that complimentary wee cup of yogurt and cumin soup?  He tells me and invites me to his kitchen when dinner is done, why thank you very much, yes I would love to.  A man wearing white gloves arrives with a silver dustpan and brush and brushes the crumbs off the already impeccable table.  We sit back, satiated, and watch the young man working so diligently to entertain us, and I wonder how many people even see him, I catch his eye often, and clap and smile, and he bows in thanks.  Suddenly, the music changes, and he is playing Happy Birthday, I look around, but they are headed to us, with a chocolate cake for Gerald, whose birthday is in two weeks time, it's chocolate and iced with "Happy Birthday Gerald!"   Gerald is beaming, and he blows out the candles, whilst the staff all clap and smile as if it was their own Dad's birthday.   I cannot believe this attention to detail.   The maitre d comes and says, "Sorry it's a belated birthday, we know your birthday was last month."   What?  I want to tell them mine is in November, but decide not to, and my Beloved cuts his cake.  There is enough left for six people and I offer it to the couple next to us, but they too are stuffed.   Never mind, they pack it all up, and deliver it to our room, and when I say we will not eat it, but our driver would like to, they take it back to the kitchen, they will box it and deliver it to us tomorrow when we are to meet Satish.   

 

My personal tour of the kitchen is conducted and I am treated like royalty.  There are 45 staff in here to feed a maximum of 180 people, there are 130 here tonight, and another 30 in a convention on the balcony.  I see tandoori ovens and watch them baking chipatis and naan, curries and individual sauces in tiny pans, everybody bows as if I was the Queen of England, and Vaibhav Soni takes me into a glass fronted office.  I ask him how he comes up with his menus and he points to a big bookshelf of cookery books, his guru is Jiggs Kalra and Pushpesh Pant, and shows me one of their books, a glossy colourful hard covered tome.  He begins to write in it, and I realise he is dedicating it to me:  "To Mrs. Groom, Have a happy and healthy cooking.  Regards, Vaibhav Soni, Junior Sous Chef."  I am once again taken aback by the generosity of people in India and thank him profusely "All my pleasure Maam."  He gives me his email address and asks me to keep in touch.   He is only 26, and started cooking at 9, when his mother taught him a dish, which he burned.  His father beat him, he says laughing, and I learned never to do that again. 

 

Back in our room, there are a dozen red roses in a vase, and a card which says:

"Dear Mr. Groom,  The entire team at The Oberoi Amarvillas joins me in wishing you a belated Happy Birthday!  If there is anything that I can do to make your day more memorable please do let me know.  Wishing you a year filled with joy and happiness. Best wishes, Sabia Yakava, Executive Housekeeper."

 

On the rooftop terrace across from us, ladies in coloured saris are dancing lit from behind with golden lights, and we see the Taj Mahal behind them.  It's breathtaking. 

 

In the bathroom, the tub is run and filled with red rose petals, there are candles everywhere, a harp is playing on the sound system, fragrant oils scent the room and I am choked up.  I look at my Beloved, and he says "Well?  Let me know, any time now, if you are enjoying this, OK?"  It's of his old jokes which I have heard a million times, as familiar as a pair of old slippers, but I love way it cloaks me in his love.  

 

This is a Sacred Heart Space, and I am so grateful to be here, us two kids from Chingola.  

 

 

Day 23 - 29th Sept 2016 - Agra -  The Oberoi Amarvilas

 

A BIRTHDAY FOR EILEEN, A SECOND BELATED BIRTHDAY FOR GERALD, AND ROSES, ROSES, ROSES 

 

Today is my friend Eileen Williams birthday, and I have promised her a photo of us at the Taj Mahal, on the Diana bench, as a gift.   So we have to get going, the doorbell rings at 5.15 am and I leap up, there is a man in a floral dress with a turban carrying tray of tea and coffee and banana bread.  Then the 'if all else fails' alarm goes off on my phone, and I rush to turn that off too.  Gerald shouts "Don't touch anything in the shower" so I don't, and it all works well.  We are downstairs at precisely 5.45 to meet Amil, and there are three gay couples also off to see the Taj.  The hotel has a long golf buggy and we are driven out the gates, and three minutes down a bustling new road, where we alight, and join an already very long queue, the gates will open at 6 am.  Anil has our tickets, and the women queue separately to the men.  I get chatting to Janelle and Pauline from the Gold Coast, who have been travelling for two weeks, they have ten grandchildren between them, and they show me pictures. We are finally through the gates, and checked through security and given a bag containing paper bootees which we are to put over our shoes, this is to protect the precious floors of this monument.  It's a balmy morning, and leads us through a gate into a large courtyard, there are gates to the north, south, west and east, which is the one we came through, and people are pouring in.  It's so busy, I say.  He shakes his head, "No, this is not busy, evenings are worst, and it's not the season yet."   I cannot believe this, there are tourists as far as the eye can see, and many are Australian. 

 

We walk some distance, and step through a portal, and in front of us is the Taj Mahal.  I shall share with you what two friends of mine posted on my Facebook page today when they saw the photos.  From Lorna Stewart "It surpasses all expectations, doesn't it?  I cried when I stepped through the portal and saw this exquisite and precious building in its glorious setting.  One of the few deeply memorable experiences of my life.  Love that you two are together in this sacred heart space."   And from Ailsa Cameron "All the surroundings are beautiful Sandra, but what I adore, what sings through with the same tone and such reverence is the unity of your love of one another - that so transcends the dressing of any surrounding, and is entirely precious."

 

I share these with you, as I was truly lost for words in that moment.  There were some hundreds of people jostling for a picture with the Taj in the background, and all I could do was stare.   That long finger of water pointing to that unmistakable building and a memory of Princess Diana sat there, looking sad.  My throat constricted and I heard Anil calling my name, he had created a space for us so that he could take our photo.  I pose, and pose, and pose, there are people lined up to do just this, it's a sausage factory, but everyone is polite, everyone gets a turn.   

 

Diana had this place all to herself when she came here, they closed it just for her, and I wonder at the logistics of this.  Apparently 100,000 people a day come here, every day, and in peak season it's even higher.  I can see why she looked so sad sitting there, it is a monument to love and to the memory of one's Beloved, and there was so much going on in her life at that time with Charlie and Camille, and the tampon episode, which is so seedy and so far removed from this glorious place. 

 

We walk down that avenue of water and greenery, and Anil finds us a seat, and tells us The Love Story, which most of us had heard.  The Taj Mahal was built by Shah Jahan between 1631 and 1653 in memory of his queen Mumtaz Mahal to enshrine her mortal remains.  This architectural marvel is a perfectly proportioned masterpiece fashioned from white marble and inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones.  It stands testimony to the skill of some 20,000 craftsmen brought together from Persia, Turkey, France and Italy who laboured for 22 years to complete this "Love Poem in Marble."  Mumtaz was his third wife, and his most beloved, she bore him 14 children, seven of whom died, and she herself died in childbirth.   They were together 19 years and never spent a single day apart. They were not here when she died, but elsewhere in India, and on her deathbed, he made her some promises:  1) he would never marry again 2) he would take care of their children and 3) he would build her a mausoleum to commemorate her life.  He was 68 when he died, but before that, he brought her body which had been embalmed for over six years, unheard of in the Muslim faith, back and buried it here in a temporary grave.  When the building was complete, she was buried in the centre, and when he died, they buried him next to her.  The original tombs are elsewhere, the ones we will see are copies, it was to confuse would be thieves.  She lies to his left, in a smaller, lower tomb, and they both face Mecca.  Together forever.  There are tears rolling down my face when he finishes, and his eyes suddenly become red rimmed too.   I say "That is such a sad story," and he says to Gerald "Take care of her, she needs a tissue."  And pauses his story respectfully, whilst I compose myself. 

 

The stories about him chopping off the hands of his artisans are not true, he says.  They were extremely well paid, in a time when gold was $7 a kilo, they were paid the equivalent of $120,000 a month each, and they were indentured to him, meaning they could not work elsewhere, they were 'bound legally' in a contract with him.  That became 'their hands were tied' to 'their hands were chopped off so they couldn't work elsewhere".  We hear more along these lines, but you can look this up yourself.  He walks us to the building, and helps us with our paper bootees, leads us up the stairs, and says "You can be here with your wife in this special place."  We will meet him in 45 minutes. When we meet up later, he has won a Pokemon battle, and is very happy.  He tells Gerald has has googled him and has learned about his IBM career and such things.   And he asks about me.  Now that is being prepared for your clients.  This is the first time we hear anybody speak with anything like anger, but not the last, on this topic, Pakistan.  Anile is adamantly against them, and there has been terrorist attacks on the border and India retaliated.  "The world are with us, except for China". We hear that same sentiment repeated with other men.  Gerald likes the Indian Prime Minister, Mr. Modhi, very much, he is making decisions and taking action, he seems to be well liked by the people we have spoken to. 

 

The vastness of this building is hard to imagine and even harder to describe, and people are lying on the floor trying to take photos, trying to get shots with their hand holding the dome on top, jumping for fun poses, and there are colourful saris everywhere, babies crying, young men with selfie sticks.   We walk into the darkened building, and in front of us are the tombs, and I imagine them lying there, facing Mecca, just feet apart, into eternity.  The magnificence of the carvings, the fretwork, the florals, the birds, the lettering, the marble and arched domes and spectacular proportion fill me with astonishment.  How could anybody conceive of such beauty and then create it?  How did he describe it?  What was his vision?  Was it purely about his love for her?  He made promises, and fulfilled on them all, and created this place for his Beloved, an unbelievably costly process, did he ever consider the millions and millions of people who would visit this place?  I look at it and think of the Sydney Opera House, undeniably beautiful and architecturally brilliant, but does not hold a candle to the majesty of this place, nor any other building I can think of.

 

We take fifty more photos, and stroll through this Love Palace together.   My Beloved fulfilled on one of his promises to me today;  he first came here twenty years ago, on IBM business, when he hired a car which drove him from Delhi and back there in a day, and was gob smacked by its beauty, and has always wanted to bring me here.  He too, is a man of integrity.

 

I ask if he will build one for me when we get home.  Maybe, he says. 

 

We cancel the two more tours we were due to do today, and spend the day together, at the pool, walking through the grounds, and writing this.  It seems fitting in this beautiful place, just us two.  A knock at the door and a retainer enquires:  "At what convenient time can we clean the room?"  Oh I have to pinch myself.   Really, ANY time is convenient if someone else is cleaning, but I retain a regal bearing and look thoughtful, which lets him know how very, very busy I am and how much I have to accomplish this morning, and I advise that in a half an hour would do us nicely, close the door, and laugh out loud at how amazing this all is. 

 

We swim in the pool, Gerald reads, I blog, we wander through the gardens, we take more photographs, and we catch up with family and friend on Watts App.  We visit the boutiques in the hotel, a marvellous marble shop selling exquisite artwork. There are two marble colourfully decorated Gods sitting on a bench, which are destined for Russia, a hotel guest has bought them.  He shows us the consignment bill, US$5000.  Another smaller elephant is on its way to Mexico, a mere US$1500.  I see the most gorgeous things, tables, camels, boxes, lamps, jugs and bowls and an elephant about 15" tall, in white marble, decorated in floral jewellery, Amber, malachite, lapis lazuli, mother of pearl, he is Aus $1700 and I adore him, but common sense prevails.  We are currently in the business of giving away all our worldly possessions, to buy more, no matter how beautiful is ludicrous.  The clothing shop is wildly expensive and Gerald is already 'shopped out' so we return to the room for a gin and a beer.   We repack as its a train trip tomorrow and Gerald asks why our suitcases are getting heavier and heavier.  "Because every hotel gives us a gift when we leave and we have been buying stuff."  There are bells ringing for the call to prayer, it gives me a peaceful feeling inside. 

 

Satish collects us in the car and takes us to an ATM, Gerald tries two, with no luck, either they've run out of money, or we have a problem.  Satish takes us to A Taste of Spice restaurant, which he recommends.  It has many Indians eating and many tourists too a Chinese threesome at the table next to us who are rude to the staff, and an English couple on the other side, who eat vast amounts of food, whilst she gives him a running commentary on what they are eating, a bit of an Indian food guru, 'I eat a lot of Indian food at home.'  With beer and a gin and tonic, plus two main courses, including taxes, the meal costs us $45, but their ATM won't take our card, so we have to pay in cash. Satish is waiting, he declined to eat with us, saying he had a 'program' with his mates later.  We give him Aus $180 in tips, the recommended amount for 12 days of taking care of us, plus an IBM lightweight jacket, crisp in its packaging, and I give him a 'pearl' necklace, it's not real, but costume jewellery, for his wife.  I have also written a glowing reference for him, and he is very grateful.

 

He has bought us more beers and tonic, which he keeps overnight in his car fridge with the purchased ice inside of it.  He drives us home, smiling and chatting, his English still charms me "You know Maam, this and that and this and that."  When he is discussing trivia, for example what people say, he uses the expression "blah blah blah" and shakes his head as he says it. I realise how sorry I will be to say goodbye to this lovely man tomorrow.

 

Back in the room, there are a dozen red roses placed in a vase, again.  And in the bathtub, once more are the candles glowing and the bathtub partially filled with water, and three times as many rose petals as last night, but pink ones - including four tight, fragrant buds, floating.  There is a knock at the door, and a smiling young man arrives with a birthday cake.  Yes, another birthday cake, his second in two days, with icing spelling out "Happy Belated Birthday!"   This young man is as excited as if it was his own birthday, and brandishing a beribboned knife, brings it in.  Gerald and I are trying to keep a straight face, and not tell him there is "a confusion" (as Satish says) - so Gerald graciously accepts it, and we ask him to pose for photos, about which he is thrilled, and puts on a suitable Bollywood hint of a smile pose.  But we cannot eat it we gesture to our full bellies!  Can we take it in a box for our driver tomorrow?  "Most certainly Maam, we can box up this cake and bring it to your breakfasting table at 7 am, before you leave our prestigious establishment."  And that is what he does.

 

I lay in the bathtub and soak up those petals, and hit the sack at 10.30 pm.  We are up again at 5.30 and tomorrow is another long day. 

 

 

 

 

Day 24 - 30th Sept 2016 - Khajuraho - The Lalit Temple View

 

THE MAN FROM KITWE, COW KARMA, AND THE LONGEST JOURNEY 

 

I am awake around 5 am, waiting for the alarm to go off in half an hour.  It may sound strange but despite the beautiful accommodation and all the amazing things we are seeing an doing, travelling this way is stressful. Adapting every day or two to new places, new experiences the onslaught of sights, sounds, and smells.  Packing and unpacking, something is always lost, where are the vitamins?  Gerald's blue shirt?  I put my knickers just here at 11 o'clock.  But they are not there?  Ah, the suitcase is facing a different direction, they are now at 5 o'clock.  We work hard to try and understand the accent, Gerald is better at understanding it, it's hard work.   Will we get this washing dry by tomorrow if we stomp it under the shower?  It's learning every day how things work, different beds, vey early starts, different food, the heat, the lack of daily exercise we are accustomed to, the language, the worry about luggage and safety and money, the confront of poverty, beggars, and filth - take their toll.  I normally can sleep anywhere, at any time, I fall into a deep sleep and apart from getting up to pee which I do in my sleep I think, I sleep straight for eight hours.  But not here.  I have a second painful cold sore on my nose and I feel tired. 

 

But we are at breakfast at 6.30 am, showered, packed and ready to go.  We ask our retainers if we may wear their turbans for a photo, and they smile happily and take our photos, where are we from, where are we going, do you like India Maam?  Two gay men have arrived in the restaurant, and we strike up a conversation, where we have all been and where we are going.  The larger of the two is and Englishman and  is the more garrulous, and he waxes lyrical about places we have yet to see, and we resume our meals.   As I am leaving however, we talk again and share brief histories, I discover that the smaller man lives in Cape Town, but more than that, WAS BORN IN KITWE, Zambia!  (Fifteen miles from where Gerald and I grew up.). I cannot believe it. His name is Adrien Kruger, his companion is Michael Pullin, and I ask if they knew my cousin Allan MacGillivary in Cape Town, unfortunately not.   We throw our arms around each other and hug tightly, laughing out loud, he too cannot believe we are from Chingola.  We exchange emails and Viv's details, they want to know about her amazing trips too.  We express our dying love for each other, fellow Zambia,s but now I have to run, the train will not wait and leaves at 8.02 am precisely. 

 

We have to say goodbye to Satish.  Ultra professional, smiling, friendly, always ready to laugh, with his military precision to detail, his crisply ironed trousers and gleaming shirts.  I weep.  His eyes fill too, he holds his hands to his heart, and bows his head respectfully "Maam, you are very good people.  Thank you, and please let me be of service to you and your friends, very soon, once more, and all that."  With that, a strong young man lifts both our red Samsonite suitcases on to his head, which has a small red cloth wrapped in a circle on his crown, and wheels my small carry on one at the same time, and walks into the thronging mass of people heading towards the platform.  Surendra follows him, I have given him the second birthday cake from last night for his family.  He advises there are many beggars and many merchants, to not make eye contact, and do not talk.   OK.  He has a three year old son, and a baby girl just 3.5 months old, she was born with a whole in her heart, and has been seriously ill, in and out of hospital.  Oh my heart breaks to hear his story, the courage of he and his wife, and that they 'will leave no stone unturned' for their daughter.  I want to give money, I don't know if we should, I hold his hands, and tell him I will pray for him and his family, that his daughter grows up to be a strong and good woman. 

 

The platform is a seething mass of humanity, there are beggars everywhere.   A girl dressed in filthy rags beseeches me, with her hands in the universal language of food, 'feed me' - my bag has fruit and biscuits, but Surendra looks at me and shakes his head.  An old man is grubby white shuffles past leaning heavily on a stick, holding a small tin jam tin, it's handle made of wire.   Please?  I turn away.  This is what is hard in India.  People are jostling and pushing, there are carts selling pastries and daal and sugar cane juice, shouting and dogs galore, when the train roars in.   Exactly on time.  It is the Bhopal-Shata BDI train, it will take us just on three hours to get to Jhansi.

 

There are a small group of whites waiting to board, we are totally useless without the porters and our guides, who know everything.  The train stops exactly where our porter is standing, he worked out where our seats would be, and this is exactly the position.  He heaves open the heaven door, and trips up the stairs laden with our luggage, opens the inner door, wrestles his way to our seats, places our luggage on the overhead racks, all without raising a sweat.  This is a scrum, as everybody else's porter is doing the same thing, but it all happens without a word in anger, oh we have such a lot of learn in the west.  It's over in minutes, Gerald has already tipped them, and we are seated at one of only two tables in the compartment, four to a table.  Gerald is at an aisle seat at one table, and I am at another aisle seat at a different table.  And next to me is a huge Canadian woman, breathless from the exertion of getting on to the train, her face red and sweaty, whose body is spilling over from her seat into mine, and her smaller friend opposite her.  Irene my travelling companion, is a Travel Agent/Insurance Agent from Toronto, she and Mary have been friends for twenty five years and travel a lot together, although their lives 'have taken different paths.'   Irene's voice is so loud I am sure it can be heard in the next compartment, over the clacking of the train, the loudspeaker announcements, the ticket inspector, and all the other whites in the train, and she is in my right ear.  I think Satish may say that she 'speaks very shoutily.'   Dear Lord, I am trapped here for three hours, Gerald looks at me sympathetically and then stares out the window on his side, is determined not to connect with this human sound system.  I do my best, but it proves impossible.   She is speaking to people across the aisle from me, and leaning over to stress points.  India "is my 78th country" and proceeds to list them on her fingers.  "I have done ...." and off she goes.   Done?   What is done, for heavens sake?  I make a point of reading.  She tells the compartment, and then demonstrates for good measure, the sanitiser, the face masks, the preventative medicines, and the toilet paper she brought with her, but she is surprised that she hasn't needed a lot of it. But somehow, as happens in the way of travellers, a conversation develops.  I am asked a question by the much quieter Mary, and I respond, and deliberately keep my voice very, very quiet.  Irene is interested, so she has to stop talking and listen.  It is a good strategy, as the atmosphere at our table drops down a notch or two to just ordinary pandemonium, and opposite me is a charming Indian man, Singh, who is travelling with the two women from Argentina, mercifully QUIET women from Argentina, who are sitting opposite Gerald.  Someone tells me that I have 'hardly any accent' for someone from Africa, that I sound very Australian.   Tell that to our African friends, I think.   Irene is shouting questions at Singh like bullets, about where they are going, and what they should expect, and he answers politely, then asks who organised our travel.  Which leads us to Viv of Viv's India and Mysteries of India, and then to Cuan McClaren of Ubuntu Safari Travel who organised our African journey.  "The Girls" want to travel there, and I sieze this opportunity to promote both, and in a voice hardly above a whisper provide them with tantalising stories of Africa, they are spellbound.  Cuan, expect a call from Canada, they have your information.

 

We are travelling first class air conditioned.  Fancy.  The train is clean and comfortable, the toilets are too, although I use vast quantities of sanitiser, breakfast and tea and water are provided, but we decline.  There are only a few Indians travelling in this first class air conditioned compartment, but it's full of tourists.  The countryside changes from lush green to villages to dusty roads, cows and children playing, and the train travels surprisingly fast.   This train is a relic from the colonial era, and every bit as effective, if not as shiny.  To pass the time, and to avoid creating too close a relationship with Irene,  I read the Indian Times and the Entertainment Section.   Gerald's horoscope today reads:  "Plodding work, a sordid relationship, or an extramarital affair will trouble you.   You and a partner or loved one will unite and discuss plans for the future.  You will be surprised by your unexpected progress of good fortune."  Well now.

 

This is something else I read, it is accompanied by q photo of a radiant bride clad in a red sari with a lot of gold bling, and a man with a turban, dressed in gold and red, fondling the ladies shoulder, and he has a suggestive smile on his face.

 

"Tune in to the biggest wedding on television tonight.   After a lot of turmoil and heartbreak, lead protagonists, Dev and Sonakshi from Sony Entertainment televison's Kuch Rang Pyar Ke Aise Bhi are all set to tie the knot in tonight's episode.   The wedding of the most eligible bachelor in town, Dev and his beautiful bride Sonakshi will be a grand affair that will celebrate the coming together of traditional Bengali and North Indian culture.

 

Their relationship saw its share of struggles and turmoil, and though Sonakshi is ecstatic to be married to the love of her life, she is still anxious as to how Dev's mother, Ishawar will accept ear as a daughter-in-law.  Dev, on the other hand, is extremely happy that both the important women in his life - his mother and Sonakshi have finally come around and agreed to the wedding and to resolve their differences.

 

Though Ishawai had to bow down to her son's demand and accept Sonakshi, has she gotten over her insecurities?  Will they be the 'ideal family' that people often talk about?  To watch all this and more, tune in to Kuch Rang Pyar Ke Aise Bhi.  Monday to Friday at 9.30 pm only on Sony Entertainment Television. "

 

My Mother would be riveted, the Indian version of Days of our Lives, or more likely, The Bold and the Beautiful.   I have to see this tonight. 

 

There is a flurry of activity as people anticipate our arrival at Jhansi, and start queueing for the exit.   The slums of the city slide by, people eking an existence, a ten year old boy with a big plastic bag, picking up what appears to be garbage, but is actually bits of plastic, he will sell to the  recycled man.  Dogs eating garbage, kids playing in garbage, cows sleeping in garbage.  The train roars to a stop, at exactly 10.45 am, that is a marvel of organisation, and porters swarm like ants, removing luggage, and we spy a man holding a sign with Gerald's name on it.  It is Newton, one of the tiniest men we have met, despite his size, he wields power, and we have our bags, are escorted through that thronging mass, and to our waiting car very efficiently in mere minutes, there has not been time for a beggar to approach me.  His son's name is Gerald, both he and his parents have clearly been influenced by the Colonials, given the names they called their sons.  Our car and driver are waiting, and then he leaves.  I feel very affectionate towards little Newton, a relationship created in five minutes, as he reminds me of Ghandi, and I was hoping to get to know him. 

 

We meet our new driver.   What is your name, I ask.  "Pupka."   Hello, Pupka!  "My name is Poopah."   Your name is Poopah?   "Poopah."   Sorry, Poopah?  Exasperated, he says "My name is Pooper.  POOPER."   So your name is Pooper, I verify.  Yes, Madam, Pooper.  OK, I got it.  This brings up a whole lot of unpleasant images for me, but I quell them, but the thought persists.  Is he a Party Pooper, or a Pooper Pooper?  Well, hello Pooper.  Pooper specialises in glowering, and not only because it took some time to get his name right, he glowers at everything.   Gerald, seated in the front alongside of him makes several attempts to make conversation, which are thwarted.  His jokes fall flat.  I can see he is missing Satish, and their easy repartee, and so am I.   Gerald says in a jolly tone "Long drive, Pooper?  Maybe we can become friends!"   Silence.   "Thank you for driving us Pooper, you started early!"  Silence.   "Lovely country, Pooper!"  Eventually, "Yes."  Gerald glances back at me, and I feel the little ache in his heart, my normally reserved "I'll let my wife take care of creating relationships" is working his heart out there, with no result.  I resist the urge to smack Pooper on the back of his head.  I hope this isn't the sordid relationship foretold in Gerald's fortune this morning. 

 

Our journey from Jhansi to Kharjuraho is supposed to take 3-4 hours, and seems to take forever.  It is actually six exhausting, noisy, uncomfortable hours, I may have had less enjoyable journeys in my life but I cannot recall one.  Jhansi is a big city and getting out of town through flanks of trucks and cars and people and cows takes a while, and when we hit a highway, I think this is the way it's going to be.  But no, the roads are shocking, potholes big enough to lose a Labrador in, single track,  with dirt shoulders on either side, which fall steeply from the tarmac, either side of the roads in the villages are lined with tiny structures covered with tarpaulin, selling food and clothing and snacks.  Pooper drives fast and efficiently, but unlike Satish, he drives with his hand constantly on the horn.  The noise cuts through my head like a knife, it is a deep rude blast, other drivers do the same, some horns play music, some have staccato like sounds, some go on for a full minute beep beep beep beep beep beep - and all of these combined with the dust, the heat, the constant threat of death by a truck/bus/cow/car/tuk tuk/bike/goat smashing into us is unnerving.  The state of the roads have the car bumping, swerving, jostling, and many sudden stops to avoid a huge hole or a cow have us moving as if in a dance in the car.  In every village, the car is surrounded by people staring into the windows from tuk tuks, bikes, motor bikes, or just standing in the middle of the road surrounded by vehicles.  I wave and smile to as many people as possible, and they wave back, but today I feel I am tired and my willingness to make friends is diminished.  We pass monkies at the side of the road, and I see one who dashes up to a cow, and smacks her on the leg, and then runs away, I am sure he was laughing.  The vehicles around us are so overloaded with people, that they are literally hanging out the doors, with only one leg in.  The most people Pooper has seen in one tuk tuk was 25, 'normal is 10-12'. And in the buses, he says, we can get one hundred people, not forty.  He shares this with the pride of a man who has found a cure for cancer.  The trucks speed through the villages, scattering people and dogs and children, I hesitate to think how many death occur.  For Gerald's engineering eyes, what he sees is a nightmare, trucks so badly loaded, so clearly out of balance, it is amazing they can drive at all, their suspensions so low to the ground.   One such truck swerves crazily in front of us, we inhale and closes our eyes, and the load shifts on the back, oh my God.  He has to stay in the middle of the single tarmac strip, he cannot move to let us pass, as his load is 6 metres high says Gerald, waaaay out of safety standards and the trees on either side of the road won't allow him access.  Another long truck is carrying round concrete drains, five of them, which measure ten feet by five feet diameter, their centre of gravity totally off.  A small truck carries a huge water buffalo in the back, tied with a flimsy rope, and an old man standing next to it, the truck careering to one side because of the weight of the animal - Gerald says, 'that buff has only to slip and will crush that man like an egg.'  Three or four times we see dogs in the act of copulation, tied together.  I recall mating our treasured dogs in Zambia, and when that 'lock' happened how carefully we watched them, in case they damaged each other and tried to pull apart.  How people and animals survive here is testament to the strength and resilience of all beings.   I feel so insignificant, so weak and unqualified here, I am sitting here busting to pee and in considerable discomfort with the jolting and the swaying and the rumbling, my pelvic floor muscles are being given a work out, and feeling miserable, whilst people around me are eking out an existence amongst 'all this'.  We stop at an Indian Oil, Pooper checks, 'use the second one, there are sleeping dogs in the first.'   As I approach, the sleeping dogs vacate the loo, and as I enter, the familiar smell of dog assails me, and I feel a strong pang for our Cino.  All they want is some shade and some cool.  I pee, and they return, and when Gerald comes to pee, they watch him with interest.  Bye doggies.

 

People on motor bikes drive past, sometimes a whole family of five on one, with babies clasped tightly, nobody is wearing a helmet, and that tiny baby looks so incredibly fragile and vulnerable amongst the mayhem and danger all around it.  Dogs are being chased with sticks from the food stalls, a man dips a ladle into a pot and drinks from it, and places it back into the pot.  This is for public sale, whatever he is drinking.  People are spitting red streams of betel juice, and so does Pooper when we stop.  We see a huge forklift come past, carrying a four wheel drive. Pooper says he has been parked illegally, and will come back, and no car!  He gives a rare laugh, and it will cost him 600 rupees.  Buses are roaring straight at us, on a single strip of tarmac and Pooper moves his wheel fractionally, as do the bus drivers, and we side swipe each other, literally inches apart, travelling at speed.  When at slow speed, we 'could light the cigarette for the man in the car next to us', one of Satish's sayings. 

 

Things grind to a halt.  This is the biggest traffic jam that Pooper has witnessed.  There are two hundred buses lined up, queued up, on the road, attempting to get on the road, attempting to get off the road, it is the Dhurga Festival tomorrow, and everybody is going somewhere.   But not, nothing is moving, and the horns are deafening, constant, the beggars are attempting to make a living, my bladder is making its demands again, we are stuck, and there we sit for thirty minutes, inching this way and that way, we have covered all of twenty feet.  I keep waiting for the unexpected progress of good fortune to happen, foretold in my Beloved's horoscope today, but it doesn't.  Is the air conditioner working?  Yes, but it's battling against the fierce heat outside, and the fan I purchased for 80 cents is working overtime. 

 

Pooper makes an executive decision, "We will take another route."   And somehow, makes his way across the traffic to the left, although a policeman with a large stick shouts at me, and waves him back, he looks sorrowfully at the cop, and the moment his back is turned, makes another spectacular manoeuvre cross traffic.  There are no Formula One drivers in India, do you know why?  Because those racing cars don't have horns.   This is Pooper's first joke, and I appreciate his efforts to keep our spirits high amongst this hell.   We made it.  We are now in a narrow alleyway selling hardware, shoes, and clothing, and headed at a bit of a clip against oncoming traffic and sleeping cows.  "This is a one way street" glowers Pooper.  A one way street, we gasp?   "Yes,  it's OK."  Nobody is giving us the finger or shouting, people are tooting, but that is standard practise, and swerving to avoid us.   I imagine our car surrounded by a golden light, immersed in a white bubble of protection, and silently pray.   About ten minutes later we come to a T junction and turn right on to the correct side of the road.   "The highway is not far from here."  And sure enough, we shortly arrive at the highway, and missed the two hundred buses and all the preparations for Dhurga. 

 

Our hazardous journey continues, this is without doubt a dangerous road, and the speed with which vehicles travel is frightening, and they make  no allowance whatsoever for conditions.   We have to stop at a very narrow bridge, this is the one place where truly only one vehicle can pass at a time.  Vast machine harvesters which take up all the road and overlap on either side, barrel towards us, their threshing blades deadly and shining in the sun, and on the front of each is strapped a motor bike, they look like a gigantic insect travelling towards us.  How will they pass the bridge I wonder?   I never get to see, but Pooper says that the bike is for the driver to make his way into the field:  everything has an explanation here, everything serves a purpose. We see a small yellow car, which Gerald asks about, it's a brand new and very popular car in India, it looks a bit like the Mercedes Smartcar, but this costs $2000, which is much cheaper than a motor bike. We see school kids walking, one is dragging a suitcase along a rutted, rocky road its two small wheels overwhelmed by the task, so it's being dragged along on its fabric base.  I can just imagine what kind of trouble she is going to get into tonight.   The road once more ends, they are building a massive flyover here, and now the road is non-existent, with vehicles inching their way through piles of rubble and floods of water, around building equipment and ancient machinery, still tooting and endeavouring to pass each other in these impossible conditions. 

 

Back on the 'road' we see piles of grain across the tarmac, threshing is happening here too, with cars driving back and forth over it, the owners of the grain sitting patiently under the shade of a tree waiting.   Two small kids, about six and four, walk holding hands at the side of the road, with traffic whizzing by, oblivious to the danger.    There are women at the side of the road, squatting in the dust, clad in bright saris, their noses pierced studs and with rings large enough to be a bracelet 'this is a different place' says Pooper.  There is a dog standing, it's ear ravaged, and hanging by a thread, it's body pink with mange, it looks as though it might drop dead at any moment. We overtake another bus, sloping precariously to our side, tooting all the way, I hope to God it doesn't topple over on to us just as we pass.   They are building a huge dam here, there is construction as far as the eye can see, the surrounding land being destroyed in every direction. There are hundreds of trucks carrying building materials and sand, I count forty lined up in a row, waiting for something. 

 

Suddenly we stop, the cessation of the vehicle is a relief, my body is aching from bracing myself for the last few hours, and we gratefully climb out, into  furnace like heat.  We have stopped for lunch at the roadside, tourist stop, and behind us are two cars carrying the two Argentinian women and Singh, plus Irene and Mary, so I duck inside immediately.   Gerald orders a beer and a lemonade, and two samosas.  Here we discover that this is 'expensive territory'.  The beer costs 350 rupees $7, half the price as it was at the Amervilas in Agra, but still $5 dearer than a local cafe.  I stroll through the shop, all of a sudden the staff switch on the fans, the music, and spring to life, the word goes out "Possible Customer!" - and I am inundated with men asking my name, admiring my bracelet, and wondering where I am from. A man points to a pile of colourful embroidered baby clothes, and says "Maam?"  I shake my head and tell him I have no babies.   "Ah! But grandchildren, yes?"   No, I do not.  He is crestfallen.   "I am sorry about this sad state of affairs Maam.  I hope that you will get some of these small children one day."   I pay 20 rupees to do a pee, drink my shandy and head back.  I just want to get to Khajuraho.  

 

Back on the road, Pooper drives us to a small village called Nowgong, where houses are "English" - this was an army base in the 'ancient times' - and he drives us past a very large and attractive, very British Anglican Church, "The Army Church", which has services regularly, and is looked after by an Indian minister.   Yet almost every sign we see is in Hindii, there is no way that we would ever find our way anywhere in India without the able assistance of a driver and/or guide.  There are trucks piled so high with hay bales, they threaten to topple over, and they haven't even started to move on the road yet.  A man is selling Singer sewing machines, each covered with plastic, at the side of the road, the old fashioned black ones with a handle at the side.   A motor bike drives by, the passenger has two handfuls of white chickens, held by their feet.  We stop again in traffic, and two cows saunter up to my window.  I have an apple core, and I wind the window down and hold it out.  The first of the cows sniffs the air, and does a double take, reversing up to me.   Gerald is telling me to shut the window, that's a cow Sandra, as if I didn't know.  It takes it gently from my hand.  The second cow now approaches, but the first cow knows who got there first, pushes it aside.  I find a blackening banana in my bag, and hand that over, it squelches it up in its soft lips with evident pleasure.  I have run out of the food, but the car is still stuck.  The cow sticks its head through the window, and I take several photos of its nose.  Gerald keeps saying shut the window shut the window, but I don't want to, and then the car moves forward.   "It's good karma, darling" I say.  "Just don't feed me with that hand" he says "Use some hand sanitizer."    The road bumps are murderous, and how Pooper knows where they are is a mystery. You could smash your car to pieces if unaware, they are deep ridges, and go for about twenty feet, loosening the teeth in your head, and God knows what in the car.  No wonder so many tyres look completely bald.  Buffalo are being herded towards us, and others are lying in shallow pools at the side of the road.  Six women walking, each carrying things on their head, in a single row like a rainbow of colour.  A tiny white dog dashes across the road, I shout out "Dog!" but Pooper expertly swerves, we have missed it, despite the fact that he and everybody else on the road are using their mobile phones constantly.   Even those on motor bikes are texting messages.  This is a different kind of dog to all the others I have seen which are mostly a beige brown, with a head like dingo, some with a white crest on their chest.  This dog looks a bit like  a tiny white Pomeranian, it's a wonder it has survived. 

 

Finally, FINALLY we enter the outskirts of Khajuraho, this by contrast is an utterly peaceful place, with wide avenues of trees, hardly a car to be seen, it's streets swept and pleasant houses and buildings down orderly streets.  There are only 20,000 people here, and half of those in the 'village' itself, the rest spread out.  But 300,000 people a year come here, this is the most popular spot to visit in India after the Taj Mahal, which has more visitors.  Some of these figures must be incorrect, as each guide gives us different numbers, but still, in this peaceful place, it's hard to imagine.  

 

I want to cry with relief when we reach our hotel, The Lalit, which is one of five which have five stars here, 'and the best' says Pooper.  It's 5 pm, we have been awake for 12 hours, and travelling for nine, my bones and teeth and muscles ache, I can hardly think straight, I want to shower, I want to sleep, and I want a drink.  We are greeted in a large, simple lobby by Christina in a bright sari, she is beautiful, and places a Mala around our necks in welcome.  It is made from white Vaijanti beads knotted in thread in traditional Indian style, and has a tassel.  We are handed a sheet which explains:   

 

"Vaijanti Mala - a Garland of Love, Peace and Inner Strength.   The Vaijanti beads come from a land where it is believed the God and Goddess eternally make love, the forests of "Braj".  The Mala is said to endow the bearer with colossal strength of mind and body.  It represents the 'vigour of mind and soul and the immense love and peace that we hope to bring to our guests through our unsurpassed hospitality at the Lalit Temple View Hotel.  This Mala is hoped to bring victory through dharma or truth representing a very beautiful human characteristic.  The uncompromising nature of difficult decisions made during difficult times, and the intense strength and will power needed to believe in oneself during such periods.'

 

I so need that intense strength and will power right now, so I wear it with pride and rub my face and hands with that cool cloth, and drink the too sweet orange juice, while the formalities are completed, a task which seems endless, and the form we are given is for one Eduardo Salvatore, from Spain.   This is incorrect, says Gerald.  Never mind, just cross his name out and put your details in there.  OK.   I wonder what happened to Eduardo. We even get his room, the best in the house.

 

Sanker is here to meet us, and here Gerald's horoscope becomes true.   He wants 'to unite and discuss our plans for the future' but we just want to lay down in the pool.  Do we want to go on an excursion in one hour?  To the caves/dancing/safari lodge, just thirty kilometres from here?  A nice three hour tour?  Do we want to go to dinner at a place I can recommend Suh?   No, no, nooooooooooooooo - we do not!!!  He seems a little miffed, and draws back, narrowing his eyes, clearly puzzled.  Then gives us his number in case we change our minds.  

 

This hotel is new, and very simple, very elegant, and the staff are all desperate to help, the season is just starting, and we are some of the first guests, they are all eager to put into practise their training, and several ask how we are enjoying the hotel, is the housekeeping to our liking, will we fill in a feedback form, how about visiting our lovely shop, the spa, or the bar?   We make it to our room, which has the best view in the hotel the porter tells us, and flings back the curtains overlooking a blue inviting pool, surrounded with white umbrellas, and in the distance we can see the temples.   

 

Thank God we are here.  Safely.   I strip and shower, and we race to the pool.  No, that is not true, we walk slowly to the pool, we are too tired to race anywhere, my eyes are drooping, I feel tearful and want my dog, but the cool water revives me.  I watch in amusement as our two sun beds are prepared.   For a long twenty minutes there are no towels or mattresses on the beds, and so we ask again.  Then two ladies appear bearing two towels, then a man appears with two mattresses, he chases off the ladies, and arranges things just so.  The ladies reappear, and adjust the towels he has just adjusted, tuck in the edges a bit more, he returns, and they leave.  He tweaks things a bit more, then catches our eye and bows in namaste. He is The Boss and if there is any tip happening, he is going to get it.   There is a man in white cotton sitting in a small temple in the middle of the green lawn, playing a flute.   Oh thank you God.  Back in our room, we order ice and drink the cold beer and gin and tonic we have brought.   Pooper stopped to buy ice on our way here today, a man selling ice covered in hessian at the side of the road, which filled his esky, into which we placed our beer and tonic.   These are the things a good guide will manage for you, thank you Pooper. 

 

We eat a shared main course in the dining room, a Murgha chicken dish served in a "magic pot" by Sujit.  Give him ten years, this guy will be the Managing Director.  Good looking, smart, a natural way with people, his humour and his English charm us both, he advises us on what to eat, and when we ask if he has any chamomile tea bags for me to take to the room, he says in pretend astonishment "Why not????  Of course Maam!"  The television is blaring out the news in a ticker tape, accompanied by Bollywood music, and it takes pride of place on the wall.  My head is so 'noised out' it is making my head pound, but the only other couple in the room want to 'watch the news' so we suffer it whilst we eat.  In walk two familiar faces, women whom I queued with at the Taj Mahal, remember, the ones with all the grandchildren?  I call out "Janelle!" - and she turns in surprise, her friend Pauline smiles broadly.   The relationship you create when travelling is a special one, a unique bond.   Having said that, I am grateful that we haven't bumped into Irene again, Mary would be OK, but Irene is more than I could bear tonight.  The food is delicious, one chicken dish with rice and garlic bread costs if $45, with no drinks.   The taxes in this state (Madhya Pradesh - MP) are sky high for 'luxury goods and entertainment'.  We are finished eating in half an hour, I shower again, and am in bed with a cup of chamomile tea at  8.20 pm.   Sadly, I realise I am missing Dev and Shonaksi's Big Wedding Day at 9.30 pm tonight on Sony Entertainment Television, but I literally cannot keep my eyes open. Fifteen minutes later, I place my ear plugs and my eye mask on as Gerald is reading, but within a couple of minutes, he puts the light out.

 

Oh blessed relief.  What a long, long, looooooooong day this has been. 

 

 

 

Day 25 - 1st Oct 2016 - Khajuraho - The Lalit Temple View

 

THE KHARMA SUTRA, A LESSON IN TRANSCENDENCE AND OILING THE THIRD EYE

 

 

I wake at 6.20 am, having slept for almost ten hours, and Gerald is already doing laps in the pool.   I write this blog and drink tea, grateful for the peace and quiet, and a rare opportunity to be alone.  Our stomped washing is not drying, even the air con does not seem to cool things down much.  We are in the City of Lovemaking, endless lovemaking, all day and all night long love making, and I wonder how people manage it in the heat.  

 

We meet the Smiling Sujit at breakfast, he offers us a feedback form.  Gerald declines in mock astonishment, but we have hardly been here!  I will do it tomorrow.  Service is efficient and friendly, the food is excellent, but there is a strange lack of character about this place, despite its architectural design and elegant furnishings and artwork. Another smiling man approaches and bows in namaste.  "May I please to compliment you on your very fine dress code.  Both of you.  This clothing gives much energetic, and is most pleasing."  Well thank you. I am wearing drawstring cotton Rivers pants in orange, the ones which would have had my mother's tick of approval, an orange long sleeved embroidered blouse, orange sandals and green plastic ear rings.  Me, not Gerald. He is wearing shorts and a very very multi coloured shirt which our friend David Moffat refers to as his Peter Allen shirt.   We are definitely much energetic compared to yesterday.  And definitely Gerald's horoscope didn't come true yesterday, at least not the plodding work or sordid relationship, and we were not troubled by an extramarital affair.  I think our energetic clothing must be helping.

 

On the topic of energetic, if you ever contemplate coming here, as of three months ago, you can now fly in here from Agra or elsewhere, three times a day!   This wasn't available when we booked this trip.  Make a note of that. 

 

Today we are going to see the temples here at Khajuraho, and here I quote from our itinerary:

 

"These are fine examples of Indo-Aryan architecture.  Often called the Temples of the Karma Sutra, they are one of India's major attractions. Built by the rich and powerful Chandela Emporers whose dynasty survived for five generations before falling to the onslaught of Islam, the temples are magnificent, and richly carved with erotic images, the recurrent theme being woman in all her glory."  Now you are talking.

 

Our guide Anurag meets us in the lobby, Sanker is there too, the local representative, still hopeful we may go on a safari this afternoon, or for dancing?  No, Gerald says, we are going to Bandhavgarh National Park tomorrow for three days.  'But today is opening day of the season, Suh, the animals will be not be expecting us, and will be very surprised to see us, it's the first day of the season, and there will be many antelopes and other kinds of wild beings.'  I can feel my resolve beginning to crumble at this, I like the idea of surprised animals, but my Beloved is firm, and for that I am grateful.

 

Pooper awaits us, looking a little less glower-ful.   Is that a word?  And we drive just a few minutes to the temples.   It becomes evident very soon that Anu is a highly educated, very knowledgeable, and extremely intelligent man.   At 46, he has three Masters, one in Ancient Art and History of Asia, one in Economics, and one in Hospitality and Management.  He introduces himself, and begins to speak in what is his practiced welcome speech, his English is excellent, and he is very, very passionate about his job.  He is also a very, very nice man and may also be a distant relative of Irene's, although he is not loud, once he starts talking, there is no stopping him.  Perhaps his next masters will be in Communications.  He wants to impart every single piece of information he has a gathered in his many years and his learning to us, in our three hours together. He also has a disarming way of stopping mid-stream information download, and asking us questions.  "Did you do your research of these magnificent temples before you came here?"  Or "What do you know about Shiva?" - we feel we are failing his pop quizzes miserably, a situation which he then tries to rectify, by imparting more and more information, in an endless stream of statistics and stories.  This man could literally talk you to death. I resign myself to the next three hours, as I want to see the Karma Sutra Temples.  And it's the only time Gerald has shown any enthusiasm for temples.   "Which are the erotic ones?" he asks, and I feel it is way too early in his relationship with Anu to be that blatant about where his interests lie, but it's too late, Anu has the measure of my Beloved, and with a bit of a sly wink and a nudge promises to show us where 'those erotic ones are'.  If Gerald had thought that his enthusiasm for the erotic carvings may preclude him from further preliminaries, he is mistaken, because Anu launches into another thirty minutes of animated information, with snippets of information about other cultures the world over, but India reigns supreme.  I love their passion for their country.  India has the third highest number of UNESCO Heritage sites in the world, after Italy and Greece.  We sit in a paltry slice of shade, and the sun follows its dial and us, we have to keep moving to keep out of its way, so I am acutely aware time is passing while we are relentlessly plied with facts.  We started at 9.30 am and it's now 10.30 am and we haven't climbed a step to a temple yet.  Fanning myself and drinking water, offering the bottle to Gerald, shifting positions - all actions which most people will interpret if done for long enough, as 'it's time to move on'.  But no.  Another fifteen minutes of this and I look pointedly at my I Phone and say how conscious I am of time, and how much there is to see, and are we going in?  He smiles, sadly or perhaps condescendingly I think, but the heat may be making me irritable.  "Yes, but this is the best temple, and I want you to understand about certain things before we enter.  Transcendence is not easy,.  We are ascending from the base to the pinnacle, from the materialistic to the spiritual, and it's a tough journey, and few make it."  I am clear from this statement that Anu feels I am not one of the few who have made it, I am displaying base qualities such as impatience, intolerance, arrogance, bossiness and about to suffer heat stroke.  I am probably not even on the journey yet.  I am probably still wallowing in the base state, and have yet to learn the basic facts about transcendence. 

 

"The temples are divided into three geographical groups, Western, Eastern and Southern.  The Western Group comprises 10 temples, these are the best known and the most interesting.  The two largest, the Kandariya Mahadev, and Lakshmana belong to this group.  Kandariya Mahariya is artistically and architecturally the most perfect.  Built around 1030 AD it presents Chandella at at its most refined.  The main spire is 31 metres high with prolific carving.  In total there are some 872 statues and carvings both on the inside and outside.   Though similar in design the Lakshmana temple is dedicated to Vishnu, and is one of the oldest temples, dating from around 930 AD, and very well preserved."  

 

The Eastern Group is a short drive away, and comprises seven temples, the main being the Parsvanath, Adinatha and Santinatha Jain temples in a walled enclosure, and four others, the Ghantai, Brahma,Vamana and Javari, which are scattered through the village.  All covered with carved images in a variety of sensuous attitudes:  languid, provocative, mischievously inviting, and give credibility to the theory that Khajuraho's erotica was meant to test the devotees who came to worship their gods at the temples."

 

We do not visit the Southern Group, of which there are only two temples, but here is a brief description.   "The fine Chaturbhuj Temple has a massive intricately carved image of Vishnu in the sanctum, and the Duladeo Temple, the most recent of Khajuraho's temples, is rather isolated and lacks the skilled craftsmanship of the earlier temples."

 

These temples are two hundred years older than Ankor Wat in Cambodia, isn't that unbelievable??   

 

Finally we remove our shoes, Anu notices my orange ones, and says "Nice aerated shoes."   We ascend the stairs, even the stairs are hard to climb says Anu, part of our journey, so watch your step, the journey is uneven, his conversation is scattered with analogies and mythology, he certainly knows a lot of stuff, this man.  I cannot begin to tell you even a fraction of what he said.   Google it, if it interests you.   He explains so many carvings, which unless we had been advised, would have missed completely.  The bottom panels of sandstone are plain, the next is floral, the next is a series of base erotica, the ones which interest Gerald, and the next layer is overcoming those base tendencies, the highest one depicts people in a state of purity and spirituality.  But let me tell you, these guys really got into the base stuff.   Yes sir, this is Lingham and Yoni Land, all right.   Linghams and Yonis, as far as the eye can see, up and down, and sideways.   They were clearly very, very base, but appear to be enjoying themselves, and had quite a party these guys and girls.  Hundreds and hundreds of perfectly sculpted figures in sandstone, the detail of which is mind blowing.  The hint of a smile, the suggestion of interest, the sensuous fall of a necklace over a breast, the detail of a silk sari draped over a thigh, a dimple of a navel and the curve of a belly, the arch of an eyebrow - all of this in great chunks of sandstone, with the finest of chiselling.   Amaaaaaazing.  There are far more women depicted here than men, "Women are the heart of the world, they are the ones who create the home and the family, the men are mere accessories."  There are orgies everywhere, people copulating left right and centre, in the most athletic positions, it's hard to tell which is the man's limbs and which is the woman's.  All the women have lush, sensual curves, and breasts which look as though they have just had implants.   They are being mounted in every way imaginable, but only one we see in a Tantric face to face position, and they are practising Yab Yum.  Rear entry, upside down, back to front, inside out, left to right, right to left, and women 'taking pleasure from two men at once', fellatio, cunnilingus, doggy style, and some positions I hadn't even imagined possible - but what is fascinating is the expression on their faces.  Some are in a state of bliss, others have just orgasmed, some are in the throes of orgasm, others striving for orgasm, and many are being 'taught' by their teachers.  In one scene, the couple are locked in a union of sexual bliss and unaware of their two tutors, one on either side.  The two tutors, says Anu, "are unable to control their base desires any longer, if you look closely you will see what I mean."  We do, and both of them are masturbating.  The penises we see are all large and look circumcised - is there ever a man who would admit to, or even worse, sculpt a small one?  There is one elephant in a long row of perfectly well mannered elephants, who is doing his own thing and stroking a woman's breast in foreplay. We see only one carving of a woman breast feeding a baby, and Gerald asks why.  "It is only youth who is celebrated in these sexual scenes, mothers are not considered sexual."   So it's not only today that youth is what is celebrated, and Anu says, it is a sorry thing, to grow old is a blessing, it's a fortunate thing, think of all the babies who die.  We need to celebrate this. True. There are no scenes of homosexuality, lesbianism or peadophilia, he says, but we see a warrior copulating with a horse.  "This is what happens in battle" says Anu, "men get violent and very base."    "But those debased acts did happen" Anu adds "they just don't want to display it here."

 

As your eye travels further up the temple, so the scenes become peaceful, serene and heavenly, and up at the top is the one hundred petalled lotus flower, the golden spire, and true spirituality.  We come from nothing and we go to nothing. 

 

One 'new' temple displays and honours symbols of Hindu, Buddha, Muslim, Jain, and Christian.  Now where in our western world would we do that?  

 

These are without doubt the most beautiful temples we have seen.  Without question, their artistry and splendid bearing amongst these truly manicured lawns, are breathing taking.  And their preservation is unbelievable, over a thousand years old! 

 

It's blistering hot and 11.45 am, Anu says he will leave us to roam around and meet us back at the gate.  It's a relief to not have to listen to so much information, my head was starting to pound, and we take a lot of photos, pondering on the nature of humanity, and if we have changed at all.  It's nearly 12.30 and we think we are done, but Anu has to show us the Eastern Group.  Do we really have to, I think.  But we do, it is so hot, our clothes are drenched, the water bottle in my bag is empty, my scalp is prickling with heat, and I want the pool and a drink and a sleep.  That is becoming my mantra, I know.   We spend 30 minutes viewing the next lot of temples, which are being massively restored.   There is bamboo scaffolding over many temples, (stronger than metal scaffolding, as it expands and contracts with the temperature) and everything new is being painted a buttery yellow colour, whilst the old remains its original colour.  Except these guys are splattering paint around like its the Festival of the Colours in March, and even the precious treasure of the old temples look spotted. 

 

 

I am close to expiring, and start inching to the door, whilst Anu continues to deliver rapid fire fact after rapid fire fact.  How does he do it?  Did you know that if a religious icon is cracked, it is no longer sacred, as the spirit has left it.  All very interesting, but just too much information for me.  An owlette, chased by a bird, flies past, 'a good sign' I think, perhaps we are wrapping up.  We see a dog lying on a ledge, and I take a photo, he looks so peaceful.  That dog is part jackal, says Anu, and we can see when he stands, that is so.  He follows his master to the water pump, where he waits patiently for a cool drink.

 

Back at the hotel, I hit the shower and do a laundry stomp, and with a gin and tonic, sit and write this, then fall into a deep sleep for an hour, whilst Gerald reads.  We could be seeing so many things, waterfalls, caves, dancing, and shopping, Sanker is disappointed I can tell, he would like to sell us a few more tours.  But as I have said, this is exhausting, day after day, and we want to keep well.  Rest is important.  We swim, all by ourselves in the big blue pool under a huge tree which has twisted plants growing through it, it is a beautiful thing.  And then I have a Shirodhara Treatment.  A description:  "This is a continuous warm oil flow treatment on the third eye.  This treatment pacifiers, relaxes the mind and is also known to improve memory, regularise sleep patterns and normalise blood pressure.  It is deeply relaxing and aids in easing stress and tension."  The spa is beautiful, with deep green marble floors, with orange sunflowers scattered through it, which are so realistic, I stop to pick one up.  The lady who does it is Tshecha Dema, who is from Butan, and came her two years ago on a scholarship.  She was so excited when I booked this she grinned from ear to ear, there is hardly anyone in the hotel, and she must be bored.  She needs a little more experience, but was willing and very sweet.  I lay on a huge carved and uncomfortable Sandalwood bed, with a large brass pot hanging close by, wailing disconcerting Indian music plays, and she dribbles my body with cold oil, and massages me for fifteen minutes. Then the large brass pot is positioned, and it slowly drips oil down to my forehead, and back into my hair, which is hanging over an indentation in the sandalwood bed, which collects the oil.  After a while she asks, is it warm?  No, it's cold.  Oh dear, something has gone wrong.  Shortly it is boiling, and I protest.  Sorry ma'am.  Finally we have warm oil, and the sensation is very very pleasant, and massages me for fifteen minutes.  and then, she runs firm fingers through my hair, which becomes sutured with oil, she adds pressure, and I hear it squeeze out like laundry.  It is mightily relaxing, and I am certain, a wonderful hair conditioner, my hair has turned to grass in the heat and the air conditioning.  I am looking forward to my improved memory and regularised sleep patterns.   She takes me to a shower, and guides my naked body inside, where hot water is running, and hands me shampoo and conditioner, and waits outside with a towel.  She helps pat me dry afterwards, and another lady dries my hair.   Oh, this is wonderful.

 

Gerald is impatient, I have been gone over an hour.  Pooper is waiting with the car to take us to dinner to a restaurant Anu has recommended, and when we get to the lobby, there is Sanker, this is a surprise.  Are you coming with us, says Gerald.  Yes.  And then suggests we may go to view the Dhurga festivities after dinner for twenty minutes?  Fun happenings and such things?  No, I say we are going to bed, we have an early start and a long day tomorrow.   Estimates for this journey range between 4 - 10 hours, and given our past experience, I am wagering it's more like ten hours.   We are taken to a different restaurant to the one that Anu recommended, "The Gandhi Cafe, A Complete Family Restaurant, Jain Temple Road Khajuraho".  I suspect this is one of Sanker's bhaksheesh places, but good for western tummies, he assures us. We are the only people in there, and they appear to be doing major renovations in the kitchen, the sawing and hammering and grinding going on cannot surely be food preparation?  But the food, despite a long wait, is excellent. I eat a Haryali Chicken Tikka (300 rupees) which are pieces of boneless chicken marinated in yogurt and spices, wrapped in spinach, and grilled in the tandoor, and Gerald has chicken in a red spicy sauce, the rice and naan are excellent, and we share a beer and a lemonade.  It costs $25.

 

Just a note from the restaurant menu:  "Gandhi was born on 2nd October 1869 in Porbandar.  Mohammad Gandhi studied law and came to Aggravate for Indian rights both at home and in South Africa.  He became a leader of Indian's Independence movement, organising boycotts against British institutions in peaceful forms of civil disobedience. He was given the holy name Mahatma and oversaw a diverse ashram.  He was killed by a fanatic in 1948."

 

Both Sanker and Pooper are waiting for us, and we advise them we have decided to leave earlier than 9.30 am tomorrow, despite it being Satish's Standard Time.   We depart at 8 am, as we have no idea how long the journey will take.

 

The town is quiet, there are no night clubs or bars, no cinema or shopping malls, it's very pleasant.  It's interesting to travel in the dark, we have done little of this, thank God, and things have an entirely different perspective.  There is a very sick dog in the middle of the road as we drive back from the restaurant.  Oh God, it's vomiting, its stomach heaving and it's ribs stick out painfully, its so sick it doesn't even register our headlights.   I stifle a sob, this dog will die very soon, alone and sick, on a road, and I think of our beloved little Cino, well fed and well loved, snuggled in bed at his very moment with her Aunty Barbara and Uncle Les in Australia.  Oh I miss my Little Girl.  There are herds and herds of cows, settled down for the night on the road, Sanker says they do not like the grass where the mosquitoes and the mud are, they like the road where the car keeps the insects away.  Did you know one of the reasons the buffalo is not considered sacred at all is that it came from Aghanistan, with the Moghuls?  

 

Back in the room, I write this blog, whilst Gerald reads.   It's 9.30 pm and now it is time for bed. 

 

 

Day 26 - 2nd Oct 2016 - Bandhavgarh - Tree House Hideaway

 

POOPER BECOMES A PARTNER AND A TREEHOUSE ADVENTURE  

 

Another early start for an 8.00 am getaway.   I realise this is a break with tradition;   Satish as you know, had a 'standard time of departure' at 9.30 am.  I haven't slept well again, despite the promise of 'regularised sleep patterns' after my oil dribbling session, and I don't know why.  I am awake long before the alarm rings.  We are the only ones in the restaurant and the Shortly to be General Manager Sujit is there, greeting us like his favourite Aunt and Uncle.  Ganesh is serving too, and afterwards takes me to see the acre of vegetable garden the Lalit grows, much of what is used in their dining room.   He has been here three years, and I comment how proud his parents must be.  Yes, ma'am.  He is one of eight children, and his family live in a rural village, his father and mother struggle, and his brother and his wife and their children live with them too, but Ganesh is the only breadwinner.  Oh my word.  How do people survive?   Once again, I have the desire to open my heart and my wallet, there are so many very worthy, very needy people, who need a hand up.  Today is the birthday of Mahatma Gandhi, and in his honour, it is Clean Up India Day, and everybody donates thirty minutes of their time to clean up, starting in their own homes, that was Gandhi's wish.  Sujit has left the restaurant to do his half hour stint, and Ganesh is off soon.  I accompany him back to the restaurant, and bow deeply to him and the staff, thanking them.  Oh, these are good people.

 

Dashing through the lobby back to the room, Christina stops me, the lady who welcomed us just thirty hours ago.  A tall, exquisite woman, expertly made up, wearing a plum and silver sari, she namastes and says "Maam, please I have a request.  Please come and visit my shop?  Just to look?  I waited for you yesterday but I did not see you."   I know what the prices are in five star hotel shops, and am in a hurry, but she pleads with her eyes, and I promise to come with my glasses.  Ten minutes later, all our luggage is in the lobby, and she is waiting for me.  Filled with treasures, heavily beaded clutch bags, silk dresses, jewelled ear rings, scarves and shoes, I am determined not to buy.  She points out brass and marble, ear rings and table runners, I shake my head.  She points to the scarves, no I say, I spent much time in Nepal, I have many many scarves and pashminas.  But she is laying them out.  What gifts?  Foolishly, I say, I am looking for my son's girlfriend.  Her face lights up like a Christmas tree.  Your son has a girlfriend?  Oh Maam, how exciting, and another ten scarves hit the counter.  Shaking my head, I make to leave, "Maam, I normally open this shop at 11 am, I came in at 7 am today just for you."  This is emotional blackmail, I never said I would, I never promised, and I think it is entirely inappropriate for a staff member to be selling goods like a Balinese vendor may have twenty five years ago, and I am irritated.  But then I see something, a treasure.  It is the most glorious scarf, made of silk and cotton, in colours of jewels with pulled threads which make rosettes at each end.  I am smitten and pick it up.  It is very expensive, but I know I am done for, this is so very Belinda, and I know she will love it.  I hand it to her, and she is overjoyed, perhaps her job depends on her making sales in this shop?  Just one, Maam, she has one last shot.  Just one, I say firmly, and get Gerald's credit card.

 

My Dad, my sister and my brother always called me Sandra, as in Saaahndruh, (long aaaaaa sound).  My Mom always called me Sandra, as in Sand (short a sound).   Gerald calls me both.  When he is pretending to be cross or shocked at something I have done, he calls me Saaaaahndruh..   When he is really mad or shocked at something I have done, he calls me Sandra, and the shorter the 'a' sound, the madder he is.  When he gives me the credit card, it is a very, very short 'a' sound in my name, as Pooper and he are waiting to get away.  He reluctantly agrees it is a indeed 'a most beautiful scarf' (nod of the head)  when he sees what we have bought Belinda, and he settles down to the journey. 

 

I am glad we left early, there are no cars, and we drive down wide avenues lined with trees striped with white paint, like Africa.  These trees belong to the Government and you cannot chop them down, Pooper says.  It's peaceful, people are sleeping or preparing for the Dhurga Festival.  A man rides by on a horse, birds sing, the tarmac is smooth, the dogs lope by, their distinctive curly tails reminiscent of dingoes. There are fields of chestnuts and rice, and Muhlua trees, from which they make wine from the fallen flowers.  We see dogs locked in copulation, and more dead dogs on the road.  I cover my face.  It's a strange thing, and I feel ashamed, but I feel more compassion for the state of the animals I see here than the children, all of whom have a family, even the beggars, but the plight of the animals undoes me.

 

Very soon the road disintegrates to a dirt track, filled with huge ruts and giant potholes, we bump from one side of the road to the other, trying to find the smoothest path, to no avail.  Pooper is constantly making decisions, not only about where he will drive, but making an education decision about where the oncoming vehicle will drive, I don't know how he does it. "This section is just 35 kms" he advises.  35 kms?  Of this?   But unexpectedly, we hit a small section of tarmac, and we speed along this for all of 500 metres, before it falls back into total disrepair.  Someone has thoughtfully placed rows of white painted stones, neatly across the road, and perhaps twenty foot intervals, in an effort to warn oncoming traffic that the tarmac is about to hit huge ruts and holes.   I see the same technique with a train crossing, there are no red lights here to inform anyone of an oncoming train, but three or four rows of white boulders which when you hit them, should alert you to the fact that there is danger ahead.   I think a very aware truck driver may stop four inches from the track, if he hasn't been drinking, which they do quite a lot, says Pooper, especially at night.  Oh God, it doesn't bear thinking about.

 

Imagine travelling up Kangaroo Valley road with a convoy of buses behind you, a convoy of buses in front of you, and a convoy of buses headed at you on what should be the 'opposite'( ha ha) side of the road.   Then imagine Pooper, hand on horn, making several attempts to overtake the bus directly in front of us, then again and again and again.   On a SINGLE track road.   It's quite a journey.  The truck in front has a sign "Horn Plese" - Pooper obliges. Why are the Dhurga women statues all pink, says Gerald, and not dark skinned, like Indian?  'Because women are beautiful, and they are pink.  Man has black skin, women have pink skin.  Krishna has black skin, and Radha has fair skin.  Rama has black skin and Sita has fair skin.  Kali has black skin and Shiva's wife has white skin, he is the father of Ganesh.  We see an Albino man, covering himself with a scarf, oh the sun must be blistering his skin.  We cross a tiny narrow bridge, perilously close to the edge, and there are no less than four huge trucks parked around it, doing repairs.  What the? 

 

As a precautionary measure, I have brought my ear plugs, in anticipation of Pooper's driving/horn blowing style, but for the first part of the journey they are unnecessary, due to the absence of traffic.   It's hot, very hot.  Pooper says that after March it is always 46 - 48 degrees.  Make another note, never visit India at that time of year.  With my ear plug now deadening some of the sounds, I fall into a fitful sleep, jolting around.  Oh, Phil Burgess, my darling Osteopath, I need you now.  'The rain kills the road' advises Pooper, it will be repaired next months, it will be 'patched' next month.  Some patching, mate. 

 

Pooper is quite talkative, explaining things to us.  I ask about him.  He is 39, married with three kids, aged 9, 5 and a baby girl who turned one year old yesterday.  His wife made him some sweet cakes for the journey, and he offers me one when I give him an apple.  We pass through village after village, each one of whom has set up a large tent with an image of Dhurga to celebrate this nine day festival, each village collects money from each person to pay for it, depending on their ability to pay. We cross a river that is full of crocodiles, it is the Ken River, and it is very clean, says Pooper, as the water does not go anywhere near the city. The villages are surrounded by green now, and the more we travel, the greener it gets.  The houses are low, with slooping roofs of wooden shingles, the lowest point only four feet high, many collapsing in the middle.  There are beautiful stone walls which stretch for kilometres, indicating the start of the game park, and dozens of monkies sitting on them, teak trees, and lantana everywhere - a major, major problem says Gerald. Buffaloes wallowing (if you see a buffalo doing this, you know the true meaning of the word 'wallow').  I remark that you could never walk alongside of a water buffalo in Africa, they are so dangerous and angry all the time, but these are as docile as lambs, and look so peaceful asleep in the water.  I want to join them.  A man passes us on a motor bike, he has several large metal pails, he is selling buffalo milk 'door by door' says Pooper. A line of ten females, each one loaded down with a bundle on their head of perhaps twelve logs of teak, fifteen feet long, going to try to sell them. Hard work for women, says Pooper, they will get only 150 rupees for that load, and they carry it 5 - 6 kms to market.  There are two young girls, about twelve years old, with loads as big as their mothers.  Females in India work very hard.  Village women have to do all the housework and the cooking, cleaning, washing, baby care, and homework of the older children.  It is much easier for city women, who go to the office.  I have always believed that, Pooper.  We are enveloped in a dark night suddenly, as a truck goes past, belching smoke, we cannot see a thing for some metres.  We passed the road which leads to a diamond mine, the town displays a huge statue of a diamond at the entrance.  This is not Rio Tinto, which is a big Australian mine, but a Government one.   The Rio Tinto mine is a long way from here, and we can only imagine what they get away with here.  A shop selling asbestos sheets, should you want any, is here too. Women near a water pump, beating washing with a fearsome looking stick.  Man, you wouldn't want to mess with them.  A girl, about three years old, running down the highway, bare foot, in a short top, no knickers, vehicles racing by. Pooper swerves to avoid a squirrel, so I am reassured he could avoid her too.  Two baby buffalo, in a small puddle of water, hardly wet, copying the action of the bigger buffalo, a few feet away, in a real waterway.  The water changes from petrol green to rosy red as we drive along, and it is undoubtedly beautiful.  Men on bicycles or walking, with a big black terribly British pukka umbrella.  Two boys about ten, holding hands and walking together, at this age in Australia, they would be too cool to do that.  A big cow with a peculiar long piece of wood tied around its neck.  It's a bell, for the farmer to find him in the long grass, says Pooper. 

 

People sitting at the side of the road, with their bums on the tarmac, feet dangling the few inches down on to the dusty shoulder, dogs and cows asleep on the road, a  bulldozer bucket on the road, with the bulldozer on the shoulder behind, a man in the middle of the road, staring into the distance, holding his back as if in pain.  Driver of all kinds of vehicles are on their mobiles.  In fact, there are mobiles everywhere - in the middle of nowhere, there are men and women, animatedly talking on mobiles.  Pooper's mobile has a particular Bollywood ring, it goes on and on, we hear it as he has left it in the car (air con on) whilst he has a cup of tea.  The noise of this country is constant and deafening.  A truck has toppled over, it's load scattered, wheels in the air.   A dead wild cat, more dead dogs, more cows. There are so many opportunities for death here, how many do die this way?  The road reminds Gerald of sections of the ZamTan Railway Road that was built in Zambia back in the early seventies by the Chinese.   

 

Do you want a rest room, asks Pooper.  I never say no to a restroom in India, and this is quite clean, but the man wants Pooper to buy petrol, which he dismisses, and gallantly escorts me to the loo.  The next loo we stop at is disgusting, and I remember this one fondly.  I love this air of authority.  We suddenly stop today, and he lowers the window automatically on Gerald's side, and holds a rapid fire Hindii conversation.  What is he saying, he surely cannot know this man?  This young man, clearly following instructions, reaches out on to our windscreen, and removes a dead butterfly.  Pooper doesn't acknowledge this at all, but raises the window, and drives off.  This young man probably feels he has done his duty to God and the Queen, but I feel badly about this kind of thing. People cooking at the side of the road, smoke rising under trees, mango trees galore, clouds of dust blocking our view from the bus in front.  Suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, a vast modern series of buildings.  What?  "A very expensive boarding school for rich people" says Pooper.  My word. Thousands of jute bags, laid out on a new road being built, wetted and dried, as part of its base.  Everything is used in India.  We pass beautiful water falls, and crumbling decaying mouldy buildings, cockatoos strutting, resplendent amongst the muck. A man loses a tomato out of the basket on his bicycle as he swerves to avoid a pothole.  A lucky cow will find that. Women wear saris on their heads only after they are married, unmarried women do not.  And women whose husbands have died, wear white saris, which is why I guess brides do not wear white. 

 

One kg chicken costs 150 Rp ($3 Aussie) and one kg mutton costs 650 rupee ($13 Aussie). Organic chicken is more.  A whole organic chicken cost 550 rupees ($11 Aussie) There are 'boilers' or 'free range'.  This strikes me as very, very expensive for local people. 

 

Pooper's rear view mirror is broken, 'another car came too close' - he has a replacement and will repair it in Bandhavragh. It is 270 kms from Khajuraho to Bandhavgarh, more than the trip from Jhansi to Bandhavgarh, but this trip, whilst long, is so much more tolerable, the roads are better, there is not a traffic jam, and we are moving all the time.  Plus I haven't had nearly three hours of Irene in my ear prior to the journey.  This is "A Happy" as Satish would say, something I am profoundly grateful for.

 

In a magazine "Exotica" from the Lalit Hotel, which highlights jewels and designer clothing and holidays in Mauritius and the Bahamas, I read this about some Ayurvedic oils:  "Add a few drops to your sink, and rub it well.  Your sink will be squeaky clean and incensed."  So if you want an incensed sink, you now know what to do.

 

 

Pooper says maybe we will see a tiger and tells us that the leopards eat the villagers dogs, so they keep them in at night, but the tiger eats animals and people.  The dogs eat the cats, so they live 'upstairs in the roof' which is why you seldom see a cat.  And the father Tigers eat their baby sons, as they are jealous, and want to be the only King of the Jungle.  The mother tiger does not eat her children, she is a fierce mother, and she will sometimes fight the father tiger if she fears for her baby son.  The father never eats the baby girl tigers.  Just like mothers everywhere, I say.  Yes, the mothers are the good ones, he responds.  There are many deer, and the villagers are not supposed to eat them, but they do, in secret.  It appears that people and cows and domestic water buffalo live in the park, unlike Africa.  The closer we get, we see spotted deers, so so so beautiful, just like Bambi.  And many monkies.  A dead wild cat. Oh we are getting very, very excited! 

 

 

I am writing this in a real life tree house in a real life Tiger Game Park in Bhandavargh, India. Oh what a place, I am living out a childhood fantasy.  4

We arrive in a dense green space, with thick dust underfoot, and met by Mahon and Ashish, anointed with a welcome tikka, and wash our hands in a clever tampon shaped hand towel.  It is placed on a dish, looking like a small Tampax, and a small jug of water is poured over it, and it expands before your eyes into a damp cloth.  Ingenious!   We are led along a pathway, very reminiscent of Africa, to an enclosed 'boma' of wood, an open sided house, shielded with heavy drapes to keep out the rain, built around a living pedal tree, there are wooden ornaments, and photos of wild animals.  There is a wooden staircase leading upstairs to a round bar room at the top of the tree, with comfortable lounges.  In the dining room, the tables are made of huge sections of tree trunks and polished to an amber glow, they are set with silver and glassware and white napkins, and there are five people lined up to serve us.  There are five tree houses here, and we are the only guests, reminiscent of our time at Sindabezi, off Victoria Falls.  Isn't that grand?   They are all namasteing and welcoming us, bringing cloths and drinks and although we say we are not hungry, food comes.  One man brings salad, the next a fish curry, the next some rice, the next some Dahl, the next naan bread, and then it's back to the first man, it's CHIPS.   Gerald had mentioned he felt like some Pringles, of which they had never heard - and Lo and Behold, they made him chips, just like my mother used to make. 

 

Formalities are over, do not tip the staff, please use the community box if you wish to.  Safari tour leaves at 5.30 am and back by 11 am, we have breakfast on the way, tell us this evening what you would like.  Evening safari leaves at 3.30 pm and back by 7 pm. Each day we will be allocated a safari guide by the government, and we can give him a tip of 100 rupees at the end of the safari if we are satisfied. You are safe here, but keep the doors shut, animals can come inside, there are snakes and spiders outside, always wear shoes.  It is still raining, the monsoon has been very good and abnormally long, use the umbrellas.  Mosquito nets too, and spray is available if you need it.   So we don't need an Askari with a gun to take us to the dining room at night then, as in Africa?  No, just a torch.  OK, let's go then, I long for a shower. 

 

Our tree house is Number One, and called the "Muhua Tree House" this tree bears fruit that the villagers make illicit wine from, so it's seems fitting that our retainers clank in with our wine and beer in my trusty orange straw bag.  Today, being Gandhi's birthday, alcohol is not allowed to be sold anywhere.  Not for our trusty Pooper, however (you may have detected I am warming to him) - he stops at an indistinguishable dusty hut at the side of the road, toots and a man comes running, a quick conversation in Hindii, and we have three bottles of beer.  Sorry Suh, they are 170 rupees today and not 150 rupees, because of Gandhi Day.  Gerald cannot conceal his delight and claps Pooper on the shoulder, who gives a rare grin.  You got good beer, Pooper!  Thank you!   (150 rupees is $3 Aussie).  "I will get you more tomorrow Suh, you will need more, you are on holiday, and it is hot."  As if he needs any encouragement, Pooper. But I am not complaining, Pooper has also sourced tonic water, a near impossible task in rural India.  As far as we are concerned, he is The Man.  He discreetly unloads it into out of the fridge and into my bag about a kilometre from the hotel, so as not to cast dispersion on his clients.  But when we get into our tree house, our retainers have already unpacked our illegal grog and placed it in the fridge, so the secret is out, we have cheapskates staying here, guys.  Beer costs 350 rupees here ($7) and a gin and tonic is 600 rupees ($12).  

 

This tree house, oh it is divine, the dream of children, and we get to live it out as adults.  We are escorted a good 300 metres from the dining area along a dusty track, and there it is, a huge tree, still living, and it is our house!  About forty solid black painted wooden steps leading up.  A retainer waits at the top to fling open the door, and we step inside.  It has a pitched bamboo lined ceiling, the walls are dark wood planks, nailed with big black nails, the floor of the same planking, but a lighter colour, the windows surround two sides are dark painted round logs, with embroidered cotton curtains tied in an X shape, heavy dark wood and glass doors with big black bolts open to a deep verandah, where there are deck chairs and a table and chairs, thick jungle all around us.   In the centre of the room is a huge four poster bed made out of varnished tree trunks, layered with white spotted muslin, tied with bows, and piled with pillows in yellow, orange and turquoise, as is the deep cushioned wooden sofa.  There is a coffee table, a small desk and chair at which I sit now, and shelving of polished wood for clothes.  The bathroom is all wood, a tall overhead shower, and a huge tree trunk holds a sink, the door is heavy and slides only when pushed with all my might.

 

Heaven.  We are here for three nights.  As you can imagine, it takes quite some time to sort out the fan, the lights (the room is dark despite the time of day, because of the wood and because it is cool), and the shower.  I nearly peel the skin off my back as the water is set to boiling, and my Technical Support gets to work immediately, he is a busy man, not only is he busy recharging his I Pad, my I Pad, my phone but has to deal with unpacking and hefting the suitcases, the lights, the shower, and the ice situation, necessary for a gin and tonic. I am grateful for this man. 

 

A little about Bandhavgarh National Park, from our itinerary.  "It is located in the Vindhya Hills in the state of Madhya Pradesh.  With a diverse variety of habitats it is home to a large cross section of game, including Royal Bengal tigers, in fact it has one of the highest number in India.   The park comprises a core area of 105 sq km and a buffer area of around 400 sq m.  It's topography includes steep ridges, undulating forest and open meadows, making it one of India's most scenic national parks.

 

Early morning and evening visits to the National Park cover steep cliffs, rocky hills and is covered with 44,884 hectare of dense Sal and bamboo forests, which make it ideal Terran for tigers.  Other inhabitants include leopard, jackal, jungle cat, wild boar, sloth bear, Ningali and bar.  Bandhavgarh attracts many migratory birds in the winter months, including birds of pretty - steppe eagle and a variety of wildfowl."

 

Ashish tells us that they opened just yesterday, the first day of the season, and one couple stayed overnight (we saw them leaving, a young modern Indian couple.). They went on a safari drive last evening and saw two tiger cubs, but didn't go out on the early morning drive today.  Perhaps they think they got their geographics wrong and think they are in the city of eternal lovemaking?  I ponder this;  perhaps they are on honeymoon?  But I keep that thought to myself, I hardly know Ashish.  I could stay in this tree house and write and make love and never leave for six months, so I understand the need of that young couple to make the best use of their time here.

 

We unpack, have tea and I sit and write this blog.  I have been here for nearly three hours, and it's dark now, I have a candle burning, as the lights are few.  I could be in Africa, but this is Incredible India, and I am very, very happy.

 

We walk to the dining boma via torchlight, and share a beer shandy in the library after climbing a wide ladder to the platform above, the high part of the tree.  A procession of hot snacks are brought up for us to eat, and we are stuffed by the time we sit down to eat eat an array of Indian delicacies for dinner.   We do not linger, it's a very early start tomorrow.  

 

Sleeping in our tree house under the mosquito net, listening to the rustle of the leaves and some unknown animals is an adventure, and I am here with my Beloved.  

 

 

 

Day 27 - 3rd Oct 2016 - Banhavgarh - Tree House Hideaway

 

HUNTING FOR TIGERS,  LIVING IN A TREE HOUSE AND A LESSON IN COMMUNICATION

 

I wake in the night, soaked in sweat, we had to turn the air con off as it was set at a savage 17 degrees and the fan operated at jet propelled speed only.  I cranked up the fan, but do not sleep well.  I wake at 3.45 am, and our wake up knock at the door is at up at 4.50 am.  A quick shower, the water is cold, I have not mastered it, either scalding or cold, I prefer cold, and the soap dish falls off the wall.  There is no shower cap, and even with the light on, it's pitch black outside and in here, the paintwork is black, and I bang my toe on the lip around the shower, and my knee on the tree trunk holding up the sink.  as it is outside.  But it's all detail, and we are excited, and head down the long track to the meeting point in the dining room.  A cup of tea and a cookie, and we are in the Gypsy four wheel drive by 5.30 am headed to the Tiger Park, a short drive away.  Six men farewell us in the pre dawn, carrying lanterns, smiling and namaste-ing, they all want us to see a tiger, and their teeth shine whitely. We have brought our jackets, which we have carried around without purpose, and I wonder why, but we do need them, for the first time in India, there is a chill in the air. I have my black pashmina, and there are blankets in the Gypsy, which I use to pad my back and my knees against the metal support bars. 

 

We are early, the first vehicle there, and our guide is Pravin, "an excellent guide" says Ashish, "he is currently working with the BBC doing a documentary about a family of tigers in our park, a mother with two cubs.  I use the toilet, the English Toilet, not the Indian Toilet, and although it has flash blue tiles and a flushing loo, it doesn't flush and there is no water in the sink either.  We are through the gates at 6.01 am and there are monkies galore, Mum's and Bubs, the black faced ones with the long tail, and the Rhesus Makak, which eats everything, the black faced one is a vegetarian.  They are so comical, and so human like, I think of our son and which he was here, he so loves monkies, and I recall our African Safari with him as a teenager.  He saw almost every animal possible in Africa, at close range.  And loved the monkies, best of all.  Then the elephants.

 

The forest is magical. And it is a forest, unlike the 'bush' in Africa, this is from a children's fairy tale.  It is lush, dense green foliage, dripping with dew, there are trees of every kind and Indian bamboo, ferns, and vines, huge Banyan trees (considered holy trees.  There is one in West Bengal near Kolkata which is five acres wide!)  teak trees, white cedar trees, mango trees, rushing clear streams, tumbling water falls, it is the end of a very, very good monsoon, and everything is washed clean.  The smell of rain lingers, birds sing in chorus, and fly overhead, there are many kinds here, parakeets, green doves, jungle bush quail, woodpeckers, a spotted owlette, barbet, the Indian roller, a white throated kingfisher, violet breasted rollers, peacocks, and more.  Butterflies of every colour.  And Bambi!  Oh my word, these are the most beautiful creatures, spotted deer, in groups that remind Gerald of the Impala in Africa.  Their huge doe eyes and beautiful white spots, underlined with a white stripe, give them such great camouflage, but they are not too shy, and we get many photos.  One very large male has the most magnificent set of horns, and he stands proudly in front of his family, as if to say "I am Master here."  We see beautiful cobwebs, stretched over bushes and trees, and a Frankincense tree, which I have never seen before.  The gooseberry tree is very important here, it has a high Vit C content.  A tree called the Sal tree, another new one for us. And a crocodile tree, whose bark looks just like the skin of a crocodile, and it is used as an antibiotic for sick cattle. The gor is similar to a water buffalo, and is huge, can weigh up to 1200 kgs, and can kill a tiger, we hope to see one, and of course, we are desperate to see a tiger. We see a wild boar running through the undergrowth, and hear a strange animal called the Barking Deer, which eats both meat and greens, they do not kill, but only eat carcasses, and it is them who barks like a dog and sends out the alarm signal when a tiger approaches.   

 

 

This is such a beautiful place, so peaceful, with not a soul around, people are not allowed to live within the confines of this park.  A Gypsy drives up behind us carrying an Indian family with a couple of kids, pleasantries are exchanged, and they drive on.  We are sitting watching some spotted deer when we hear a loud shout (these guides do not use walkie talkies as in Africa) and Ashish is galvanised into action, "Tiger!" He says,  hits the ignition and slams us into gear, and we are bouncing down the sandy track to the vehicle which so recently passed us.  They are snapping away, and pointing excitedly, there is a tiger just here, right here, just look, loooooook!   And we do, my heart is racing, we are peering into the thick green undergrowth, and cannot see a thing.  Ashish is saying "There there there!" - but no, it's gone.  We have missed it by seconds, although Pravin and Ashish, accustomed to what they are looking for have seen it.  And the Indian family have a small son, crying, he thought the tiger would eat him, but the father proudly show us photos of a huge regal male, taken seconds ago, right here a the side of the track.  A stab of jealousy.  I realise I have been looking for an animal of a different colour, this one has almost orange stripes.  Aha!  Gerald who should have been a game tracker, has excellent eyesight, and can spot an ant in a tree at twenty paces, has not seen it either.  Our eyes do not know what we are looking for.  We sit in blessed silence waiting, the game of anticipation, hearts racing, eyes constantly scanning.  But it is not to be.  We are disappointed, but we know probably better than most, that spotting animals is a game of chance, these are wild creatures, it's a matter of luck and timing, and it wasn't our time this morning.   We both feel very confident we will see a tiger.  

 

The guides are very excited, they have been away for three months during the monsoon, visiting family and now they are back, they are raring to go!  And they work so hard trying to find the elusive tiger.  The dense forest is so thick, that it seems to be that surely we can only see them if they come out on to the sandy track?  As the moment they walk back into the forest, they are swallowed up.   We travel on slowly, following the sounds of the barking dog alerting us to the tiger's presence, and the warning sounds of the monkies. We spend the next hour hoping for a sighting, but are not lucky.  We head to a clearing and have breakfast, it's almost 10 am, the guys stop under a shady tree and pull up a table which fits over the bonnet, and lay out a selection of food.  There are muffins, biscuits, Indian naan stuffed with veggies, fruit, cheese and tomato toasted sandwiches, and also chicken, tea and coffee.  It's a feast. We are all positive, certain we will see a tiger, we have been so close already. There is an English toilet which doesn't flush, and a sink without water, but my bag is full of tissues and sanitisers.  And my bowels are behaving themselves, you will be pleased to know.

 

We travel along sandy roads, there is a temple up the hill but we do not want to visit it, we have seen enough temples for a while.  Twice a year, people trek through this Tiger Park and climb the mountain for festivals, isn't that amazing? In this protected zone?   We stop at a beautiful dam for a photo opportunity, there is a hide above the dam, and a mountain "Like Table Mountain" says Pravin.  It's smaller, but flat topped, the scene is so breathtakingly lovely, and so peaceful.  It seems strange to us however, to be at such a magnificent water hole and not see zebra, giraffe, warthog, and elephant.  Our guides are good, well trained, very passionate and knowledgeable men, who have had much training and 'book learning' - but the animals are so rare here, that I do not think they have the opportunity to develop a lot of experience and 'hands on' the way guides in Africa do, (like a doctor with few patient to practise on) or to learn to develop that special 'sense' that African guides have, that almost animal instinct - they can raise their noses in the air and smell an animal, their ears pick up the smallest rustle, their eyes can see unbelievable detail, they follow their instincts.  Animals are few and far between here, although Ashish is very proud that this park has one of the highest concentrations of tigers in all of India, but the truth is, the Raj and the Emporers and the Kings and Princes did a very, very good job of eradicating much of India's wildlife. It's remarkable that they do not carry guns, but I guess they don't need to. 

 

We cannot, we must not, let that happen in Africa.  Send your donation off today for the conservation of animals in Africa, people.  

 

We head back to the camp, it's 11.30 am and it's getting very hot.  We pass an enclosure with a large Lingham and Yoni.  I tell you they are everywhere.  We give Pravin 400 rupees as a tip, as advised by Ashish.  We will have another guide this afternoon.  Pooper is waiting for us, with a wide grin.  He has purchased more beer and more tonic for us.  What a man!   Ashish advises that we have to be ready to leave at 2.30 pm.  Oh my word, it's all go, never a minute to spare.  I was hoping for a sleep.

 

And a man has just come to tell me that they are giving an Indian cookery class, just for me, at 12.45 pm.  How can I say no?  

 

I want to explain some of the difficulty in understanding heavily accented Indian English.

 

"Maam, you like to tease?"  Is this a question or a statement, I wonder. Excuse me?  "You like to tease."  Definitely a statement.  Do I like to tease?   Sorry, I didn't understand, can you repeat?   "You WANT TO TEASE."   Perhaps he knows more about me than I do.  Gerald approaches, and I look at him with a silent plea, help me out here.  "Suh, you want to tease?"  Gerald responds in a flash. No thanks, one tea and one coffee, milk no sugar.  Oh. 

 

There is no end to my Beloved's skills.  He worked with IBM for many years in India, and coached many Indian people, his ears are way more attuned to the accent than mine are. But still, not completely. 

 

This morning in the Gypsy four wheel drive on safari, Pravin our safari guide, is giving Gerald a detailed explanation, and frustratingly, all I can catch is the odd word.   

 

"Lkjsljhlkj tiger lingo isn birds use doon???"  He laughs, and so does Gerald, his face crinkled in mirth, clearly this is a good joke, and I am missing out. 

"Soo is forest lien riverside lweoioinno!!!!!"   This is something new for Gerald, he loves to learn and now he has learned something he didn't know, and raises both his eyebrows, impressed, and says  "Nooooooo!   Really?"

"Yes Suh.  Really.  Baby Cubs do oxnooiewqqoprn Ssieyni road.   The vehicle xoiunenenenen.  Last season.  Wwho Hopi  is, all GIE!  And the mother she woieu woo indie ast!"

Gerald is clearly astonished, he shakes his head in wonder, and says "Wow, that is amazing.  Truly amazing!"  and with a gallant sweep of his hand gestures towards the horizon and says, "And this is such a beautiful place!"

 

I am dying to find out what Pravin told him.  What did he say, what did he say, tell me?   "I have absolutely no idea." he says.   Perhaps he is tired, the challenge of translating Indian English into English has possibly worn him out.  Moral of the story:  all that glisters  is not gold, remember that. 

 

I have 75 minutes before the cookery lesson, I speed shower, delighting in the shower cap that Rajish has found me, he has also repaired the soap dish, and lowered the fan on the air conditioner.  What a good man.  Then I write this blog for an hour, and hurry to the boma for the cookery class.  Two fine chefs in immaculate white with big hats are waiting behind a huge outdoor tandoori oven, and as I approach alone, as Gerald has fallen asleep and piked out of this, seven staff snap to attention.  Rajish has an array of sparkling glasses lined up, and a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket, he is clearly dying to serve it, but if I drink wine, I definitely will not make the 2.30 pm departure to look for tigers.  This marvellous tandoori oven was MADE THIS MORNING by two Indian ladies, who live in the village 'and do this sort of thing as a kind of rental, gardening and such like' says Ashish.  (His name means 'blessing', isn't that beautiful?). It is made of mud and cow dung, it's about ten feet long, and three feet high, and decorated with elephants and people, it is a beautiful thing.  Rajish is clucking over me like a mother hen, and when I see the effort to which these men have gone, I send one of them back to get Gerald, saying firmly "Tell him his wife says he must come."   He does.   One man does nothing but move our chairs around, so as to keep us out of the smoke from the fire.  Rajish brings a standard fan outdoors with a very long cord.   The chefs cook two dishes, a Handi chicken and a lady finger (sort of like okra) in chilli sauce, but they are having trouble with the wood, which is wet, and smoke billows, and it's taking a long time, it is 1.50 pm and Ashish recommends they finish it off on the gas indoors, as we have to leave at 2.30 pm.  As I say, it's all go.  And it is absolutely delicious, they used all of the twelve colourful dishes of spices artistically arranged on a tray, including fennel both dried and ground, garam marsala, chicken marsala , ground chilli, turmeric, salt, whole chilli, ginger and garlic.   And some I didn't know and they could not explain.  We sit in the dining boma, and Rajish, who cannot do enough for us, brings out a huge home made air conditioning unit, the size of a sideboard.  It's absolutely ingenious.  There is a water trough underneath, sitting in it is a rectangular box, three sides of which are grass and wire netting, on the top of them is a pipe that carries water that drips down onto the straw, from a pump sitting in the sump.  On the front is a large fan which is controlled by a rheostat to make the fan go slower or faster.   Gerald an engineer, is in awe.  Bunnings would love it, it was purchased from a local market here in the jungle.   We do not eat much, we are tired, and there is just enough time to change into tiger clothing, and Rajish offers to bring our tea and coffee to the room.  He walks the long walk to our room, and places the tray on the table.   I go to pour a cup of tea and the pot is empty.   A confusion has occurred.  On our way out, I take the empty tea pot back to him, and he is devastated.  Worse than that, Ashish has seen it, and the look in his eyes as he looks to his boss, crushes me, I didn't realise.   I make a big joke and say it is funny, no problem, I smile and bow and thank him, but clearly he feels he has made a big boo boo.   As we leave, I say to Ashish, please do not be angry, it is nothing.  And he smiles and says he won't, Rajish and him are good mates, and these are all local men working here, they are learning, and their English is poor.  I am relieved. Seven men wave goodbye to us, smiling and bowing.  (When we come back at 6.30 pm Rajish is waiting with a pot of tea, and grinning from ear to ear.  Ashish says with a big smile, "Did you remember to put tea in it?" and Rajish laughs out loud.  He won't do that again.  I like this little man so much, he puts his heart and soul into what he does.  

 

We reach a different entry gate, and we get a different guide, his name is Amajit, and he speaks good English.  We give a lift to another guide, who is travelling elsewhere, and I feel that with three of them in the Gypsy, we will find a tiger, definitely.  The first animal we see is a jackal, and oh my, he is so like a domesticated dog, handsome and strutting, and then he jumps, like a goat.  There are many beautiful twisted vines which have climbed trees, and will eventually strangle them, but oh, so very beautiful, a work of art by Mother Nature.  Just as we have difficulty pronouncing certain Indian words, so do the Indians have difficulty with English words.  So any "W" sound becomes a "V" sound.  So 'wine' becomes 'vine', and 'what' becomes 'vhat'.  I like it.  The Sal tree is called the 300 year old tree, because it grows for 100 years, rests for 100 years before it is used, including railway sleepers, and then it lasts another 100 years before it finally decays.  Isn't that amazing? 

 

This is what we see as we bounce through ragged ravines, mountain pathways, mossy tracks, bone rattling rocks and smooth sand and sloshy mud, deep water, and small puddles, clinging with both hands to a rail to stop ourselves falling off.  We see many more birds, including the ones we saw this morning, and a hoo poo which we have in Africa, the drongo, a crested hawk eagle, an Indian roller, many many peacocks and peahens,  an Asian Paradise Fly catcher, oh my he is gorgeous! and a red jungle fowl.  We see cotton trees, and trees where both the spotted deer has left his mark, scratching off his old horns, which he eats -  (he grows new ones every year, which look like velvet before they mature and harden up.  How about that?). And other trees where we see the claw marks of tigers, ten feet up, as he sharpens those weapons.   We see the tiger's pawprints  in the sand, and we see butterflies (The Great Egg Fly) eating off tiger scat which is dried and full of spotted deer hair, and then even more pawprints, but sadly, no tigers.  We are in a state of 'high alert' all the time, eyes peeled, ears keenly listening, noses twitching, the the smell of tiger is evident.  He sprays his scent, which is what we can smell - it lasts for up to 16 days and is pungent, it marks his territory, and he also rubs his paws and cheeks on trees, releasing a pheromone, which leaves a message for any newcomers to the territory, telling them who he is, how strong he is, how long ago he was here, and basically Watch Out Mate, Keep Out, This is My Patch.  Bamboo everywhere, and trees of every kind including eucalypts and wine trees, and yes, they have a 'vine' snake, as we do in Africa.  Meadows of green and thousands of dragon flies, and hundreds of coloured butterflies, waterways and dams, waterfalls and springs.   There are moss covered rocks and caves, streams of crystal clear water, truly this is a beautiful place, like a scene from a child's story book, I fully expect to see fairies dancing at any time.  Much, much prettier than Africa.   Africa is raw and dangerous, but here the guides do not carry guns, people walk about clearly unconcerned for their safety.  We see the BBC van and stop to talk, a young man, English, with a pony tail, I ask him how the doco it going.  He says its 'going slowly.  The dense lush growth make it very difficult to spot the tigers.'   Yes, we know.  But apparently, shortly after this, they do see a tiger.  Dammit, we weren't there. 

 

There are many more spotted deer, mongoose, lots and lots of monkies, the tiny babies make my heart sing, and Gerald sees two mating, I am sorry I do not.  Monkies are very helpful, they send out alarm signals when the tigers are approaching, and they also throw fruit and leaves down from the trees to the spotted deer.  The tiger especially likes to eat the Samber deer, the spotted deer, and the barking deer, and the wild boar, but he can be a problem, he fights back with his horn, and can be very ferocious.  

 

We see a bicycle in the middle of the forest, leaning on its parking lever.  Looks ominous to me, but our guides don't seem to be worried.   Leaving the park we see a man riding through the jungle on a motor bike, laden down front and back with two huge sacks of rice.  Ashish and the guide do not seem to see the irony in this, but to us, it is extraordinary.   But unlike Africa, he is unlikely to be eaten by an animal, there are too few of them, and there is plenty of game for them to eat.    The tiger does steal cattle though, and when he does, the Government compensates the owners.  

 

Afternoon trip:  Sorry, this is lost.   It was ten years ago and the notes are ‘somewhere’.

 

Coming back in the dark along a major road is hairy.  This afternoon we have covered Route 2, and it's exit is a fair distance from the main gates of our Tree Top Home.   Sitting in the back of the Gypsy, without seat belts, in the dark, with no roof and no sides, and sharing a single track tarmac road with a series of vehicles, including a couple of buses, is unforgettable.  I can smell the body odour of the people we pass, we are close enough to shake hands, even a fleeting kiss, and it would have to be fleeting, as we are travelling around 30 or 40 kph.

 

The men have found a heavy wooden three stepped ladder for me to dismount from the vehicle, I think they were somewhat taken aback this morning when the old lady (me) nimbly leapt up into the jeep, swung her leg over the side, and climbed over the middle seat to the back seat, perhaps it's unbecoming.  Now I have a ladder.  I am sweaty, dusty and dishevelled, but hey, I can do regal - so I dismount royally, assisted by male hands on either side. Lanterns are held high, torches are guiding us, a cup of green tea and a coffee await, and Kumar carries the jackets and scarves and hats, my cushion, my bag, the camera, refills our water bottles, and Rajish lights the way to our tree house.   

 

Ashish is disappointed we haven't seen the tigers and our welcoming committee were genuinely interested to know if we had been lucky, each one shaking their head in sorrow at our misfortune.  Perhaps tomorrow, says Raj, raising an eyebrow, I get the feeling it is their personal responsibility to provide us with a tiger sighting.

 

A quick shower, a little blogging, and we descend the black steps from our tree house to the ground, a perilous journey, each step is a different width, and whilst there are lanterns guiding us to the dining room, the steps are dark.  Gerald is fiddling with a six inch lock, a four inch bolt and a key in the dark, holding the torch under his arm.  Insects sing, the air is warm, and there are unidentifiable noises.

 

We eat a meal alone in the romantic open dining area, lit with soft lights, and served by kind men.  We eat 'snacks' - so many snacks that dinner is not necessary, but we get both.   Vegetable mo-mo's, chicken mo-mo's, and another deep fried cheesy delight with hot mint chutney and a tomato and onion pickle, and there is naan. They have prepared us a western meal, grilled fish, spaghetti bolognaise, salad, and vegetables, decorated with a red rose, made of a tomato, so clever.   And we are so full. We speak with Raj, and I say I thought mo-mo's were Nepali - he is from Nepal! - from Chitwan, and we share our stories, we are almost kin.  He has three days ago, for the start of the season (as all these men have) returned from three months at home during the monsoon, he goes by train and bus, it takes 18 hours, and it will be another nine months till he returns home to his wife and son. He came here for work and is very grateful for the job.  He is also happy that we love the mo-mos.

 

We have been searching for game for ten hours today.   Five and a half hours this morning, and four and half tonight.   And we have been up since 4.50 am.  It is now 9 pm and I am cross eyes with fatigue.  We are guided back to our room by Kumar;  I don't know for sure, but I have the feeling he stands outside all night long to ensure we are safe. He will call Rajish from his bed should we need him, of that I am certain.

 

The jackals are moaning as I drink chamomile tea before lights out. 

 

 

Day 28 - 4th Oct 2016 - Banhavgarh - Tree House Hideaway

 

 

 NATURE BLESSES US AND A WET AND WILD RIDE 

 

Today is Nicole's birthday.  Happy Birthday darling Friend.

 

Day Two of our Search for the Tigers.   A 5 am wake up call, and last night I slept like a baby, I took some homeopathic sleeping aid, and placed the Night Queen Ayurveda oil behind my ears.   I have failed to master this rudimentary plumbing system.  The shower is either so hot that steam is rising like a sauna and the tap so hot I have to use a face washer to touch it, or freezing cold.   Gerald manages to find the sweet spot, given his engineering background, but I opt for freezing cold.   We are having tea in the dining area in the dark at 5.30 am.  There is great excitement.  Ashish has made an offering and prayed this morning that we get to see tigers and 'unusual sightings.'  

 

Mahon is driving today.  I joke with him that he will be our lucky charm.  Every time we stop to view something pointed out by either Ashish, the guide whose name is Gulab, or himself - he turns shyly back to us, and asks "OK to move on?"   He has no idea what a delicious man he is, he is shy and reticent, with none of the confidence of Ashish.  You could drown in Mahon's eyes, enormous oval dark pools, he has full sensual lips, his uncertainty is charming, and as he asks the question, he dips his head in the Indian way.  I am enchanted.   I love these young men, they are like kids at Christmas, having been away from their beloved forest for three months, they are literally champing at the bit to get back in there.  They so want us to love India, they are so willing, so deeply respectful and honouring, so very proud of their land and their forest and their tigers, and I feel it is such a privilege to be here in their company.  But believe this or not, the pleasure is all theirs, they love what they do, and they know their job is dependent on their guests having a good time, and they are truly are happy to share, and happy to serve.  This is a revelation to me, also someone who was born to serve, and I love their humility and their evident joy in their jobs.  When I start to pack up breakfast, they leap into action, I should not lift a finger.  I say 'please? I am a mother, I cannot help myself' - they understand this, they understand mothers, men here treat their mothers with great reverence.  It is interesting to me that these young men here defer to me, not to Gerald, I am the Mother.  Ashish brings a pillow to place behind my back in the jeep today, and I say, "I feel like a queen".   He responds, "You are the queen."   Whether you believe this or not, whether your cynicism gives you another viewpoint, these young men have a genuine affection for older - especially white - women.  Ashish is into personal development, and loves the book "The Secret" and mentions other inspirational speakers and books he has read.  When he hears we are both coaches, his eyes light up like diamonds.  "Oh, I want to talk about this very much with you!"  And we do, at odd moments throughout the morning, and he is hungry for knowledge.   He firmly believes in visualisation, 'That is how I got my camera Sandra, I wanted it so much, I imagined it and talked of it and put up pictures and drawings.   It was a manifestation.' Mahon turns to us today and says "Have you seen a Bollywood film called Bhagwan?"  Er, no, we haven't.   "You two remind me of that film.  It is a film with famous Indian movie stars in it, Amitabh Backhon and Hema Maline.  Do you know them?"   Er, no, we don't.   "It is an Old People Love Story" he says, smiling, "you must watch it."  I am utterly charmed, I wonder if Netflix has it?  Mahon tells Ashish that Gerald and I have been married for 47 years, and together for five years before that, just children.  Ashish is wide eyed.  He is 28 and his mother has been lining up horoscopes for ten years.    "Really?   What is the secret?  Can you tell us?"   Gerald and I look at each other, and I speak first, Say sorry.  Gerald adds, And then, ask how you can fix things. Ashish's eyes tear up, "I will remember that always."   He has a camera, a Canon with a 200 ml lens, which he saved up for for many years.  We have told him about Joshua and www.threesongsnoflash.com, and our pride in our son and what he does. I show him a picture of Josh, his Canon around his neck, and tell him that many pictures of our son feature a camera, it is Joshua's other limb.  He says the first day he got his new camera which took him years to get - "My health was not good so I did not go on morning safari.  Instead I walked to the temple with my new camera and thought I would get my camera blessed, and myself.   And on the way back, it was amazing, in the middle of the road, there was a leopard, posing herself for photos by me with my new camera.   And you know what Sandra, I cried real tears, knowing that my camera and I were indeed both blessed."   That is the kind of man Ashish is. He and my son would be firm friends, I am sure.  He handles that camera the way Joshua does, with the gentle hand of a new father cradling his firstborn. 

 

We leave the camp by lantern light, with the line up of six smartly dressed men, placing the ladder to the jeep just so for me.   As I step on to it, one of the legs wobble on an uneven bit of ground.  Four pairs of hands reach to save me.  I feel like a  heroine about to faint in a Victorian novel, surrounded by gallant men prepared to lay down their lives for me, or at least, their cloaks.

 

The bureaucracy in India may be its undoing.  We are at the gates to the park.  There is so much paperwork and so many stamps and 'permissions' required.  Each time we enter the park, there are a sheaf of forms to complete, each time we have to show our passports, there is even carbon paper, and copies made, and stamps being stamped.  The park guide is supplied and he is listed, this morning we have Gulab, a quiet man who catches all the jokes in English and smiles a lot.   The driver is listed.  And the tour guide is listed.  The guests are listed.  The vehicle is listed.  Time in and Time out.  And entry and exit times are strictly controlled, 6 am - 11 am and 3 pm - 6 pm.  Five minutes late is barely tolerated, anything later, and the tour guide and his lodge are banned for a MONTH.  That could be worth someone's job.  And apparently, you are only supposed to sit and view the tigers for five minutes IF you see them. 

 

But looking for tigers here is very different to game viewing in Africa, here it really is like searching for a needle in a haystack.  Whilst Ashish and the Indian authorities believe there are many tigers here, compared to the 'per capita animal rate' in Africa, which we are accustomed to, this ratio is very, very low.  You do have to be very, very lucky to see a tiger here.  The core area is 105 sq kms, and the buffer area around is 400 sq kms.  Tiny compared even to the Kruger National Park. 

 

There are five jeeps ahead of us in the queue, we were the first yesterday, and I feel a sinking in my heart, all these jeeps will scare the tigers, surely?  And they are filled with school boys from a posh Indian school, surely like all kids they will talk their heads off?  Ashish beams.   "Children are always lucky!  This is a good day."   Did I tell you how much I like this young man?  Today we are travelling on Route 2, yesterday was Route 1, all the vehicles take different routes so there is no congestion. 

 

I have discovered there is a gap between the top cushion and the bottom cushion in the jeep, and yesterday I placed my phone and my note book beside me, at the ready for photos and notes.  After jolting around for a good half hour, I looked down and could not see my phone.  Panic, I scramble around for it, and grab it, just before it headed between those two cushions onto the road below. Phew. 

 

But the park is eerily quiet, yesterday there were herds of spotted deer and monkies galore, but nothing.   A few birds, an owl eagle, a pied hornbill.  The forest, I know I already told you, is glorious.   In this land where there are so many people, this place remains untouched, despite the fact that people - even the guides! - ride motor bikes through it, filling the place with motor vibrations, and one would think, disturbing the peace of the animals.   When the vehicles stop to view, there seems to be little regard for the animals, people talk and laugh and shout information at each other, why aren't they told to shut up I wonder?  We see some tiger paw prints, Ashish explains to us the fairly complicated arrangements of tiger families.   The mother shares her territory with her daughters, but the sons leave.  The mothers live to be about 16, and have 3 - 4 litters in their lives, they look after each litter till they are over two years old, and will continue to suckle their babies 'in play' after they stop feeding, about three months old. He says he has great respect for tiger mothers 'they do everything, the man does nothing, she has to give birth, protect, feed, train her babies, fight off even the father who threatens to kill her son'.   I must read "Life of Pi" again, both Ashish and Mahon agree it's a great book. 

 

What a magnificent place!  The sunlight filters through the most glorious green plants and golden, silver and orange trees, lighting leaf litter on the ground, it touches the moss covered rocks, the dainty streams, gullies and ravines, the sandy track and the red mud and the mountains.  Even the evil, prolific lantana looks beautiful.  There is not the destruction of Africa, where elephants rip trees out of the ground leaving mayhem behind them.  True, this is the end of the monsoon, and everything is lush and green, and every animal we have seen is sleek and fat and healthy.  Generally, when we go on safari in Africa, it is at the end of the rainy season, and the animals are desperate for water, lean and hungry.  This lush growth makes our job of tiger spotting all the more challenging.  As we drove through the gates this morning, an unidentified animal, maybe a cat of some sort, dark brindled fur, scampered across the road, it was about the size of a beagle.  A second later, it was gone, into the thick undergrowth, just disappeared.   Oh no, my heart sings, there could be tigers everywhere, looking at us, in this thick growth, how on earth will we see one?  And to add to my concern, Ashish says "Sandra, it is the start of the season, so we do not know the habits of the animals yet, the new routes they have found during the monsoon."  

 

Sadly, hardly any animals.   Some Macau monkies, with their red faces and red bums and big balls, cute as anything. And black faced monkies.  They sit lolling in trees, their chin on their hands, contemplating.   I laugh out loud.  I know why Josh loves them so much.  We see falling down wooden structures with broken platforms and ladders, which were once used for elephant rides, now banned, everyone is happy about that.  We stop at a security check for a pee.   I discover a new toilet, neither English or Indian.  It is very clean, but not functional.  It is a small horse shoe shaped depression in the porcelain tiles, about 1/4 inch deep, with a small plug hole, the size you would have in your bathroom sink. A tap sits above it, but it has no water and there is never any loo paper.   What the?  I look around for somewhere else to pee, no, this is it.   OK then.  What would you do if you had to poo?  Where would it go?  Fortunately, I don't, and I leave that dilemma to be sorted out by someone wiser than me.

 

The jeep stops suddenly.  There are tiger tracks.  A mother and four Cubs.  Ashish says they are very fresh, just this morning, and we follow them.  He knows this family, and is very excited, his movements urgent and his voice a staccato to Mahon.  A couple of spotted deer dash across the road, as beautiful as you could imagine.   And then, up ahead, the BBC jeep, it's huge camera lens trained to the left, and a jeep filled with school kids, eyes pointed directly ahead.   We slide to a halt in the sand, and oh my God - there is a tiger.   A TIGER!   Four tigers, in fact.  In our jeep of five people (three guides and us) there is an immediate mad scrambling of people climbing over seats, reaching for cameras and I Phones and binoculars.  My heart is pounding, Gerald is already snapping away, I have ditched my phone and Gulab hands me his binoculars, something else I am not really good at.  I don't really need them, as there are two playing like kittens out in a leafy clearing, boxing each other around the ears, and one strolling past, one can only be seen by his ears and a tail, behind a tree.  I persevere with the binoculars, and can easily see their magnificent stripes, as if someone has taken a fine paintbrush and with swift strokes, like a Japanese painter, created this work of art. Both tips of their ears have a small white spot, their colours are mustard and orange and yellow and white, these look just like the tiger in the book and film "The Life of Pi".   There is silence in our car, apart from the odd English "Oh my God.  So beautiful.  Beaaautifffffooool.   Look at that.  Amazing, " from both the Indian and the Australians. I remove the binocs from my eyes because I am weeping, I need a tissue, and I see  Ashish, whose face is a picture, he and Mahot are high fiving each other.  The guide is grinning and they do the 'man hug' thing.  "Why are you crying?" says Ashish, but I cannot speak, I just shake my head.  I grasp his hand, and the intensity of my grip surprises not only him, but me, and I kiss it.  He shakes his head, but his eyes never leave mine in a silent message, and he tears up, this is definitely  'A Happy', Satish.   I shake the hands of the two other men, and kiss my Beloved.  This is A Moment.   But we are back to tiger watching.   They are the 18 month old cubs of Rajeehra, she is ten years old and this is her second litter, there are three males and a female.  They do not give the cubs names until they 'leave home' and create their own space.  We sit there in reverent silence, at least in our jeep, for an hour, whilst the BBC guide laughs out loud, two officials on two different occasions drive up on loud motor bikes, the kids jeeps come and go, with lots of excited chattering.  We watch these magnificent animals play, stroll, sleep, scratch, lick and roll around in the litter like kittens.   What a sight.   How many people in the world ever get to see this?  How lucky are we?  Gerald and I exchanges many glances, no words need to be spoken, what a joy, what a gift, what a blessing.  Ashish, your prayers worked.   And he asks me later "Did you visualise that?"   Yes, I did.  He also asks "Why did you cry today?"  For the majesty, the beauty of nature, for the plight of the tiger, for the blessing of seeing such magnificence.  He nods wisely, 'many people who see tigers get very emotional and cry.  It is the majesty, yes?'   Yes.  The cubs (and don't let that word 'cub' fool you - these are huge animals, four or five feet at the shoulder, not little toy like kittens)  eventually slope off into the undergrowth, we can see a tantalising glimpse of an ear, and a tail, or a brief flurry of movement, and we wait, but they are now having a mid morning nap, and we wait some more, till Ashish says we should have breakfast (we cannot eat here) - and come back.  Gerald wants to forgo breakfast and stay here, waiting for more tiger action, but Ashish decides we must eat. Which is what we do, a repeat of yesterday's feast, but this time, filled with slaps on the back, excited sharing, and an acknowledgement of Mahon as the Lucky Charm.  Gerald says he is wearing his Lucky Underpants, I say it is my Lucky Blouse - but Ashish and I know the truth.  It is his prayer and our visualisation.  He is assured of a very good season ahead, this is only Day Two of the new season, and he has seen tigers both days.

 

Whilst I have expressed my thoughts that tigers are hard to see here, Gerald says that in an area this small, that 65 - 70 tigers is actually quite a big number, so when Ashish says 'there are tigers everywhere here' he is right.  His own parents however have visited him here, and he sticks his tongue out in despair, on FOUR safari drives, never saw a single tiger!  We are lucky indeed.   This afternoon he wants to show us the Mother and the Father.  I tell him, I don't need to see another thing, I am completely happy and satisfied.  We head back to the place we spotted the tigers and the BBC crew are still there, they have not come out of the undergrowth.  Do we want to drive up the mountain and see the temple?  No, says Gerald, we have seen enough temples, we want to see tigers.  We sit for twenty minutes, but then, we have to leave.  Suddenly there is this frenetic pace, it is after 10 am and we have to be out of here by 11 am or there is a big problem, and we have a verrrrry long way to go, says Ashish. Can we go now?  Yes, we can.   Mahot takes off, Ashish says "Hold on tight" - and we are dashing down sandy tracks, corkscrewing around corners, and splashing through flooded runways.  Every time we come to a low hanging branch or bush, one of the guys will turn around and say "Watch out!  OK?"  I feel like I am on an outing with my mother, the care we are being given.  We spot a wild boar, like a wart hog, running across the track.   We see a domestic elephant! - scratching himself on the bark of a tree, we stop for a monitor lizard, sunning himself in the sand and eating the insects with his long tongue.

 

But the 11 am deadline looms, and although Mahon is the designated driver, he is new to this park and does not know these roads and not driving fast enough for Ashish.  All three men are checking their I phones, we are not going to make it to the gate by 11 am, a quick conversation in Hindii ensues, and the jeep stops again.  We stop, and they swap seats.  Hold on to your hats, he says, and shortly after, the guide notices that my hat flies off.   We reverse quickly, and with great efficiency Mahon opens his door, leans down to the sand, picks it up, brushes it off, and hands it to me.  The pace is fast and cracking, we are bouncing and jolting so hard it is hard to speak, my hands are gripping the bar in front of me so hard my arms are aching, and every now and then, both Ashish and Mahot turn back and say "All OK?"  It's like being on the roughest ride you can imagine at Disneyland, oh my God, this makes the journey with Pooper look like a serene picnic, I am grateful for the deep pillow preventing the metal frame of the seat cracking my back, and grateful for my Alexander Technique cushion I am sitting on, I have cushioned my knees with a thick blanket against the metal frame of the seat in front, removed my hat, and screech with fear and delight.  We have no seat belts, this is absolutely crazy, if this tipped over, we would be decapitated or break our necks, but we are in India, not Australia.  I shout "Stirling Moss at the wheel!" and all three men know who he is, and laugh a little madly.  Ashish is having the time of his life, his job depends on this, imagine being responsible for having your lodge banned for a month from the park, how many visitors you would lose?  Good job we don't see any tigers, because we cannot stop.   Gerald and I have a mad moment considering what would not be a very good joke, we should yell out "I need to pee!" or "TIGER!" but the seriousness of the situation is evident, they speak quickly and tell each other the time often.  The minutes tick by carefully monitored by all three men, and the vehicle slides sideways to a halt.  Ashish and Mahon change seats, why?  We are getting to the gate, and Mahot is the designated driver, Ashish cannot be seen to drive.  We squeak to the gate by two minutes to 11 am.  Oh My God.  WHAT A RIDE.  I suggest that if we are late, I could plead a bad bout of diarrhoea or what about a heart attack? But Ashish shakes his head sadly and says we need a doctors certificate.  What if we spotted tiger in the road?  No, you have to be out by 11 am, and really are only supposed to sit for five minutes with a tiger.  That foiled that subversive plan. We make it out with a minute or two to spare.  

 

We are chattering like children, so excited, and all a little out of control.   Driving back to our lodge, we are all like, Man, did we ever have a DAY, or what???  There are many guest houses in this vicinity and we pass by the Kum Kum Home on our return journey.  I feel that is an unfortunate choice of name, don't you?  We pass a man washing a shiny new four wheel drive parked in a stream, children splashing, people on bikes, and dogs and cows everywhere. 

 

The welcome team are waiting, and burst into enormous grins as we give the victory sign - yaaaay, we saw the TIGERS!!!!!!   I alight from my carriage with as much solemnity as I can muster, considering which outstretched male hand I should grasp for support as I do so.  A cold drink awaits, Rajish and Raj and Kumar and all those lovely men, so so so happy for our experience, so so so happy we have seen their tigers.   I am busting with happiness.  Saying thank you, I kiss Ashish and Mahot on both cheeks.  I can see that this is not an every day occurrence;  they are delighted and their eyes twinkle.  The other five men are beaming like new fathers, this is indeed novel.  

 

I ask for tea, and a bucket of ice, can they bring it to the room.  Of course they can.  A few minutes later, I look out and there are   Kumar and Rajish and fighting for control of the tray, like kids on Mothers Day morning, 'let me carry it' - 'no I want to carry it' - 'you carried it last time' - so they compromise, Kumar carries and Rajish walks alongside of him, just in case I should need him.

 

I shower, and sit and write this blog.   A gin and tonic by my side.  Lunch is brought to the room by the smiling Nepali Raj.   I nap for twenty minutes under the ice cold air con, covered in my pashmina and a towel.  After a cup of tea at the central boma, we leave at 2.30 pm.

 

More paperwork at the gate, patiently and expertly attended to by our able team, and our  guide this afternoon is Ramkrepal, an older man, with I suspect, considerable experience, he has an air of authority about him.  One off the jeeps carrying a couple we have seen twice is at the gate with a white woman in the front seat, she runs a camp here, and is married to an Indian man.  She tells us they saw Spotty this morning, strolling down the track, and with an air of superiority says "You should have stayed with us this morning."  The young woman in the back confirms this by showing us an incredible shot of Spotty doing just that.   Throwing this gauntlet down makes Mahon and Ashish all the more determined to find the adult tigers, the parents of the cubs, we set off in the blazing heat, I have to cover my hat with a scarf in an attempt to keep the sun off my cheeks and neck.  I hope I look like Katherine Hepburn in African Queen, but a selfie proves otherwise.  We see so many birds, my eyes are not nearly as good as Gerald's, but the men see everything, there are so many peacocks and peahens, yellow woodpeckers, a stork, a crested serpent eagle, and yellow butterflies too, a black footed oriole, spotted deer, huge sleek Samber deer, and many many monkies.  Several are sat at the side of the road, so close I could shake their hands, grey and grizzled, they remind me of my Uncle Jimmy in West Hartlepool.  One is diligently stripping the skin off a juicy section of sugar cane for an afternoon snack, a mother holds her baby more tightly, and turns away, the baby peeking from under her armpit, another scratches her bum.  

 

He asks us which is the best cat we have ever seen, he knows we have only seen the tigers once but have seen many cats in Africa.  That's a hard one, Gerald says the leopard for its grace and elusiveness.  I say the lion for its power and it's majesty.  He too, likes the leopard.   Every living thing thrills Ashish.   His eyes glow, he frequently turns around to us and says "Beautiful, hey?" as if he needs confirmation that he is seeing things right.  He is so proud of his country and all these animals, it moves me to watch him at work.  This is not a chore, this is a gift he gets to do each day.  His father was a Forestry Ranger, and when I say Ashish is following in his footsteps, his Dad must be proud, he says no.  Ashish did a degree in engineering, followed that at Tata Motors for a couple of years, but discovered that career and being indoors, was not for him.  Now he loves what he does, but earns little money which he spends on cameras and equipment as he is a passionate photographer, a naturalist, he manages this safari lodge, and his happy.  But his Dad would have liked him to be an Engineer.   He has a married sister with a Bub and another on the way in England, whose husband works for a shipping company.  He would like to travel and work elsewhere, perhaps New Zealand and Norway/. Why Norway, I ask?  Because of the Northern Lights, he says, as if that explains everything.  He asks me to give him 'the basics of leadership' - well now, how long have we got?  Gerald and I speak of creating specific goals, and following up with action, and explain the basic tenets of coaching.   He says he wants to be "the richest man in India".  I say how about "the happiest man in India?"   He counters with, 'well you can be rich and happy, that is better.'   True.   But I know many rich people who aren't happy, Ashish.  

 

 The three men work so hard to find us a tiger or two.  And we see their tracks, many tracks, on several different dusty tracks, we smell their urine, they have only just passed says Mohan excitedly, Ashish is twitching with excitement, they are here somewhere close!  There are warning calls happening, a kind of monkey telegraph, where one sends out an alarm signal, and another takes it up, across the jungle "Beware! Tiger coming!"and the monkies are swinging through the trees in alarm.  We stop at a clearing where a man is overseeing probably forty people who are cutting or weeds - but not the lantana Gerald notes - including women in saris, and men in shorts, using slashers.   A rapid conversation in Hindii.  "He says the tiger was here in this field just five minutes ago and went that way!'   We race off, bouncing down the track, following large footprints, footprints which weren't here just minutes ago, as they cover our car tracks.  A pungent smell is in the air, they are here, they are here.  We stop and wait.  Nothing.  We move a couple of hundred metres further on, and wait.  Nothing, the men are scanning the horizons with binoculars, Mahon has his hands cupping his ears, straining for sounds, we are bending down to look in the low undergrowth.  Nothing.   They decide to take us back to the track we were on earlier, as they suspect the tiger, Dotti has cut through to her sister Spotti's territory, and a frenetic, bumpy twenty minutes later we are there.  Ashish speaks of these tigers with the affectionate familiarity most of us speak about our friends, their habits, their homes, what they like to eat, who their mates were, their particular way of being with their babies.   I guess they spend a lot of time with them, and know them well.  He shows us some amazing photographs he has taken of them, and can instantly identify each one, although they all look very similar to us.   More tracks!  Several alarms are sounded.   But we see nothing.  It is so thick and green, they could be sitting just feet from us and we would never know.  All conversations are in whispers, we do not want to frighten them away, and urgent.  "Keep your eyes peeled".  "What was that?"   But luck - and visualisation and prayer - are not on our side this afternoon, and the sun is sinking, we have to be out of the gate by 6 pm.   We have forty five minutes left, and each one of those minutes is spent in an intense search, driving up and down, around and reversing, stopping and listening, waiting and hoping.  But nothing.  The men are dejected, and I try to cheer them up by talking about the 'superior' women earlier who suggested we should have stayed with them and saw Dotti this morning.  Ashish says "You don't win every time.   Some days she does, some days we do."  

 

Tigers have pink noses as babies, and as they age, the nose blackens.  "The reverse of people" says Ashish, "our hair is black to start with and then goes grey as we age."  

 

As we drive back into the camp for the last time after our safari, the gold lanterns are shining, the row of welcome men standing - how do they know we are coming?  No phone call has been made, and there is no walkie talkie?   Without words, their faces ask "Well, were you lucky, did you see an elephant?"  Ashish is disappointed, his face tells it all, but I want to talk shoutily and tell them how hard these guys worked to find the elusive tiger and how very, very close we were, how they tracked and diverted, and changed plans and discussed.  But we saw so much else, and the experience is not diminished one iota.  And this morning we saw FOUR tigers!   The ladder is ceremoniously placed at the side of the jeep, all our belongings are handed over and shared amongst our bearers, lanterns are held, and I alight once more, for the last time actually, from my royal carriage.  The ladder does not move an inch, they have it firmly held in place now with feet and hands.   But seven hands are extended gracefully towards me to take my hand, like Ganesh in some ways, and I feel completely and utterly honoured.  Rajish pours tea and Kumar stands patiently waiting, laden with our belongings, his force at the ready to guide us to our tree house.  One evening four years ago, under tree house number four, there was a tiger, so the accompaniment of Kumar is just taking care of the guests.   He's ready for a tiger.  Ashish explains when we ask how people wander around without apparent fear in a tiger park well populates with tigers, that the tiger generally does not eat humans, but if he gets bold, people take a big stick and crack it on the ground in front of them, or stand with their hands in the air, to make themselves look bigger, and the tiger will turn away.  So if you are ever faced with a Royal Bengal tiger, just grab a stick or put your hands in the air, don't forget. 

 

We eat dinner at a big table, with Raj and Rajish in attendance, the home made air conditioner working a treat, the team of men are around the corner working.  Every time I walk past them, they all stand up, despite my protestations.  These old fashioned aristocratic English manners and formalities charm me, where else in the world does this happen?  Ashish shows me a small book by the great cricketer Dhoni, five steps to success with analogies to cricketing, it is well done, and the pages are bent in at the corners with pieces he particularly likes.   I expect this young man to do great things. Gerald shows the men pictures of Zambia, Botswana and Namibia, I write in the visitors book, and write out our details for Ashish and Mahon.  I talk with Raj and Rajish.  

 

We have rearranged our suitcases, and as planned, are leaving things behind en route, and brought a box of clothing and books to leave here.  Ashish says "Do you want to give it to the poor, or shall I distribute to the staff?"  Whatever you wish, but perhaps the staff?  I think my new black cotton pants, never worn, and my asexual blue sensible canvas rubber soled slip ons will fit Rajish's small feet.  He is so like Masson in Zambia, we show him pictures.  Masson's face is black and Rajish's is brown, but they share the same, delighted, shy, eager to please huge smile, and the same small compact strong body.  Rajish bows his head in pleasure to see this, and when I tell him I have written his name in the guest book as excellent, he can barely contain himself.   

 

We are farewelled by ten men, then guided to our tree house by the protective Kumar, drink tea provided by the nurturing Rajish, and fall asleep under the big white mosquito net, grateful for a stunning, unforgettable, beautiful, amazing, wonderful, fantastic, absolutely perfect day.   Thank you God, thank you Mom and Dad. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day 29 - 5th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal Palace

 

A NO GOOD, NASTY, VERY BAD, TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, UGLY DAY

 

Fortunately I do not know that when the day begins.  But as one of our guides said "Nothing is free in India."  Yesterday was The Best Day. 

 

I am awake at 5.30 am, my Beloved is asleep, and I lie with the fan whirring, thinking.  We are up and packing by the time Rajish comes to the door, having trekked up three hundred metres to our tree house and then up thirty steep and uneven steps carrying a heavy tray, with our tea and biscuits.  "Good Morning Maam!  Did you sleep well?"    I want to hug him.  When does he sleep?  Even Gerald is unable to master the shower this morning, and has it icy cold.  An old lady complaint has happened to me in the last day, my ankles have swollen badly, I have no ankles.  This has never happened to me before, and I am concerned, I know it's stinking hot, but am I retaining water?  We have been on the go, solidly for twenty nine days, without a real rest day, and I am tired, my body is letting me know.  Gerald has all the bags packed and locked, and waiting at the door, and goes to breakfast;  I do something I have been wanting to do since we got here, I go to the Bicycle Station and ride a bike to breakfast, the men are waiting, Mahon takes a picture, they are proud of me, an old lady, fancy, riding a bicycle!  A big breakfast of fruit and cereal, Marsala omelette, naan, vegetables, and tea and coffee.  A picnic box of biscuits, fruit and muffins hello together with elastic bands is placed in the car, Pooper is waiting for us for an 8 am departure.  There are 22 staff here, and we have been the only guest here for three days - two more are coming tomorrow -  and I think most of them are waiting to say goodbye, we have a flurry of photos and namastes and bows, Ashish and Mahon get her the men to line up for formal farewells.  Oh my word, this row of smiling faces, nodding and bowing goodbye.  There may be some who disagree with what I do, and how deeply I allow myself to love people, and how easily I show it.  I think at almost 68 years old, I can do just about anything I want now, and people can like it or not.  So I decide to say goodbye systematically, Gerald is in the car waiting somewhat impatiently, but he knows it is pointless to intervene.  I start at one end, clasping their hands in mine, bowing and then holding their cheeks.  I wrap my arms around Rajish, who flaps his hands in the air for a while, and then hugs me back.   When we part his eyes are moist.  The same thing happens with Raj, and I go down the line then, shaking hands.  Mahon has given me a note telling me that he will never forget me, my kindness and that he feels like I am his grandmother, this is his first experience in this game park, and his memory of me is "once in a lifetime" - and when I hug him, I start to cry, and his eyes well up too.  Ashish alongside of him is alarmed, for him or for me, as his eyes are teared up too -  "Don't cry Sandra!" but I am, he reaches down from his basket balling 6' 3" frame and envelops me, I reach up and cannot see his face for tears, "We will meet again, send Joshua!" Gentle India.   I climb into the car weeping, and the men all wave as we pull away, in the Royal Carriage.   The kindness and generosity of these men have moved me so deeply, and the comment about being Mahon's grandmother undid me.  Gerald and I will never live long enough to have grandchildren of his age, 26 years old.  My parents had Joshua, when they died he was 32 years old.  

 

We drive out the gates, and at the first water crossing, we come across the local Car Wash.   Water has covered a small causeway, and five cars are being washed by their owners, we cannot pass, and they have to slosh through the water and reverse a couple out.  Innovative India.  Pooper says he has seen many tigers on this road, and many dancing peacocks, have we seen dancing peacocks?  We haven't but Gerald has his eyes peeled for tigers, one last chance to see the elusive tiger. Unfortunately we don't but we see spotted deer, lots and lots of monkies, and wild pigs. The drive is beautiful, peaceful, serene and green, there are hardly any cars, the road is excellent, there are lush green hills and towering trees, cattle grazing, herds of fifty buffalo being herded by a man in a white dhoti with a short stick.  They are ambling along and Pooper needs to get by, he is tooting and they are paying absolutely no attention, taking up the whole road.  He stops the car and gets out, and speaks very shoutily to the herder, who simply dips his head, and prods a couple on their rear tends, and they move slowly to one side.  

 

We are speeding along making great time.  It's amazing how quickly we have become accustomed to travelling this way, along a single track tarmac road, hardly blinking as a car coming from the opposite direction is speeding directly at our car, and at the last possible minute, both cars nudge their wheels gently to one side, and we pass on the same strip of tarmac, side swiping each other by centimetres. Pooper is from the Warrior Caste, and it shows in his driving technique.   He tells us his two older kids go to a private school, and it costs him 1500 rupees a month, that's about $30 Aussie, a lot of money.  Education is so important to the Indian nation, and there are so many highly educated people doing fairly menial jobs, I guess it must be very, very hard to reach the top percentile in anything in India, given there are 1.26 billion people here.  So much skill, resource, energy, education, willingness, relatedness and ability, I admire the Indian people so much, and oh, I like them even more. 

 

Men pass by on bikes with black umbrellas, as solemn as undertakers in the rain. A group of men sitting casually on the road, in a semi circle, having a meeting.  On the road, why?  Cars just swerve around them.  A motor bike passes, adult son driving, aged Dad wedged in middle and chubby Mum bringing up the rear.   Another, parent with three kids wedged between them, speeding along.   In a small village, I watch a three year old boy, wearing a t shirt and no pants, climbing on to his Dad's bike, fiddling with the gears and dials.   Boys.   There are dozens of monkies all over the place, running over the road, chasing goats, grooming and reflecting on life.  A tuk tuk passes by filled with string bags of onions, hundred weights of onions, the bags are hanging out the side doors and the back door, and believably, there are people perched on top of them, with their legs hanging out the doors, clinging on to those onion bags for dear life.  I wonder what they will smell like tonight?   A lone man with business pants and a white shirt, standing in the middle of nowhere, just staring into the distance.  Cows in groups, and singly, on the road, and sauntering along.   Sauntering is an art form here, for cows and people, dogs strut, but people definitely saunter, or possibly even amble,  in a measured kind of swagger for men, and a sway for women.  Nobody seems to be in a rush to get anywhere.   Perhaps they don't have to rush for the loo like we do on occasion.  Gerald's tummy is not good today, but being the man of discipline he is, he even manages diarrhoea effectively.  A guide told us recently that the average family of four uses around one hundred kilos of chilli per year, yes, a year.  How long does yoru jar of Patak's Chilli last you? The Nine Day Festival is in full swing, and in every village we pass, music is being boomed out at ear splitting volume, and beautifully decorated temporary temples with bright statues of a lady God sitting on a lion (I forget her name) are everywhere.   We pass a golden field of tall grasses, with a large building which is a school on the horizon, and stretched across it is a crocodile line of school girls, a hundred or more, dozen of metres long, moving gracefully towards the road.  They wear white pants and a blue shirt, with a white scarf draped across their shoulders. The colours are heart stopping, and the scene so beautiful.   I wonder how hard the mothers work to keep those white pants clean.  

 

We are now in green hills, mercifully quiet, the road once more like the one between Berry and Kangaroo Valley, full of twists and turns, and Pooper overtakes on bends, carefully, but overtaking on corner - , I close my eyes and hold my breath, but he is tooting his horn, and nothing dreadful happens.   Then we do see a car smashed to smithereens, an ominous sign of what can happen here. I cannot tell you how impressed I am with the driving, and the level of anticipation and alertness these men have;  it looks like chaos but it's orderly and structured, you need to know the rules and you need experience, neither of which we have. I tell Pooper how amazing he is, and in the rear view mirror I can see his grin, stained red with betel nut juice, and a gap where he has lost a tooth.  He gives a little toot, just for nothing, just to express his happiness I think, each to their own.  He even finds a 'service station' and in a bout of bonhomie, advises he has found a toilet.  The sign says 'Free Air, Free Drinking Water, and Free Toilet' - so we are all well pleased.   We get diesel, which is not much cheaper than Australia, gosh that is expensive for people here!   They do not have credit cards out here in the rural areas, says Pooper, who travels with a wad of cash an inch thick, and pays for everything, keeping receipts for everything for Mysteries of India.  Satish has left a big pair of shoes to fill, and I feel I may have been a little harsh on Pooper, we are leaving him today, and I am feeling a little sentimental.  I get out the car into a sauna, and the toilet is one of the more unpleasant to date, fortunately I am travelling with a roll of toilet paper and a plastic bag, both of which I drop as I get out of the car.  Ten interested male pairs of eyes watch as I bend to retrieve it, and some minutes later when I come out and head to the car, it's disappeared.  A chorus of male voices sing out "Maaam!" - and all point to where the car has moved to, in the shade.   Such care. 

 

People are setting up markets everywhere, in the villages, on the road side, and even the safari park is closed on Wednesday afternoons - because Wednesday is market day, and there are colourful stalls selling shoes, handbags, clothing, toys, food, mobile phones and pots and pans, hardware, plastic buckets. It has a jolly atmosphere, I can see why the fellows from Tree Tops are looking forward to their weekly shopping trip here today.  It must be a nice outing after being in the jungle with the Tigers and the tourists most of the time.  A bike passes with three handsome young men, wearing western clothing and his sunglasses, all holding mobiles, and they are dancing, waving their arms about, and singing - the guy in the front using one hand on the wheel, and the other checking messages.   Another motor bike passes, most of the women have scarves covering their mouth and noses as they hug the backs of the driver, but this woman is holding her phone out, and clearly sharing something interesting with her partner who is driving, they are laughing their heads off. 

 

We arrive in a big town, a city really, of one million people.  It's Jabalbur, this is where we will catch our flight, but the airport is still a long way away. This is a military town, and all the names are colonial English, there are cadet buildings, and barracks, and large guns and cannons and men in uniforms striding - not ambling, nor sauntering - but striding about.  We stop the car for Pooper to have tea, we sit in the air conditioning and wait for him, declining his offer of local tea.  There are cows and goats crossing the road, dogs, tuk tuks, motor bikes, bicycles, traffic galore, and a zillion people.  In the midst of this mayhem, suddenly a huge monkey walks across the road, his massive red testicles swinging grandly from side to side.  Traffic swerves around him.  Now he IS sauntering.  He stops and scratches his bum, and sits with his hand on his chin, pondering one of the strangest things I have seen.  It is a curious memorial, a vast golden lion, covered in missiles.   Missiles?  On a lion?  Why?  Pooper says it is about power.  Even the monkey is puzzled.  Many buildings here are of the colonial era, once white, but green and black with mould, weeds sprouting through cracks, rubbish collected at the foundations.  Back behind the wheel, sated with Indian tea, Pooper drives around a roundabout against which there is a motor bike parked.  What the?  Can you imagine doing that in Australia?  I have noticed too that when people drive around bends, they do not keep to their side of road but use the oncoming lane. 

 

We stop to pay the entry fee to the airport, but nobody comes, Pooper toots to no avail.  Annoyed, he gets out to pay, and has an angry exchange, hands over some money, and waits.  Nothing happens.   He gets out, and talks very shoutily, and a young angry boy comes over, with a sheaf of documents to be signed and stamped, and change to be given.   All this for 30 rupees entry fee (70 cents).  We have used more than that in diesel I think.  That issue sorted, and Pooper stops the car for Gerald to change his clothes, into his heavy black jeans, his heavy shoes, and his jacket, he does a shimmy in the front seat whilst Pooper discreetly leaves the car, and puts his shorts into the small carry on bag.   This is a strategy to avoid paying excess baggage, you are only allowed 15 kgs each in internal flights in India.  So I am wearing three blouses, my heavy shoes (Zo you will be sorry to know I have left my sensible canvas rubber soled slip ons behind for Rajish), carrying my jacket and pashmina, with Raquel's handbag filled with books, my keyboard, water, toilet paper and other essentials, such as sanitiser and sunscreen.  We are on schedule, looking good.   Pooper's phone rings, and a heated exchange in Hindii.  Our flight is delayed by two hours, instead of 2.30 pm it is now leaving at 4.30 pm.  Pooper should wait until we are checked in, we are advised, in case there is 'a problem'.  Pooper has to drive all the way home to Kujaraho today, a long, long way and  is now 12.30 pm.  But do we want lunch asks Pooper.  Gerald tummy advises no.  I have biscuits, fruit and muffins in my bag courtesy of Raj and Rajish, that will do us.  We pull into the airport, and Gerald goes to sort out the problem. Any problem in India is a major problem, and Pooper and I wait in the stifling heat, whilst Gerald talks at the roadside assistance desk - people shake their heads, papers are stamped, forms are filled out, and phone calls are made.  We are told to make our way into the airport, and we farewell Pooper, who leaves with a healthy tip, and two strong beers from Gerald.  His red teeth are bared in a grin, and he even poses for a photo.

 

Inside the airport, we wait in a holding pen, no air con, but huge fans whirring, there is nobody there but us, and approximately fifty staff, all who seem to have no particular job to do, but stand, talk, and roam.  We cannot check in as it is no open yet, so we sit, Gerald makes me a table out of our suitcases, and I sit and blog.  There is no stopping a determined writer.  We are asked if we would like tea.  Sure!  Two tiny cups of luke warm water, which I sip, then reject.  Just that sip set my tummy off I think, as within two hours, I have cramps.  The 'rest rooms' (ha ha, rest rooms, that is a joke) are filthy.   There are three sinks, only two of which have water, only one dirty slimy bottle of hand wash, which one of the security staff (who later frisks me) is busily squirting on to her metal tiffin dishes, she is washing up after lunch, and using toilet paper to dry them, which is why there is no toilet paper in the toilets.  She leaves behind a pile of toilet paper and crumpled newspaper on the formica bench top, which is worn through to the wood in places.  The tiles are cracked and broken, the toilet bowls are rimmed with a shit coloured ring, the base is green and black, the seat is cracked and stained, the plastic lid has a piece missing, and only a trickle of water flows when the button is pressed.  It is not hard to clean a toilet, surely - surely not in an airport flying guests to major capitals in India?   A bucket of bleach and some elbow grease is required here.  

 

People are arriving, and two of the men from the BBC documentary we met in the park, the photographers, we greet like family.  One is heading to the Taj Lake Palace Hotel today and meeting his girlfriend who is flying in from the UK - if you are thinking of marrying her, that would be the place to ask.  He laughs loudly, oh no, she would say no, it's too soon for that.  I don't think so, you haven't seen the Lake Palace yet, and neither has she.  I advise you take her straight to bed for two days at least, he laughs again, well tonight we will be sleeping sitting up at Delhi airport, so perhaps we will.   Nice to talk to these two young men.   We go through security, every item has to have a tag on it, which is later stamped twice by different officials.  We  attempt to check in, but there is another problem, because this flight is delayed, we will now miss our connecting flight from Delhi to Mumbai.   They cannot issue us boarding passes, we are issued an abrupt 'sit and wait there' command.  We do as instructed, except now I cannot type, as my large case which served as my desk has gone.  Now the airport is full, we still do not have a boarding pass, and every attempt to get one is treated with a rude 'sit and wait' command.  My husband's patience is growing thin.   We have been up since 5.30 am, we are sweaty, tired, hungry and dying for a cup of tea and have upset stomachs, our luggage has gone, people are going through second security to board the plane, and still we have no boarding passes.   Everybody leaves, there are no signs to say what flight is leaving, it's too small, and we wait and wait.   People come and go, worried faces stare at the blank screen of an unhelpful computer, Gerald asks and waits, asks and waits, and eventually has a stern word.  TWO MINUTES, and you will have a boarding pass.  The man explains "I am busy having dinner sir.  I will attend to this matter when I am done."  Oh really?   "Your fucking dinner?" I want to shout, but a look from my Beloved stops me.  He was not a Client Relationship Director at IBM for many years for nothing, his calmness is unnerving.  Twenty minutes later, our luggage is retrieved, as now the connecting flight is a different one, so here we are, no boarding passes, with our luggage, back to where we were five hours ago.   And the flight is delayed again.  The sign above the door says "Welcome to Jabalpur".  Hah!  Finally we are given boarding passes both for here and for Delhi, our flight will arrive in Delhi an hour before our connecting flight, it's going to be close.   We pass through security again, the washing up lady frisks me, and a rude man shouts orders at me about my tags on my bags, none of which I understand.   And there are all the people waiting, nobody has boarded yet, and we see our English friends again.  Finally two buses arrive, and we drive to the plane, climb some ancient stairs where part of the hand rail is missing, and on to the plane where someone is sitting in my seat.   Another problem, which we rectify.  We decline the meal having been advised to do so, and it's not looking appealing, and I try to sleep. We wait and wait to take off, we are calculating our arrival time, and hope we will catch our connecting flight.   It's only 1.5 hours but we are in a holding pattern for a looooong time, and when we land in Delhi, it is 7.10 pm, the time our flight to Mumbai is closing.  "Let's hope that this Air India flight is delayed too" says Gerald.  We try to assist the help of the staff on board, but nobody is interested, there are no buses to meet us, and Gerald explains our problem again, and the female assistant barks at Gerald "Get off the plane! Someone will help you down there."   The buses eventually arrive, and do just that - we spring out of the plane and into the airport, and literally run with our luggage.  As you would expect, our gate is on the other side of the airport, 34 B, and it's a very long way.   I have a pain in my chest, God, I hope am not having a heart attack, but we keep running, a man has joined us, yes, he has informed them we are coming, what about our luggage, he nods his head, God knows what that means.

 

We get to the departure gate, and there are a few lazy business class passengers sauntering along, so we think we will make it.  We do, thank God, and settle down for a two hour flight.   An announcement, first in Hindii and then in English:  dinner will be served, oh I am pleased about that.   And a movie!  Oh Satish, this is a happy!   Gerald's earphone are broken, we rectify that.  We can watch "Mothers Day" with Julia Roberts, Jennifer Aniston, and Kate Hudson, this is nice.   Another announcement, in both languages, the safety instructions.  We resume the movie.  Another announcement, in both languages, the captain apologies for the delay.  We resume the movie.  Another announcement in both languages, the crew welcome us.  We resume the movie.  Another announcement in both languages, there is onboard shopping.  We resume the movie.   This movie is 117 minutes long, our flight time is 100 minutes long, and when we land, there are 25 minutes of the movie left to go.  We have had, I think, eighteen announcements in an hour and forty minutes.  I am announced out, I just cover my face with my hands and sigh, longing for a hot bath and my bed, I am so tired and so frustrated, I want to shout, I want to smack Air India in the chops, especially that sanctimonious captain who apologises once more for the delay as we loop endlessly around Mumbai.

 

I almost cry in relief at 9.40 pm when we finally disembark and make our way to the luggage carousel.   Whilst jealously watching other people collect their luggage, Gerald sees a beautiful young woman with a tiny dog in a handbag, I dash over, and she hands the puppy to me.  It is a golden miniature poodle, its name is Muffin, and I hold its sweet little face to mine, and it licks my cheek.  You can take dogs on planes here, just like we used to with Jacques in Zambia, she says they have weight restrictions, but this doggy only weighs five pounds.   I reluctantly put Muffin back in her handbag, and her stylish and friendly owner sashays across the terminal looking like a film star.  I once again feel like a Beverly Hillbilly.  We watch the carousel in a trance, a lonesome twosome in this big hall and see the 'last bag' sign goes up, and Gerald and I look at each other as if to say "This just takes the cake after a day like today."   Our luggage didn't make it, it's been left behind in Delhi.  That was a simple statement to write, but it took over an hour to deal with the issue, fill in forms, sign documents, have photocopies made.  I attempt to leave the airport to inform our tour agent who will be waiting, and after being advised by three nice men that I can do so, when I get to the exit, a beaurocrat shouts that if I leave I cannot get back inside.   But my husband is in there, and I need to find our agent!  He may leave if we don't make contact, and I have no phone.  This official is adamant, and I head back to Gerald, who is now speaking very, very slowly, and very, very forcefully to the four people behind the desk, who are also looking at a computer screen in disbelief, but crack a joke now and then, laughing heartily, whilst we stand there, fuming.  We call our agent, the number does not answer, and we decide I should leave the airport, find the agent, and wait, or we will be stuffed and without transport, when Gerald finally gets the documentation sorted.   As I leave, there are men with guns everywhere, eyes darting here and there, and a long airport buggy pulls up.  Not for me, surely?   No, it's a large group of women in saris, and several children, and a man in a red t shirt and a turban, who saunters out of a room, and loads his large entourage on, and they drive slowly across the airport, gunmen on either side, all of 100 metres, where they alight, and leave the airport.   I meet the rude man at the door who tells me once more that if I walk out I cannot return, so I hold up a hand and close my eyes, then hiss "I KNOW THAT." And walk out, take that, you.  There is a man holding our name up, and he greets me, and I pour out our tale of woe, most of which he doesn't understand.   "You have lost your luggage?" he says incredulously.   "No, WE have not lost our luggage.  YOU, I mean Air INDIA have lost our luggage.   And now I cannot go in and tell my husband we have found you, because THAT man won't let me!"  He shouts at that man, and says a few words, and with an apologetic gesture says, "Maam you can go back in to your husband if you now wish to.  It's OK."   What?  We have a complicated, disjointed conversation in which he learns nothing, as at the end he is asking me the same questions he asked me at the start.  And where are you flying from?  And where is your luggage?  You mean you have lost it?   Finally, my Beloved can be seen, he appears to be sauntering, but this may be incorrect, as I am very very tired, and he is walking in the opposite direction to the exit. I sail past that man and into the airport, if he lifts that gun and fires at me for terrorist activity, so be it.  Gerald! I shout, and he turns to me, weariness all over his dear face.  Our luggage, if it arrives, will be delivered to our hotel at 10.30 am tomorrow. Stupidly, I have left my thyroid medicine in the big bag when we were repacking for our 15 kgs airline limit strategy.  Dumb.  My feet are swollen and I have no ankles, this has never happened to me before, not even in pregnancy.  

 

A babbled conversation, Gerald is terse, not in the mood for anybody or anything, and we walk a long way to a car, where a happy driver leaps out.  It's 12.30 am and he beams "WELCOME TO INDIA!"  Lord, give me strength.  I attempt a smile, but my energy levels are so low, it fails.  Thank you, I say weakly.  On the 45 minute drive to the hotel, our agent tries several times to enrol us into the Elphanta Island tour in the morning and the tour of the city and the Prince of Wales Museum, and Dhobi Ghat, Ghandi's House.   Gerald explains we are exhausted, and no, there will be no to us in the morning.   But you have clothes in the small bag, insists our agent.  No, we have no clothes, we have nothing, and we are VERY VERY TIRED.   But you will be ready for the tour, yes, at 9.30 am?   Gerald exhales.   I recognise this point, but our agent does not, he is about to broadsided with artillery fire.   Surprisingly, Gerald speaks very quietly and very slowly.   "Which part of Plan A do you not understand?  We are NOT going on a tour in the morning.  Do you UNDERSTAND.  WE ARE TIRED, NO TOUR IN THE MORNING, AND WE WILL DECIDE LATER WHAT WE WILL DO."   The agent is getting to know Gerald now, and he reluctantly accepts this declaration.  We drive mostly in silence, everybody is pissed off with everybody else, for 45 minutes.  Ten minutes later, I apologise profusely for my impatience and my anger, saying it was not your fault.  He accepts it graciously, and is making phone phone calls trying to get our luggage out earlier, although Delhi is not answering, and the courier is not answering, and everybody with any sense is asleep.  We drive through traffic and people and slums, this is unbelievable, it's after 1 am for God's sake!   But there are 23 million people in this city.  TWENTY THREE MILLION PEOPLE IN THIS CITY, the whole of the population of Australia.  We arrive at the hotel, where there are queues of flash cars waiting to pick up people at the entrance to our very flash hotel, The Taj Mahal Palace, Mumbai - where there was a terrible bombing three or four years ago.  It takes us some time to get into the queue, women in ball gowns and elegant men are alighting their vehicles.   We look very, very bad and dirty and smelly and ugly here.  

 

In a vast and very busy, very beautiful lobby, we are greeted by smiling, incredibly helpful staff, the formalities take time, and dear God, we are in our room.  OH MY!  It is filled with 48 balloons, I counted them., and a sweet Happy Birthday pillow!   And a big heart made out of a snowy white sheet is on the bed.   And a birthday cake for Gerald!   The young man who accompanies us is so happy with the birthday celebration, he kindly connects our I pads and I phone, and gets me chamomile tea bags.  He couldn't be more helpful. But our energy for birthday celebrations two weeks early is not high, perhaps we are not wearing our 'energetic dress code' today, and whilst we thank him, we have run out of enthusiasm.   I run the bath and pour in a whole bottle of bubbles, but we have no clothing and no toiletries, although I have both our toothbrushes and toothpaste in my bag.   I make tea, and Gerald drinks a small beer at $9 Aussie.   Hang the expense, what a day this has been. We each have two slices of chocolate birthday cake and share a tin of Pringles for dinner.  My junk food allocation for the year, but we are starving.  But - a happy moment Satish! - we have wifi, and I can tell our son and our friends we are safe and here.  

 

We put the light out at 2.00 am, oh it has been a long day.   This is our first real mishap in India, and it had to happen.   Twenty one hours on Indian roads, Indian airports, and Indian flights.  I ask God and my parents to please send our luggage.  I acknowledge my Beloved for his patience, his communication skills, and his determination.   He acknowledges me, 'You are a hero.  Uncomplaining."  Wait till he reads this.  Blessed sleep, but then we are both up with diarrhoea a few times.  

 

 

Day 30 - 6th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal Palace

 

BALLOONS, A QUEENLY PROCESSION AND THE LAUNDRY 

 

We wake at 8 am, with the sun staining our curtains red.   We have slept hardly at all, but we are safe.   And we have a view over the Gateway to India, the water is steel grey, and it is raining. The phone rings, our luggage is on its way up to the room.  This is a Happy, Satish.  Thank you Mom and Dad, thank you God.  

 

Breakfast is lavish, row upon row of food of every nationality, and we eat heartily, the last real meal we ate was a over 24 hours ago.   Eggs, bacon, curry, toast, fruit, yogurt, vegetables, cheese, pastry, oh boy, our tummies are ready for a refill after the draining they have had.  There are many ladies in burquas, saris, western clothing, and men in sports gear and expensive business suits.  One lady in a burqua sits with her back to the dining room facing the courtyard and I can see her profile clearly.  I wonder how she eats.  Watching from the corner of my eye, I see her discreetly lift the veil and slide in a forkful of food, then a sip of tea, and drop the veil.   The challenge of this hits me, I am sure I would have egg all over everything.  My word, what a way to live, I am filled with admiration for this woman.  Her husband is lounging lazily and displaying his face with gay abandon whilst she is sneaking mouthfuls, he is eating toast and slurping coffee, the injustice of this - from my background - appals me, but this is her culture, this is her choice (I hope) and who am I to judge?

 

My ankles are still swollen and very old lady, I do not recognise my feet.   Our agent is late to meet us for our 10.30 am appointment, the foyer is full of people, but there is a large section of elegant tables and chairs, where nobody is sitting.   We take a seat, and a man comes over, and points to a sign, which advises if you sit here you need to pay 750 rupees for the privilege, and buy a cup of tea or coffee.  But we are guests, I protest.   Sorry ma'am, this is the rules.   We move and share a table with the burqua'd lady and her husband I noticed at breakfast.     and he is determined we are going on the Elephanta Island tour.  We are equally determined we are not, we are buttered.  He has ways and means, and slips things into conversation, suddenly we find we are standing and heading out the door.  NO, says Gerald.  We are tired.  This afternoon we will do a driving tour, and he reluctantly accepts this sad state of affairs. 

 

Our room is being serviced, but I sit at the table and blog, the young man cleaning wants to wish Gerald a happy birthday, and do we know that they made the balloons just for him?  I know they all work hard and I am grateful, but there is a point at which you can tip no more.  There is a pulley hanging outside our window, and a constant hammering and bashing and nailing happening in the next room and our phone is not working properly.  Gerald complains, they are very sorry.  Gerald says, we have come all the way from Australia, for this! - we are tired, we only got here after  1 am this morning, how long will this continue?   Um, all day till late evening, and then again tomorrow.  Gerald harrumphs.   Would we like to move to a quiet room, Gerald shakes his head in a no, and I nod my head to him in a yes.  We would.  OK then, we are upgraded to the Heritage Wing, to a Palace Room, two men arrive to take all our belongings and our wet laundry hanging on hangers, help me pack our toiletries, and our various bags hiding our illicit grog and hats and jackets.   They even carry the laundry I have stomped, which is hanging on hangers.   That is service, don't you agree?  Especially as they just brought us a laundry rack to put on the verandah to hold 'those things' - (my bra and knickers) - which are drying in the weak sunshine.  Nobody suggest this is unbecoming, they just accept that their guests have certain idiosyncrasies.  If you want to hang 'those things' out there, Maam, you go for it.  You are paying the bill here.  They return for us, I say firmly, I would like these balloons as well please.   He raises his eyebrows.  THESE balloons Maam?  Yes, these balloons.  Are you especially attached to THESE balloons Maam, or could we give you some others?   Gerald hastily intervenes and says cheerfully, "No, any balloons will do!" And the birthday cushion, I add, obstinately.   Is it a gift, or do we have to leave it here, I want it on the bed, in either case, it is his birthday.  Maam, if you want that cushion, it is our gift.   OK, thank you.  We prepare to leave, but I am wearing a gown, and all my clothes are gone already.  Is it just one floor down?  No ma'am, you have to walk across the lobby to the Heritage Wing.  But I have only this gown, I protest.  He looks concerned, but just for a second.  All right, Maam.   Ah well, there is nothing for it.  I pick up my keyboard and I pad, the leftover Pringles, and the ice bucket (I am already having a gin and it takes ages to get a bucket of ice).  I tell the charming young man, I will just pretend I am the Queen in my gown, and he says, the ultimate professional, Maam you are the Queen.   Wearing my orange hat, the hotel bathrobe and Vinnies slippers, my most Queenly expression and walking in the catwalk manner I learned at modelling school, we sweep across that sumptuous lobby, the size of three rugby fields, through the thick carpets, the chandeliers, the towering vases of red roses, and elegantly dressed people having business meetings.  Chin up, eyes ahead, I meet the gaze of no-one. We are a small but regal procession, Gerald follows behind in his smart white hat, and carrying what is left of his birthday cake on a silver platter, my beloved King.  I am a Queen after all, and if I decide I want to wear my bathrobe and walk through the lobby of one of the most famous and elegant hotels in the world, I bloody well will.   It's a long walk, and my facade is developing a few cracks when we finally reach the other side, and walk past rows of photos of famous people, the Queen, Charlie and Camille, Obama, Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John Lennon and Yoko, Oprah, Bill and Hillary, Sharon Stone, Tenkulkar and many famous cricketers and others who have stayed here.  I am sure they did not walk through the lobby in their bathrobe.   We walk past shops selling Cartier, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Mont Blanc, and Ganjam - the most opulent jewellery store with sapphires and diamond necklaces and drop earrings on display, Italian designer wear and leather handbags that cost an month's salary in Australia.  Retainers in Harrods long elegant coats,  peaked caps and white gloves stand and watch our procession impassively.  I can hear my slippers flip flopping.  Nobody objects to this vulgar display, in fact three people come to help.  Eccentricities are tolerated here, but there is a limit and perhaps there is a signal that communicates "Let's get this half dressed lady out of the lobby and into her room fast, OK?  Ready guys? - it's a team effort, we can do it, let's go!"  They offer to help carry things (I think carrying the ice bucket might have just been a bit too much even for the Taj Palace Mumbai) but the Queen doesn't acknowledge or speak and the King declines politely, "We can manage thank you."  Sure we can, Two Kids from Chingola.  No problem, mate. 

 

Our room is absolutely amazing.  A suite, also overlooking the Gateway to India, with marble furnishings, a vast bed, a lobby of its own, a magnificent bathroom.  My laundry is hanging up, my toiletries are carefully placed, our bags are all there.  Our internet is connected, profuse apologies from the staff for the inconvenience.   They leave, and we grin madly and jump up and down.  Isn't this incredible?  

 

I blog.  And now we are leaving for that afternoon tour.   The water outside is filled with big and small boats, piles of garbage, the roads full of traffic and honking cars and bikes, there are hundreds of tourists, and that huge Gateway to India stands there majestically.   We are in this lovely room, an oasis from the madness out there, my old lady feet are still swollen, our tummies are not good, but we are safe and happy.

 

It is now 7.30 pm and we have returned from several hours touring Mumbai by car, along Marine Drive into the luxury part of the city, the city skyline is astonishing, skyscraper after skyscraper.  This is a city that never sleeps, the financial centre of India, top heavy with millionaires and billionaires, even the beggars here have bank accounts (according to Arun our guide) and his mother is friends with one lady beggar who owns two houses, one she lives in, and one she rents out for US$300 a month.  She earns $500 a month from begging, which is more than a bank manager earns here.  The culture is that you need to give to the poor to earn your place in heaven, and these 'beggars' know where to go, where the rich and the Bollywood actors are, and 'it's big business' he says.  The colonial buildings erected by the British are regal, vast, and beautiful, the Mumbai Railway Station one of the biggest in the world, and where the final dance scene from Slumdog Millionaire was filmed.  That film initially offended most of Mumbai, but it has been the best advertisement for Mumbai ever, and investment money from around the world pours in, their annual growth is 7.5% currently, the highest in the world.  If you want to invest, I suggest India. We see a house constructed by a multi billionaire in the middle of the city, it is 2 stories high with two hell-pads, he has a wife and three adult kids.  Each story houses a particular thing, the pool, the gym, the helipads, and so on, and he has 600 staff to take care of them.  600 staff, that is not a typo. We see a Bollywood production along the Marine Drive, with forty huge trucks lined up, police and security everywhere, and sticky beaks checking it out through cracks in the plastic privacy screens.  But we are really going to Bollywood tomorrow! - so we pose for photos on the wall along the storefront, where people walk, do yoga, exercise their dogs and gather to chat.  One young woman posing for a friend dissolves in embarrassed laughter when I ask her to pose with me, I tell her she is destined for Bollywood, and she eventually agrees to do so.  We share a moment.  Arun tells me I am destined for Bollywood, 'such a young woman as yourself Maam, I should get your autograph now!' He laughs.  Every time we stop in traffic, a beggar appears at the window, holding a sleeping child with pussy eyes and matted hair, and taps insistently on the window.  I do as inducted and ignore, but we are there for three or four minutes, and she doesn't stop.  She goes from my window and around to Gerald's attempting to catch my eye, pleading "Maam?  Maam?" - I cannot look, my heart is breaking, and again I hear the story about begging being Big Business.  There are relatively few beggars here, the unemployment rate is very, very low - the Government employs 25% of the population of 1.26 billion people, over 300,000 million people - get your head around that statistic.  And it is for life, you cannot be fired, and have free housing, medical and a pension.  If an employee dies, their job is automatically given to their WIFE.   What if they wife is illiterate, or unqualified, I ask?  Well, then the son, or any member of the family can get that job - and they will hold that position open or five years.   We drive through one of the many luxury areas of Mumbai - property and land here are astronomically high.  US $5000 - 6000 a square FOOT!   There are many very tall, very skinny buildings, that look like they cannot sustain their height due to the tiny base, and it's all about cost.   Unbelievable.  

 

We visit the Dhobi Ghat, a unique feature of Mumbai.  The Dhobi is a traditional laundryman who collects your dirty laundry and linen, washes it and returns it within 12 hours, neatly pressed to your doorstep.   There are schools and shops here, the community support each other, the women go out to work as servants during the day or iron here in the ghat, but the men wash.  There is washing everywhere, in bags, in piles, being delivered on long wooden bicycle drays.   Arun says that an 80 year old man here is much, much stronger than him at 42 years old, they work very, very hard.   The women earn up to $250 a month, working for up to five different families a day, a couple of hours a day at each home, they also get food and gifts and special treatment from their employers, especially at festival times.  They leave at 10 am after the kids are gone to school and their housework is done.  There are dozens of concrete short sided troughs which are rented out, and in these the clothes are soaked in 'lather water', then thrashed on the stones, and later thrown into huge vats of boiling starch and hung out to dry.  There are clothes lines strung three stories high and dark, narrow, filthy laneways, filled with tiny rooms in which men and women are ironing.  Arun takes us into one, where a man who has been washing all day since 5 am (it is now 5 pm) is having 'lunch', squatting on the floor, he is blind in one eye, and as thin as a rake.  A young man is ironing, he irons one thousand items a day, with a flat iron so heavy, I can hardly lift it, it rests on a flat piece of granite, currently he is ironing 300 petrol station attendants uniforms, and has a practiced pattern, heavy iron, press, and flip, other side, it all happens in seconds.  He appears as happy as if he is sipping a pink colada in the Bahamas, moreover, and asks us to take photos, asks me to feel the weight of the iron. All the hotels even our fancy Taj Palace, all the restaurants, factories and offices send their laundry here.  (Our hotel charges $8 to launder a nighty.  Pressing is extra).   Suddenly a great commotion.  It has started to rain and the whole laundry ghat is yelling like an army of mothers to their kids "IT'S RAINING!  GET THE WASHING OFF THE LINE!" - and dozens of people are snatching things off the lines and taking them to a dry spot.  But where?  This place is filthy.  How is it that the hundreds of sheets hanging on the lines, probably the very ones we slept on at the Palace Taj Mahal last night, are whiter than my own washed in my Miele washing machine in hygienic conditions at Hay Avenue?  And it's all done in cold water.  Because of SODA, says Arun.  Well it must be toxic soda, says Gerald, look at that man!  His hands and feet are bleached white and 'that is because he stands and stomps the washing and washes and thrashes the laundry every day.'   Oh my goodness, what is it doing to his body?  There is a handsome young man, finished his washing for the day, soaping himself up in his ghat, wearing his underpants true, but his showering techniques are on display for all to witness, and nobody is watching except Gerald and I. Gerald says he saw a man casually take a pee.  Not in the washing area, surely? I plead.   Yes, it was.    This is a roaring trade, and one of the most famous in all of India.  

 

Arun takes us to a counter where every person in India can go to shop twice a year, and purchase things like pulses, rice and gasoline at government prices, very cheap, each person has a card, and he asks a lady who is no too happy to oblige, but does, to hand over her card and explains how it works.  We drive and stop at a shop selling kurtas.   I try on a few, but I don't like the man or the pregnant, very pushy owner, who keep trying to tell me what I like.  We move on, our trusty driver stopping wherever and whenever we wish to take a photo, no matter what the traffic or the tooting he receives.  Gerald points out a Biba shop, this is a shop that Viv of Viv's India recommended, and we go in. Two staff members are so excited, they are selecting garments for me, when they realise ONLY cotton, the list is shortened, but still I have ten items to try on.  Luckily for me, I am very clear about what I want.  I know straight away if it's right or not.   After half an hour, I select two kurtas and a special name for the tight pants, like leggings, but which are designed to ruffle up at the ankle.  Pure cotton, one rather special with a matching scarf, in my colours.  My husband has been very patient, and even got to the ATM for money.

 

Arun shows me another shop, clearly one 'on his route' but I am done for the day and we head back to our divine hotel and our exquisite suite, where we have a drink and I blog.  We walk around the corner to Leopold's, a famous restaurant, if you have read that excellent book, Shantaram (if not, get it immediately, it's a true story) - the hero in that book worked here for some months.  It was also one of the targets of the terrorist attacks here in 2008, there are bullet holes in the walls and mirrors still, the staff all wear bright red shirts emblazoned with the name.  Our hotel the Taj Palace was also targeted, it was widely reported in the news, and a terrifying experience, which is still spoken of.  The meal is very good, a ginger chicken which is incredibly hot, and a stir fry veggie dish, we eat till we are stuffed, and there is still heaps left over.  I ask the waiter if this will be given to the poor, or thrown out.  Thrown out.  OMG.  Can he box it up so I can take it to someone needy?  Of course.  Twenty paces from the front door is a man sitting on the ground with crutches, part of one leg missing and bound in bandages.   I crouch down in a sign of respect and offer it to him, his eyes light up, and he takes it with a nod of the head, with such respect, my throat catches.  He places it on the ground, and we clasp hands, our eyes lock, and he says "Namaste Maam".  He reaches for Gerald.  My husband has an aversion to dirt and I can see this is hard for him, but he obliges.  As we walk away, Gerald says "Wash your hands with sanitiser right now."   And I do.  But the image of that man's face stays with me.

 

Back at the hotel, there is all sorts happening in our room.  The doorbell rings at least eight times in forty minutes, another version of the announcements on Air India.  It is exasperating.  The safe is unable to be locked, they are replacing it.   The ice bucket arrives.  The Housekeeping Manager comes to apologise again for the noise and hopes we are happy in this suite?   The man comes to turn down the bed, with a mischievous grin.   Are you having a birthday Mr. Groom?   Gerald, who has already had three birthday celebrations in this chain, the Taj, admits yes, and he says "Surprise!" we have a small party for you!   Where do you want the balloons?  How absolutely bloody marvellous, I think - but I ask, can we have it tomorrow?  It is late now - after 9.30 pm - mind you, the glitterati here only have 10.30 pm dinner reservations, so it's not even tea time for the stylish amongst us, really.   His face falls, but I now I have already told you of the surprise, Maam.  I say, never mind, we will LOVE that surprise tomorrow, thank you so much!  Maam, what time?   Shall we have balloons, Maam?  I tell him how what a happy moment that will be, and he heads out the door, somewhat mollified. I return to my blog and the bell goes ten minutes later, the doorbell rings again.   There is a smiling lady and a man carrying two huge copper bowls.   "We have come to give you a complimentary foot relaxation bath!"   Do you want your feet relaxing darling, I ask, knowing the answer.  Gerald shakes his head, "Yessir, for you too!"   I urge my Beloved to join me, this is HIS birthday after all;  he is very reluctant, but they have filled both bowls with hot water, and tip in rose petals and fragrant salts, they set up two chairs and place towels on the floor with the bowls on top.   Oh my word.  They leave with big smiles.   We sit there, soaking our sweaty, dirty feet in this heavenly space, and Gerald is grinning.  "This is nice" he says.  The door opens once more, and it's the Housekeeping Manager again, he has come to ensure that the foot relaxation bath is going well.  Yes it is. I compliment him on the gift and the bowls.  Maam, you can buy these in the antique markets, I will ensure you get the details of how to get there.   We also sell them in the hotel if you wish to purchase."  I can just see me getting off the plane in Sydney with two huge copper bowls.    Sure enough, under the door later is slipped a hand written note with details.

 

The water cools and I throw the contents of both bowl into the bath tub, add hot water and a bottle of shower gel, climb in and drink a cup of chamomile tea.   It's late again;  we try to turn the lights out, which is quite a palaver, even my techo has trouble finding all the switches for all the lights.   I am doing my 'grateful to the Universe' process, and include having moisturiser on my face and hands and clean knickers.   I so missed these luxuries we so take for granted last night.  The bed is heavenly, with huge soft feather pillows, and we sleep.  

 

 

Day 31 - 7th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal Palace

 

A BIG DISAPPOINTMENT FOR MY FANS BUT I ABANDON MY DREAM TO BECOME A BOLLYWOOD STAR.  

 

I didn't brief you on Mumbai.  

 

"Mumbai (formerly Bombay) the gateway to India in the days of the British Raj, is today India's commercial capital.  The city dates back to around the first century AD when the area consisted of seven islands separated by the sea.  In 1661 the Portugese presented the port and islands of Bombay to the British, and in 1668 the East India Company leased all of the islands from the British Government for 10 English pounds in gold per year. 

 

On Independence in 1947, the Bombay presidency became Bombay state, and subsequently Bombay became the state capital of Maharashtra.  Today Mumbai is a fascinating crossroads of the east and west where the sophistication and technology of the first world is combined with the Easter ability to sell almost anything against a backdrop of oriental colour and scent.   Besides being the major port Mumbai is the most cosmopolitan, fastest moving, affluent and industrialised city in India.  It is India's financial, commercial and industrial cent, and the centre of the film industry (Bollywood)."

 

Our Taj Mahal Palace Hotel is located across the street from The Gateway to India, Mumbai's most striking monument, it is an imposing arch in the Indo-Saracenic style with Gujarati and Islamic elements.  It was built to commemorate the visit of King George V and Queen Mary to India in 1911.  Near the Gateway is a statue of Shivaji, the 17th C founder of the independent Hindu Kingdom of Maharashtra. 

 

What we decided against seeing  due to exhaustion and upset tummies, is the island of Elephanta, a small but celebrated island, and famous for its Elephanta Cave Temples, carved into the island's solid stone, the base relief carvings are magnificent.  The Portugese renamed this island Elephanta after a large stone elephant was found near the shore.  The two South African women we met said it was very, very busy, and very very long, and you could be very very sick on the hour long boat ride across the Arabian Sea from The Gateway, and it is six miles across to get there.

 

Rather we enjoyed the Dhobi Ghat,the amazing laundry I told you about, and a drive down Marine Drive, also known as the "Queen's Necklace" is a pleasant drive along the shoreline of Back Bay, from Nariman Point past Chowpatty and up to Malabar Hill.  The city is also full of beautiful old Colonial buildings and is clogged in every direction with traffic which hardly moves.   It takes tenacity, determination and dammed hard work to live here, I admire these people so much. 

 

At breakfast I overhear a strong female South African accent, complaining.   I remember my days in my gift shop in Wahroonga.  The South African women were, sadly, the worst complainers, about absolutely everything, I am ashamed to say.  I go and introduce myself to her later, she is Anne and she has lived in Sydney for some years, and is here with her friend Maureen from Cape Town.  They are old mates from school days, here to celebrate their 60th birthdays, which are close in dates.  Maureen paid the equivalent of Aus $800 for a return ticket from Cape Town, can you believe that?  That explains the large group of South Africans we saw on the island in Udaipur who were here on a conference.   I cannot believe that, how can they do that?   Sooo cheap??

 

After breakfast I blog and we take a walk along the waterfront, and around the markets.  I found a small shop that sells me two hair clips as I have lost one, and broken one, and a beautiful cotton embroidered top, he has all the colours of the rainbow, and I choose turquoise, it will soften as it is washed and I love it already. The owner is tall, and lose it that we are Australians, he and Gerald discuss cricket, but he really prefers soccer, he tells us. We head back to the hotel for a cool drink, it's hot and I cannot wait to get into the glorious pool.  I feel like a film star in there, the man rushes over with two towels which he arranges lovingly on my sun lounge, and places and two bottles of chilled water on the table.  I fully expect him to carry me into the pool, but he walks away.  I take a quick swim, as I have ready myself for Bollywood this afternoon.

 

Here is what the itinerary says:

 

"Arrival at film location.   Meet and Greet by the Bollywood Guide. He will then provide an introduction to the guests informing them about the origin and evolution of the Indian Film Industry (Bollywood) ranging from the silent era to talkies to current date.   The guests will then be escorted to various shoots and will be allowed to watch shootings of Feature Films, T.V. Serials or Ad-Films.  They will be given exciting insight into the mechanics and conduct of a shooting.  Guests will then be escorted back to the gates where they will be received by our Representative.  From here we proceed to Juhu and Bandra, to take glimpse of the most famous Film Star Houses (from outside)."

 

That wounds wonderful, right?   Unfortunately it didn't happen like that. 

 

It was very, very disappointing.  I was hoping for some magic and an explanation possibly by an Indian Phil Collins about the history of Indian film.  Our son Joshua as you know is a film maker, and I have so been looking forward to this day. 

 

Although I did get to pose with a statue that looked like an Oscar, it wasn't enough to save the afternoon. 

 

Our 'guide' does not speak English, and it took us an hour and forty minutes to get there, in traffic that was locked solid.  Had we known this, we would never have gone there.  Our Bollywood Guide does not speak English either, the studio is filthy and disorganised and there is clearly no plan or preparation for our visit.   In a small theatre, four young people are lounging on chairs, and leap up as we arrive, lights are switched on, and they dash through a door, which remains open. We hear them laughing and I assume they are dressing, for the Bollywood Dance.  The air con is freezing, and ten minutes later, suddenly music starts and they leap out the side door.   We see four dances with ten minute intervals between, with no explanation, and we see a very poorly edited 'doco' (my son would be appalled at the quality of this, the sound goes from whisper quiet to booming loud, the lighting changes, and there is no continuity - and this is in Bollywood!)  The dancers are miming the words of the song, which we discover later means "I left Delhi to come to Mumbai and have broken all signals for you."   (It's a love story apparently.). we are invited on to the dance floor, we did our best to fling scarves around and mimic Slum Dog Millionaire.  One young man is very, very handsome, but we have seen much better dancing elsewhere.  The moment the dance is over, their smiles disappear, and they slump off the stage.

 

Where is the magic?  The mystery?  Oh, this could be such a different experience - with an informed guide, a good doco, dancers who are trained, even a bottle of water or bag of popcorn would go a long way!   In thirty minutes, it is suddenly, and not unhappily for us, over.  We trail behind a guide who is struggling with English, and into a set up cafe, to watch some filming.  Now you are talking!  It's interesting, watching the lead sit at a table saying the same things over and over again, and hearing the "Action!" signal, this is the kind of thing our son does, and it's an insight, and this is fun.  There is a famous actor sat there, his name is Rohan Joshi, he is between takes, looking bored and on his mobile.  We go to a set, which is not being used, and have to make up a lot of what we see, as our guide, a nice man, is unable to explain things.  I don't know about other sets, but this is total chaos, there are furnishings and whole kitchens with real food (for the cookery shows), and garbage in piles, he has to find switches to put the lights on, there are people wandering about in the shadows doing things.  We step over a pile of polystyrene balls being carved at an entrance to a set, which will be used as rocks falling down a mountain.  Unfortunately we have to step over a runny pile of green human shit to get to the door, and our guide does not have the key, so we have to wait whilst he finds one, then had to find the lights, and open up doors, it was stifling inside.   The same happened in the next lot, no key, no lights,, and 45 degrees inside.  But he was very cheerful about it all, apologising  - "Sorry Sir - no key". "Sorry sir - no lights".  Sorry Sir - it's too hot!" We spend a lot of time waiting for something to happen.  We visit a pretend court house, a pretend hospital, a pretend jail, and see James Cameron and Steven Spielberg cast in bronze, I take this photo opportunity.  Also there is a chorus line, which Gerald avails himself of.   We do an impromptu scene when Gerald takes the Judge's seat in the court room, and I plead for the release of my son, who has been improperly jailed as he is innocent, and ask for mercy. But the Judge is ruthless, and banging his gavel, I get sentenced to ten years behind bars.   So I pose in the jail.  I think it's quite clever, and send it to our son, but when I check his Facebook later, it's been deleted, maybe not up to Bollywood standards.  

 

There are many photos of famous Indians, including Gandhi and members of his family.   I remember a wonderful monument we saw recently, of Gandhi in a simple wrap of cloth, you know the one I mean, being led by a small child, who holds one end of a stick, and Gandhi holds the other - as he was almost blind.   Our guide, I think it was Anan, told us that Gandhi never took care of his eyes, he didn't eat the right things, vitamins and such like, and so he went blind.  I don't know how true that is, but that kind of acceptance is prevalent here, and there is a great deal of peace to that way of thinking, don't you think? 

 

But back to the S.J. Studios, we witness a wedding scene being filmed for a soapie, it's lavish with pink and gold curtains and baskets of pretend flowers, and people in bright attire.   The choreography needs a lot of work, the producer is anxious, he's out there trying to show them.   We see another where there are two mature couples sat at a table, eating biscuits and drinking cordial.   They re-do the scene several times, a lot of laughing (which ends the moment the director sounds 'cut') and the finale is when all four of them gaze in disbelief off stage, where a man is holding up his hand for them to stare at.   Unfortunately, it's all in Hindii, so I cannot tell you what was going on.  But I'll bet it was to do with a lost love and disapproving families.

 

We walk back to the car, and there is a handsome man from the wedding scene.  I rush up and ask for a photo, his outfit is peach, and his turban is striking.  I like a man in a turban.  He says he is not a star, his friend is, but poses with me, smiling.   He walks toward his friend, and our guide says, at least this part he could say in a stage whisper and in breathless English "HE IS A REAL FAMOUS BOLLYWOOD STAR!  HIS NAME IS ISHANT!"  Ishant is leaning moodily against a car, smoking a cigarette, wearing a tight black t shirt, jeans, and a beard like Joshua.  In fact, he looks a bit like Joshua.  OK then, this is my opportunity for a photo, no problems mate.  Gerald shakes his head as a warning, but I ignore this, and walk up to this man whose name I cannot recall, except that he IS a Bollywood Star, the first I have met and say, with some excitement I must confess "We are from Australia!! I believe you are a famous Bollywood star?  What is your name?  Can I have a picture?"   But I am already posing, and he smiles at my chutzpah and says "Sure, you may have a picture with me."  (A bit like Mel Gibson did, remember last year?)

 

We are now back at the car, and this 'tour' is over.  Instead of three hours we have had one hour and 40 minutes (and even that was too long) - and we do not get taken to see any of the film stars houses, as the itinerary promises.   This tour lacks any kind of professionalism or organisation - but it could so easily be rectified, and make good money.   What about a box of popcorn?  A cold drink?   How about dressing us up in Bollywood clothes, or taking a photo, or even a little video on a USB as a memento?   How about having some keys to doors and some lights on?  How about cleaning up the shit from the entrance?  We have paid Aus $160 EACH for this, and I feel we have wasted our time - despite the shot with ISHANT - and we are very disappointed.  It is fair to say that we have had nothing but the very best of guides and tours on this journey, the standard has been set high and this is all the more reason we are feeling ripped off. 

 

There was something missing there for me today, And now my hopes and aspirations of featuring in a blockbuster Bollywood Production are dashed, as I have decided not to pursue my ambition to become a Bollywood Star - based on what occurred today.  I know, I know, I can hear you protesting and saying that I am destined for greatness, but perhaps Bollywood isn't the right place.  Even though I think Ishant kind of fancied me, and I fancied his friend in the peach turban - there are the makings of a soapie right there - but I found it all a bit garish and lacking in substance.  My friend Yashen thinks Hollywood is more my style, and he could well be right.

 

We arrive back at the hotel, very tired but a beer and a gin and tonic revive us whilst I blog and Gerald reads.   We walk up the road to a place close by, recommended by the Concierge, a fun place with music - a strange selection, but enjoyable - The Eagles and  Paul Anka (I haven't heard "Oh Carol!" for at least twenty years) - and it's  packed with young trendy Indians, I cannot help noticing how many of the younger generation are overweight, many of them are wearing Western clothes, and for the first time I see a young woman drinking beer, and from a bottle.  The staff are cheerful and helpful; the man who serves us has a big round face and an even bigger round belly, which he has to reach around to pour Gerald's beer.  It's an eclectic menu, a mix of Indian, Chinese, and Western and for the first time in 33 days we order non-Indian food, two pizzas, cheese and tomato for me, and chicken and mushroom for Gerald.   They are delicious, with crispy crusts, and cost around $5 each, we share a beer and a lemonade.   The restaurants in the hotel are exorbitantly expensive.  We checked out the Japanese today and most dishes are around Aus $50 each, plus 27.5% tax, a seven course degustation would be better at Aus $150 each, plus the same tax.  There are several others and they charge much the same.  But this restaurant is festive and happy and has a good vibe, we have a table close to the door, and a man is standing outside playing the flute, unfortunately Gerald caught his eye, and is now being serenaded by this man, who is determined to sell him a flute.   When we leave, he follows us a fair distance, playing enthusiastically.  Mumbai, where you can sell anything, so the advertising goes.  I am carrying half of both of our pizzas in a plastic bag kindly packed up by the man with the big tummy, and I spot a man sitting in the gutter.  Sometimes people just sit in the gutter, and I do not want to offend anybody who may just be giving their feet a rest (God knows since my feet swelled I understand that) and offer them our left over dinner, so I keep walking.   Then a man tries to sell us some terrible big ugly balloons, which I don't get at all, what do you do with a six feet long balloon?   But they must be popular, they sell them everywhere.  I shake my head, and at my feet is a stick thin man lying on a filthy piece of cloth, his eyes covered with a smaller cloth, sound asleep.  I place the bag in front of him, and as I stand, the balloon man is looking at me with an acknowledgement in his eyes, he nods his head, and I understand what he says.  He probably doesn't even know this man, but he is saying thank you.  We namaste each other.

 

Back in the room, I blog and make a cup of tea, and climb into the bath.  It is 10.15 pm when they phone rings, but there is nobody there.   Then the doorbell goes, Gerald sighs heavily and finds something to cover himself;  it is our Assistant Housekeeping Manager again, the one who delivered the information about the antique markets to us.   Gerald is standing peering around the door, naked but for a bathrobe four sizes too small for him, trying to hold it across his girth, whilst this earnest young man hands him some gifts.  He tells Gerald he knows how much I love antiques and that I said I was going to the antique markets today - but Maam didn't? - and so he has purchased a gift for me from that venerable place - ?? - and hands over a small box.  Then an open box of body lotion, eye gel, lavender spray, and hand cream.  Will I be visiting the antique markets before we leave tomorrow?   Probably not, says Gerald, but thanks him profusely.   I don't know what to make of this, it's a sales pitch yes? Or is it an act of generosity from him and/or the management?  At 10.15 pm at night?  I prefer the interpretation of kindness, and say thank you silently from the bathtub. 

 

You may not believe this, but a few minutes earlier as I lay in the bath, I thought I should look out for a small elephant to take home, I saw one last week and didn't buy it, and should have, it was small and white, painted with flowers.   When I get out of the bath, and open the box from our Assistant Housekeeping Manager, Fellow Antique Lover - it is a small golden elephant, a Ganesh God.   These 'random' happenings occur quite frequently in my life, and I always take them as a symbol of something good, and often my parents presence.   That is a very special little golden elephant.  I shall call and thank him tomorrow, I feel a bit guilty, but I never said I would go to the antique market today.

 

We climb into bed, our last night here till our return in seven days time. 

 

 

Day 32 - 8th Oct 2016 - Deccan Odyssey

 

TWO FESTIVALS, TURNING THE TABLES, AND WE ARE DRUMMED ON TO OUR THIRD AND FINAL INDIAN TRAIN JOURNEY, JEWELS OF THE DECCAN

 

It is the birthday of our old friend Peter Ormrod today.  Happy Birthday Pillock! 

 

I just had to tell you as I write this we are on the Deccan Odyssey!   A beautiful train journey of seven days, and such 'exictelement' as my Dad would have said.  But more on this later, it's easier tell you what is happening as it happens.  

 

We woke up in that huge bed with the biggest, softest feather pillows and watched the sun rise over The Gateway to India, where thousands of pigeons fly, they are fed by the authorities and the locals;  when the take flight, you can hear the collective sound of wings flapping, I love that.   Our laundry which we stomped has finally dried, which made our elegant room look like a Dhobi Ghat, but saved us around Aus $50 which I would rather spend on treasures.  Or gin.  We wisely repacked this morning, putting everything we need (plus the clothing we are giving away) for the train journey into one suitcase and our small roll on, as thee cabin on the train won't be big.  The concierge is taking care of the one suitcase filled with all the things we won't need;  almost the whole case is filled with souvenirs and gifts and our heaving winter clothing we wore when we left Sydney.

 

Then we walked back to the markets to the shop we bought my cotton top and hair clips in to buy another as a gift, taking the rest of the birthday cake to the owner.  He is delighted, and greets us like long lost relatives.   Indians truly do have the art of relationship, I think I may have been Indian in a previous life.  Yesterday, I told him we were going to Bollywood and he asks about it, he slaps his thighs laughing when I tell him I have given up on my dream to become a Bollywood Star, and says "You would be such an excellent Bollywood Maam, such a young woman as yourself."  These Indian men, I tell you, no wonder there are 1.26 billion people here, they can charm cobras in baskets and the knickers off any sensible woman.  Gerald tries to buy a bottle of gin but we are gutted to learn that Saturday is Dry Day, no luck.   OMG, our illicit stash is coming to an end, and we have not handled an emergency supply.  I leave Gerald to handle that problem, I head for a swim in that exotic pool, which elegant packing my wet bathers into a plastic bag to take with me.  I washed my hair, and we farewelled our gracious suite;  we have a late check out at 2 pm, but won't be picked up till 3 pm.  Gerald sits and reads in that foyer, the size of three rugby fields, with its orange and ruby subtle lighting, it's 750 rupee 'sitting in' chairs, and it's impeccable staff, it's elegant guests, and an army of security outside the door.  I took a walk and I saw the same old lady I saw yesterday, sitting in a wheelchair in the same place, her body frail and twisted, grey hair tied in a long plait, with wispy tendrils around her sunken cheeks, she was a beauty once.   Her eyes are milky blue white and she clearly is blind, but I watch as she greets people, she must recognise their steps - and as one man takes her hand, her face splits into a big smile;  they talk animatedly, she may be blind but she is very much alive.  One small moment in one life in this city of 23,000,000 people.   I love how India venerates the elderly, there is an automatic respect, an honouring of life lived for so long.   We could learn so much.  

 

I keep walking, and a young women approaches, insisting on tying some flowers around my wrist, despite the fact I ignore her and keep on walking.  She grabs my hand.  No money, Maam, a gift for the festival, I keep walking and she runs after me.  I stop and she completes the wrapping of the floral bracelet, and then makes the sign for money.   I reach into my handbag and give her the food I am carrying hoping to find someone needy, and hand it to her.  She looks surprised.  I then pull out a red rose, which was a gift to us on arrival and say "No money - a gift for the festival," and hand it to her.  Her mouth drops.  In front of the Gateway to India, a man in white approaches me, with the same story.  No money, Maam, a gift for the festival.  I sigh and stop as he ties a red cotton thread around my wrist, and asks my name, 'praying' for me.  Completing his task, he states firmly, "You can make a donation."   I refuse, I have no money on me, Gerald has the wallet back at the hotel.   I haven't carried money for 33 days.  "But you can give me dollars!"  I take the second red rose out of my bag, hand it to him, and say "Happy Festival!  No charge!  Namaste!" He too is gobsmacked, this is a strategy they haven't encountered before, and I think is respectful of them and myself. 

 

I walk back and through the old section of the hotel, which we have been living in for the last three days but have not explored.  It is the place of Kings and Queens, Sue Hobson, if you come to this hotel, you have to stay in the Old Section.  It is so very beautiful, restored magnificently, a grand piano tinkling somewhere, antiques and rich rugs, men in turbans and kurtas with white gloves serving food and drinks -  I wandered around as if in a museum, soaking it up and participating in my favourite topic, People Watching. I discovered  a wonderful art exhibition in the Taj Gallery, filled with huge oil paintings in vibrant colours, and interesting bronze sculptures the creator of whom was there, a charming and talented young woman, whose eyes light up with my acknowledgement of her work.  I thought of Gunnel Watkins, who would have loved them. I see a man opening his jewellery store, waving incense sticks and praying for a good day.  It is very busy, as it is a long weekend for two different festivals, both Hindu for Dhurga and a Muslim celebration, and people have four days off work.  The money being spent in this hotel alone is mind blowing, I see many Indian women with husbands carrying bags and bags of expensive shopping bags trailing behind them, looking bored.  There is a blonde western woman, standing in stiletto heels, a tight bright red flashy and way too short dress for this country strutting about the steps, enjoying the sensation she is causing, whilst speaking into her mobile phone in a loud voice.   Oh dear, India, I apologise for what we do to you.  We speak to two Indian couples here from the UK on holiday, they have shopped and shopped. He says, in a wonderful mixed Indian and English accent, that all he does is provide the cheque book, and "You know, we have to keep our wives happy, without a happy wife, there is no life."  This too, seems to be a common understanding in India, that the woman is the heart of the household, deserving of the greatest honour and respect, to be revered and learned from, the wise and wonderful one - men and children alike hold the Mother at the centre of life.  I like that.  My Mother certainly was.

 

We were picked up at 3 pm precisely and arrived at the 'backside of the station', we are at the Chhatrapati Shiaji Terminus Station.  We are in for a traditional Indian welcome -  there is an archway made of marigolds and carnations, a red carpet rolled out and a very festive air.   Our guide must have called them and announced our precise arrival time, as we pull up - and there ten vibrant young men and women dressed in traditional clothing, the brightest green and orange, dancing and playing drums and musical instruments with such joy and passion, and such sunshiny faces, I feel I may burst. so Now this is what I had hoped for at Bollywood yesterday.  There was much pomp and ceremony, rows of white covered chairs with golden bows, arches of marigolds, more red carpets, iced drinks, elegant men in kurtas and women in saris, smiling and welcoming us.  Each couple, as they arrived, was given a 'special welcome dance' just for them.  What magic!!!  Gerald and I walked through the dancing musicians, as they swept towards us and away from us, escorting us along the red carpet, up the stairs, and on to the platform, where the welcoming committee waited.  We met the Director of the train and our formalities were completed quickly by a beautiful woman with dancing eyes.  My heart is beating loudly in my chest, and Gerald and I cannot stop beaming at each other.  But the other guests, all of whom are Indian, look so terribly glum and solemn.  Nobody is clapping loudly at the end of each dance as we do, they look bored and I feel for the dancers, giving their all, and so unacknowledged.  Perhaps rich Indian people don't have to show enthusiasm?  I have noticed this, but in the 'poor' areas, one grin from us is all it takes to unleash smiles and laughter and waving.  

 

There are men pulling huge trollies like the ones we used to have on our African stations as kids, loaded so high it defies logic that one man can pull such a weight.  We are separated from the commuter trains by a couple of tracks, and that platform is a very different one to ours.  I am always, always aware of this difference here in India, the Us and Them, and very conscious, often uncomfortable.  Indian people have no qualms about staring (remember our mothers saying to us "Don't stare!  It's rude?"). That does not happen here, if something is interesting, it is stared at, it's authentic, unlike us, who would be staring but pretending we are not.  And we are interesting, we are being inspected like insects under a microscope, and I can understand it.  I find 'them' equally interesting, but lack the ability to stare like they do. 

 

A representative from Mysteries of India is at the station, here to apologise for our disappointing Bollywood Tour.  He does all he can to make amends, and assures us that this is not normal for them.  They are thorough professionals this organisation, and appalled that the tour was not what it was promised to be, and have given us a full refund of our Aus $320.  It was only a couple of hours ago that  Gerald was on the phone to complain, and it's all been handled, with a minimum of fuss and a great deal of efficiency.  We are very impressed and thank him profusely.

 

We will be on the train for seven days, and arrive back in Mumbai next Saturday, 15th October, 2016, Gerald's actual 69th birthday.  I don't know how many celebrations we have had so far for his birthday, but am sure a few more are on their way. 

 

The Deccan Odyssey, an impressive, luxury train pulls in with a flurry of excitement and more drumming and dancing.  Satish - this is a Happy Moment!   It is about twenty years old, and can take 85 passengers.  As it is the start of the season, and this is just the second journey, there are only twelve of us on board, and 65 staff to take care of us.   Yes, 65.   We meet  Nickinson Misquitta, our charming young butler, who takes us on the tour of the train, and we meet many of the staff, including four of the chefs, the air conditioning expert, the barman and his staff, the beautician - yes there is a spa!   I have never had a massage on a train, nor a manicure or pedicure, that shall have to be rectified.  There are two kitchens, one for English food which also has a designated pastry chef, and one for Indian food. There is a meeting room cum library, and a bar.  There is also a gym, we cannot believe this, with weights and a walking machine and an exercise bike.  There are six very smart security men, dressed like army personnel with berets, braiding and epaulettes, who carry heavy duty large guns to keep us safe.  There are two elegant restaurant cars, one in tones of blue - blue glassware, blue silk canopies, blue and gold carpeting, and another in Royal reds and rust colours.   Fretwork on the ceilings and walls, heavy brass wall lamps with crystal shades, striped seating in heavy velvet, etched glass panels and brocade bonds, a rich floral carpet, bowls of flowers and soft lighting.  Apparently breakfast, lunch and dinner alternate between them.  There are two Presidential suites, Nickinson has promised to show us one - they are both currently occupied, there may be a shortage of passengers, but not a shortage of money.  How can they operate this train with only twelve passengers I wonder?

 

Our cabin is small and perfect, with a queen size bed, a 'compact' wardrobe, heavy brocade blinds on the window, a table and mirror, and bathroom with shower, basin, shelving and toilet.  It is prettily decorated with maple woodwork and parquet flooring, and patterned satin bedspread the colour of jewels, lots of cushions, and a TV.  We unpack our few clothes, Gerald sets up our technology, and we share a cold beer brought from the hotel, our last of our stash.  Gerald's bed side lamp is not working, and Nickinson organise the engineer to come and sort it out, he repaired it earlier, but it appears to be a major problem, he has part of the wall open, and there are wires everywhere.  Gerald, who was an engineer back in his early days of IBM understands the problem.  It is nothing to do with the light, but with something way back there in the bowels of the train.  Nickinson tells us this engineer is the master, if he cannot fix it, nobody can - if you have a problem with your IT, we can all sort it out - but this no, this is a job for the professionals, and he will fix it during dinner.  

 

The train departs at exactly 4.40 pm, and rocks out of the station, which is filled with humanity with bags and boxes, women carrying huge bundles wrapped in large cloths on their heads, children running, Chaiwallahs selling food and drink, and a few dogs roaming. We sit on the bed and watch the city first, and then the outskirts of Mumbai roll by.  Oh my word, a city founded on garbage.  The tracks are lower than the buildings alongside of it, and we watch as person after person comes to the wall which separates the track from the housing, and toss garbage over it.  Out of sight, out of mind.   There are literally mountains of garbage, and dogs picking their way through it, children playing in it, people sleeping in it, one young boy shitting in it.  Where else can he go though?  

 

We learn how to shower in a tiny space with the rocking of the train, and get ourselves ready for dinner.  We walk the three carriages, past the Presidential Suite to the first restaurant, we are the first ones there and I am wearing my $5 Vinnies special black lace jacket, and once more it receives acknowledgement.  One of the charming female staff tells me how beautiful I look, especially my jacket, and did I buy it in India?  Err, no, Australia.   I fail to tell her where I purchased it.  "A fine outfit Maam".  

 

Dinner is a formal affair - oh I love being a Raj on occasion! - with crystal and silverware, fine golden platters, and delicious tiny morsels of food artfully arranged. We eat a chicken tikka with mint sauce which melts in the mouth, a roasted tomato soup with such depth of flavour, and a 'non vegetarian' Thali - served on a massive silver platter, with an attachment at the side, specially created to hold the four separate dishes of fish, chicken, Dahl, and pickles.  The gin is not too expensive, and Gerald has a Kingfisher, we end with tea and coffee.  The staff attend to the tiniest details, these men know what they are doing, they even snatch glasses just as they are about to topple, and pour drinks without spilling a drop, whilst the train speeds along at 55 kph.  Amazing.  The train can do 100 kph, but at 55 kph I can hardly stand, let alone walk, and we bide our time till it slows, and make our way along the swaying corridors, led by the ever smiling Nickinson.  He will bring me more chamomile tea in half an hour and takes our morning order for 7 am tea tomorrow.  

 

I blog and climb into bed, the aircon proves once more to be a learning experience for Gerald and I, and pretty soon I am freezing, so I don the bathrobe, and place my pashmina over the doona.  Gerald manages to notch it up a degree or two, and I settle for sleep.   But it's a long night - we learn that the train has a train ahead of it, and another one behind it, and has to maintain a certain speed - or ......??   This train is a 'holiday train', not  'essential services', and has to be in certain places at certain times, to give priority to commuters.  So we are hurtling through the night, and the rocking is so pronounced I feel I am going to fall out of the bed.  I am sure we will get used to this wild rocking - it is not gentle as our awful overnight train to Jhansi was - and like I boat, we have to find our 'train legs'.   Gerald too, does not sleep.

 

I am having such a wonderful time.   Gerald, in one of his standing jokes, remarks yet again "Just let me know, OK, any time now, when you start having a good time?"  I say, "OK, when I am having fun, I will let you know."  And laugh, he expects me to.  I love this man.  

 

 

 

 

Day 33 - 9th Oct 2016 - Bijapur - Deccan Odyssey

 

SOME MARITAL ADVICE,  A CHILD'S HUG, A DEAD LADY AND A ROMANTIC CANNON

 

Today is my darling Suzee Q-Zee's birthday.   Happy Birthday Friend, I do love you.

 

Despite 'not sleeping' we are both asleep when Nickinson knocks on the door with our tea at precisely 7 am.   Gerald stumbles around in the small space, pulling on a tiny bathrobe and greets Nickinson heartily, too heartily for this time of the morning I think.  We have tea and coffee and those light as a feather little shortbread delicious Indian biscuits.  Gerald is reading a new Lee Childs book, which he noticed in the library last night.  He mentioned it to Nickinson, who asked if Gerald wanted to read it.  Well yes, that would be great.  Nickinson dashed off down three carriages to get it for him.  Amazing.  I sit writing this blog, as the train has stopped moving, it covered 550 kms during the night.  I tried to type whilst we were travelling and had to undo every second word as I was hitting the wrong keys.  The rush and roar of trains that pass us give me the shivers, if there was a collision, we would be mincemeat in an instant.

 

We like our little cabin and our little shower.   Gerald ruminates, how do you think we would survive in a tiny house, with limited space for everything.  He thinks we would be fine.  I do too, we would adjust, we have adjusted to many things in our lives together, good things and not good things.  In some ways, stripping back to the essentials must be a good, purging experience.  We have been on this holiday for 34 days now, and not had a single argument.  When I think about it, we gave up arguing years ago. We have had one or two tense moments on this holiday, but nothing to do with each other.  We have over all those years and the years we did not live together - learned how to live together, what works and what doesn't - we have learned to let the small stuff go, we know what is important and what is not important - and when we do disagree, it's about things that are fundamental to our integrity and our values, and that doesn't happen often.  When it does, it's passionate and resolved very quickly.  We don't carry a grudge, and we acknowledge each other a lot, including our nightly good night ritual, "Thank you for (three things) and I love you."  We say "I love you" a lot, and we also laugh a lot, about many things, about life, ourselves, and each other.   After 52 years together, we are very aligned in our lives.  

 

Except, says Gerald, that YOU make me wrong, and I NEVER make you wrong.  I decline to respond. 

 

We are a Happy, Satish.

 

We have mastered the shower.  And the lights!  Yaaaay!   Breakfast is served in that beautiful space, we are parked at a station, and there are many curious onlookers.  Is it OK do you think, to sit here surrounded by this splendour, whilst those people are struggling out there, Gerald?   There is a wild pig walking along the tracks, picking up God knows what to eat.  Shit, says Gerald.  No, it cannot be.  Yes, of course they eat shit.  Really?   And Gerald says, if that pig doesn't move soon, he's going to be bacon when a train rolls in.

 

I watch my Beloved order breakfast, I love how he orders food.  He looks the server in the eye as if he was bequeathing one of his family secrets to someone he trusts completely, and speaks in a confidential tone.   "Do you have cafe latte?"   Yes Suh.  This is received with a big smile and a "Good!"   Reviewing the menu once more for good measure, he slowly says "I will have ..." and then he pauses, dramatically, and repeats  "I will have ....."  This man is hanging on to his every word, pen poised, pad at the ready.   Another pause, and then a sudden decision is made.   "I will have the muesli, the fruit platter," (here his voice escalates in excitement) "and two fried eggs, a piece of toast. BROWN. And with CRISPY CRISPY bacon!"  The bacon bit is delivered with an increase in volume and the rush of a climax, like a musical conductor bringing down his baton with a theatrical flourish in the final crescendo of a complicated piece;  and then he beams his megawat smile.  The server is so relieved to have finally gotten the order, he too beams a megawat smile, the deal is done.

 

I am now sitting in that dining room blogging.  I hear the platform announcements and see people wandering by, that is a different world.  In here, the staff are preparing tables for lunch, I am so very present to the fact I lead such a privileged life.  We are eating again at midday (I don't think there is going to be enough to eat on this train) as we are leaving on a tour at 1.15 pm.    Madhav Rathore (when I first typed that auto spell wrote 'Mad Have Rat Hole' - and I showed it to him, he roared laughing) is the director of the train, and we asked him about which tours we could 'miss' as we are feeling tired after 34 days of full on sight seeing.   He is adamant, this is where you will discover the origins of India and the Indian people!  I don't think I can tell you one place to miss!   He is a tall, handsome, impeccably tailored and groomed man, beautifully spoken (maybe educated in the UK) and well travelled.  He has been to Walwedans in Namibia, is friends with a Baron there, who put on a musical concert in the desert recently, he tells stories and jokes with the ease of a courtesan. He knows all about the Blue Train and Rovos Rail, which we travelled on just three years ago, and he wants us to experience everything this trip has to offer.

 

Nickinson comes to advise that Gerald and I are being given complimentary massages in the spa, and when would we like them?   Oh yes, please!  Tomorrow afternoon at 4 pm, we are on.   

 

We can brush our teeth using the water in the basin, but not drink it, we have bottles of water everywhere, and the two metal containers given to us by Ashish at Bhandavargh Tiger Sanctuary.  Have I told you about the Himalayan water sold in bottles, at such inflated prices, yet it's a sign of privilege or luxury or something.  I watched in the Taj Palace Hotel as a well groomed young Indian man sat down to breakfast, the waiter poured him water from a jug.  He shook his hand and frowned and spoke in Hindi.  The waiter returned with Himalayan water, which he poured into a fresh glass.  It's about Aus$8 a bottle or more in hotels.   And each one has a little story on it, designed to entice the 'up and coming'.  

 

Here is an example:  "I look back on life - it's funny how things turn out.  You, the creator of beeping sirens and honking cars, yearn for the solitude of the mountains.  You a connoisseur of fast foods now gaze at water that took years to gather natural minerals as it trickled down from the Himalayas to within your reach.  And I, some of the purest water in the world, stand here trapped in a bottle. Come enjoy the irony.  Live natural."

 

So if you want to enjoy the irony and live naturally, you better order yourself some Himalayan natural mineral water. 

 

We are stationed at Bijapur.  This is what our itinerary tells us about it:  

 

"Bijapur is the historical capital of the Sultans of Deccan.  It was established between the 10th and 11th centuries by the Kalyani Chalukyas, and it changed hangs often, passing into the hands of new conquerors and invades.  In the second half of 16th and 17th century, under the aegis of the Adil Shahi dynasty, this city occupied a prominent place among the celebrated cities of India and even surpassed great cities like Delhi, Agra and Mughal India.  Due to the secular nature and liberal patronage of the Adil Shahi Sultans, many scholars, poets, painters, dancers, calligraphers, musicians, Sufi saints and other men of arts flocked here, and it also came to e known as the 'Palmyra of the Deccan.'"

 

We are people watching families on the platform opposite, dogs meandering, porters carrying, men crossing the tracks with bundles on their heads, announcements in Hindi filtering through.  Children peer in and people wave and smile.  I notice that often people look very glum, yet the moment I smile, their faces light up and they nod their heads in pleasure at being greeted.

 

The garlands we were adorned with are hanging up over the bedside lamps, and still smell sweet.   By the way, both bedside lamps work perfectly, the Smiling Engineer had to walk through the restaurant carriage last night (everybody does on the train, given there is only one route from one end to the other) - and gave us a big thumbs up "Victory" - it's sorted!   We are in Number 1 (a good number for us, we lived in 1 Oberon Crescent for over twenty years in Gordon) - and the carriage is called Tirta.  There are 21 carriages on this train - for twelve guests.   And there is one called Bollywood, but we didn't get that one, it's clearly another signal that I have made the right decision about my career.

 

I am reading a book called "One Indian Girl" by a man called Chetan Bhagat, the author of blockbuster novels, five of them.  The book has received a lot of criticism in the press, and I have a review by Pooja Pillai  from the India Times, which slams it. The protagonist of this book is Radhika Meta, a high earning, successful investment banker who is pinioned, independent and not a virgin.  (This is shock/horror territory in India, so it is extremely interesting for me to read.).  Chetan Bhagat is a male, and he writes a strong female protagonist, but does she need to be nicer? - that is a question posed, and it's called "A Handbook for Likeable Feminists", and causing a bit of a stir here.  I will let you know how I go with it.  I actually don't have much time to read at all, as after tours and writing this blog, which takes about 2 - 3 hours a day, I am pushed for time every day.  

 

Lunch is all too soon and we have to say no to several courses (and I tell you this because I have readers who not only love to eat but love to cook too) - I manage a sublime salad.  It's a circle of sweet red melon, with a salad of leaves and pine nuts and a small run of cream cheese and a slightly sour dressing.   Then we share a small bowl of coriander and carrot soup, it's colour as deep as the Sardu's Kurta.   Gerald manages to eat half of a serving of pasta with arabiata sauce, which I sample.  Oh my word, the depth of colour and flavour, with just a hint of chilli.  All served by Rama, who is from Punjab, he has a small scar on his cheek, and is quite a serious young man.  Would we like desert?   No thanks, we won't have any desert.  Or dessert, but thank you, young man.

 

Our itinerary for this afternoon: 1.15 pm departure and a 5.30pm return.

 

"Disembark and first head to the Gol Gumbaz, literally 'round dome', and the second largest tomb in the world, the mausoleum of Adil Shah, the Sultan of Bijapur.  It is a structural triumph of Deccan architecture, with a circular gallery where the tiniest of whispers gets magnified owing to the unique acoustics of the dome.  Then we visit Jumma Masjid, known as one of the first mosques in India.  Then on to Malik-Maidan, the largest medieval cannon in the world.   Don't hesitate to make a wish he as legend has it that if you touch the gun and make a wish, it will come true!  Visit Mehtar Mahal, a 17th century ornamental gateway to a mosque.  Then drive to and explore Ibrahim Rouza, considered amongst the most elegant Islamic monuments in India;  its 24m high minarets said to have inspired those of the Taj Mahal."

 

The guests 'gather' for the tour.  The lady on the PA always asks us to 'gather', it's sort of quaint, "Here we gathering nuts in May, nuts in May, nuts in May ..."   We are quite a procession:  there are two security men with guns who accompany us, a paramedic, three assistants with umbrellas, hand sanitisers, and iced water and our tour guide is Sandhya (pronounced Sandee-uh), an attractive woman who speaks exceptional English.  We are the only Westerners on the train.  One woman introduces herself, "I am Dr. Rita and this is my husband Ravi."  Dr. Rita is a gynaecologist and a GP, who worked for several years in South Africa, truly the world is a small place, and she spent five years in Cape Town and Johannesburg, then Bophutaswana and Botswana.  She left several years ago, as 'I feared for my life - expatriates were being attacked all the time.  I had such a good job there and I loved it, but safety was a big issue.'   We are kindred spirits and we strike up a friendship.  She buys me two small vases outside a mosque on our tour today for the princely sum of 20 rupees (about forty cents).

 

Our procession leaves the train, and there are four male musicians as we alight and are guided up the stairs and across a pedestrian bridge to the road side.  We descend the stairs, and there is a beautiful scene - there are twenty females dancing, clad in the brightest of colours, each with much jewellery, and the very large nose ring, there are people playing musical instruments, and we walk through two rows of dancers. The music is hypnotic, the ladies feet are stamping, their arms swaying gracefully, their eyes following our every move.  We are all snapping away, and one of the staff suggests they would like it if we pose for a photo with them.  Never one to miss a photo opportunity, I lead the charge, and within seconds, I have picked up their simple dance and their arm movements, they are grinning not and we are all having such fun.  Even more phones come out as the call goes out 'The White Woman is dancing!'  One young local man endeavours to join, but that is hastily rectified when one of our retainers removes him from the Kokak Moment.  White women can dance, local young man cannot.   I encourage Rita to join me, she giggles like a school girl, and gives it a go.  I think I will have her dancing on the table by the end of the journey.  Someone asks, why are all the ladies old?  Sandhya says "Because the older ladies love doing it, and the younger ones aren't interested."

 

India never ceases to surprise us, just when we think we have seen the most wonderful, amazing, extraordinary things - we see something else that literally takes our breath away.  The Gol Gumbaz, is a round dome which is the second biggest self supporting dome structure in the world, 250 feet high and 140 feet wide, second only to St. Paul's at the Vatican.  As you enter, there are several huge tombs, the Head Honcho Moghul and three of his wives, his favourite mistress, his favourite son, and his youngest child.  We climb 117 steep stone steps in the dark, up a narrow spiral, it is hard work, but when we get to the top, there is this dome the size of which blows your mind, circled by a 'whispering gallery' and there are a hundred kids (it's a long weekend) shrieking at each other and shouting and singing.  Everybody wants to hear their echoes, and it's like a madhouse, It sounds like hell.  Everything noise that is made echoes SEVEN times.  You can see what I mean about it sounding like hell. Our group press ourselves against the wall, and a local guide trails around to the other side, and even above all of that noise, we can hear him tear a sheet of paper, then he flaps a hanky, and we hear it in detail.  Amazing.  We have to descend those 117 steep steps, and get back into the bus to head to Jumma Masjid, driving through narrow streets filled with festivities for the long weekend.  There is doof doof music happening so loud that my body flinches, as does the lady's across the aisle from me.  We too become friends, her husband went to Wollongong University to study a  Human Resources course many years ago, he mentions Port Kembla, Kiama and Berry.   Can you credit it?  There is also a young gay couple, one of whom is called Atid, who takes great photos for us, and let's me take photos of him and his partner.  I think it must be especially hard to be gay in India.  They are so beautifully groomed and dressed, and as we leave our shoes outside mosques and temples, Gerald jokes that his shoes may be missing on his return, they are black, stylish and highly polished.  Our smelly, grubby walking shoes look so tacky.   So in all, there are three middle aged Indian couples, a gay couple, one female journalist, one female film maker making a short film about the Deccan Odyssey, and us. 

 

The 42 seater bus which is carrying our small party of 20 (12 guests plus 8 staff to take care of us for a few hours) has difficulty manoeuvring it's way through the streets, and it comes to a halt.   There is festival bunting hanging down across the road, and it's too low for the bus to drive under. Anything is possible in India.  Two of our assistants climb on to the buildings at either side of the road, and lift up the bunting, and we proceed along our way.   Our bus is almost eye level with the first floor of the buildings lining the narrow road, and through the bars on one window of a dwelling are two children waving excitedly at me.  Between them is a goat, and they are all trying to stick their heads out of the narrow gaps in the bars.   There are what look to us like swastikas used in decoration in many places - but the sign actually means "Well Being" - I have seen it in Indonesia too.  

 

Gerald spots a wine shop, our eyes covet it, our gin and beer have run out, but it's beyond our reach, the bus keeps driving. The bus also endeavours to stop right in front of the entrance to wherever we are going, and keeps inching back and forth until it is just right.   We carry umbrellas, first for the sun and then for the rain, which is a pain, as trying to hold one and my bag and take photos is difficult.  I am escorted solemnly to the loo by a male assistant, (I notice the Indian ladies give it a miss, and I discover why) but when you have to pee, you have to pee, the guard standing outside holding my bag and umbrella, and he then pays the toilet assistant who has to be woken up, she is asleep on the floor outside.

 

This mosque has manicured lawns and gardens, a sign wants us "Do not pluck flowers, pinch leaves, or spit."  It is encircled by a stone wall stretching kilometres, and the moat once held not only waste, but crocodiles to keep invaders out.   He too is buried with his wives and favourite mistress and some of his kids.  I think the mistress is a bit much, I say, and all the Indian ladies giggle.   Sandhya says "There was certainly jealousy back then, but it was a way of life, and people accepted it."  We marvel at the size and structure of this mosque, there are still faint outlines on the ground marking out each spot for each man to place his prayer rug.   There is a man keeping careful watch that we don't do anything wrong, but seems not bothered by the fact that two men are lying stretched out on the floor in front of the fan, sound asleep.   And that the beautiful little alcoves everywhere are being used as rubbish bins.  Time must have been important, says Gerald, as there are clocks everywhere.   In this fine example of architecture is a huge TV screen hanging on the wall with huge bolts showing times and temperatures and statistics of some kind, and a small desk fan hammered in alongside of it. 

 

One of our fellow travellers comments that Gerald and I are Prize Exhibits Number 1 and 2, and we are.  We smile a lot and say hello and wave, and everybody responds, wherever we go we have a large following of people.  The director Madhav Rathore (who is related to the royal family at Gainsburvargh Fort) tells us that many of these people have not seen a white person, we are such a novelty here and people will follow us and ask for photos. I mention that we have noticed a complete lack of resentment about the have's and the have-not's, and he echoes the sentiments of many of the guides we have had here.  This is their destiny, this is their karma, and they are working hard to make the next life a better one.   Oh my.  I see a family with three kids all beautifully dressed for their holiday outing, and ask if I can take their photo.   CAN I TAKE THEIR PHOTO? - oh they are delighted, then they take photos of us with their kids, then they take photos of me alone with them and their kids, and then Gerald alone with their kids.  This was a mistake, as we look up, and there is literally a queue, an orderly queue, waiting for photos.  We have group shots, individual shots, selfies, couples - every composition imaginable (Joshua there are people who can think of more poses than me).  

 

Here I have a confession to make.   There was a brief moment today when I reconsidered the decision I made yesterday about my career in Bollywood.  With the trail of paparazzi following us, I had an inkling of how Brad and Angelina (sorry for your separation) must feel.  My ego was being massively stroked, and we were the Talk of the Town.  Being chased by both the paparazzi and a group of adoring fans, clamouring for you is very seductive, believe me. But then I remembered the tedium, the grime, the interminable takes under hot lighting, and though my heart was breaking for my dashed dreams, (remember this is still very painful and raw for me), I did what my Mother always told me to do.   I determinedly lifted my chin and got on with things.

 

A beautiful thing happened.  At our first stop, a sweet little girl about ten years old with a hint of pearl lipstick, a big smile and a frilled pink dress approached me and shyly asked for a photo.  I told her to go away.  No, I did not, we became instant bet friends, exchanging tit bits in my limited Hindi and her much better English.  As we posed for the first few shots with her doting family looking on, and just before they all joined us, the mother shouted in alarm, and scrabbled through her handbag.  What, is there a problem?   But no, she rushes over with a seriously cool pair of sunglasses for her daughter, who slips them on and poses like a pro.  We did the complete 25 picture photo opportunity with her and her siblings, her family, her friends, some people she didn't even know.   She was so happy.  At our next stop, we bumped into her again, and she grinned from ear to ear as I pointed at her and very excitedly, shouted "HI!!!  YOU AGAIN!' That happened at the next two of our stops, and at the final one, when she saw me, that sweet girl ran with her arms outstretched, straight into mine, and I hugged her tight. Another Happy, Satish.

 

It has started to rain, we get back in the bus, and a long procession of men is headed towards us, I am smiling and waving through the window.   Then Sandhya explains it is a funeral so I stop being so cheerful and wear an appropriately sad expression.  And it's an important person too, they have a police escort.  A hundred men pass us, a few of whom are crying, and then a bus richly decorated with flowers and garlands playing music and a picture of the deceased lady on the front, we can see straight inside, it is full of women, many weeping.  In the centre of the bus is a throne like chair, and there the dead lady is sat upright, ghostly white, supported by women on either side. She is buried in that position. Yes they are Hindi, but an isolated and very small community who believe in burials, I wish I could recall their name, I shall google it when I get home. 

 

There seem to be less dogs in this part of the country and they are very different to the dingo-like dogs with curly tails, mostly in tan and white colours we have seen elsewhere.  These are bigger, with long slender legs, more like a Great Dane, but their bodies and colouring are more German Shepherd, handsome dogs.   We have seen very few cats. 

 

We arrive at Malik-Maidan, the largest medieval cannon in the world.   The cannon was brought here by four elephants, one hundred horses, and innumerable men, it weighs 64 tonnes, and it has the strength of an elephant, the power of a lion, and the speed of a horse.  In the mouth of the cannon is a relief caved into tin, zinc and iron - it features a lion's head, and it has a moustache! -  holding an elephant in its jaws.  The man who lit it, had to put his head in water so as not to burst his ear drums when he lit it.  Sandhya calls it a "Romantic Cannon" as so many stories abound around it.  Legend has it that if you touch the gun and make a wish, it will come true, but it's enclosed in a huge metal fence, it's pouring down with rain, and there is a fierce looking man shouting at people who do anything wrong.   I was hoping to make a wish, but there is destiny, the Indians believe, so I shall wait and see what occurs.

 

We dash back to the bus, where sacking has been laid on the steps for us to wipe our feet on, this short downpour has flooded the roads - the drainage is non-existent and I can only imagine what happens when a real storm hits.  The bus has been positioned so as to avoid us walking in any puddles.   A man directs us around piles of cow dung and into the bus.  I see a shop selling chunks of beef hanging on a hook "Mutton and Chicken Shop", and a bakery "Cakewallah" - well, if there is a Chiwallah, there must surely be a Cakewallah?   I see a man washing out his towel/tea towel/hanky in a torrent of water rushing off the roof, and there are kids running and riding on bikes splashing through water, having a wonderful time.  The same the world over.

 

We are quickly back at the station, where an escort of twenty kids follow Gerald and I.  One of the Indian ladies says "You should walk in front of me".  She doesn't want me to be bothered by these kids, one has red stuff all over his face, and he holds out his hands, begging for food.  Cold towels and drinks await us on board the Deccan Odyssey, and Nickinson brings us tea and coffee to our cabin.  An hour later, he arrives with a gin and tonic and a Kingfisher, bowls of nuts and chilli snacks.  This keeps us going as I blog and Gerald reads.

 

It's 7.00 pm and with a long tooooooooooot, we leave Bijapur, it was a pleasant and clean town of 350,000 very, very nice people, most of whom we met today.  The train roars along and I hope the cows keep off the tracks.  As evening ends there is a subtle change to the shades of the formidable granite landscape, we are snaking our way through the Decca plateau.  A thought strikes me.  Whilst Pooper said goodbye to us in Jabalpur, I have a sneaking feeling he may have been reluctant to leave us and is now doing his second job.  Either he is driving this train, or the driver is a close relative.  They both sit on the horn. 

 

We are the first in the dining car again, Indians eat later than Aussies.  "The Girl from Ipenama" is playing over and over on a loop, but the meal is outstanding.  I start with a Beetroot carpaccio, then a broccoli and blue cheese soup, followed by Australian lamb cutlets on green mash with tiny, crunchy veggies.  OMG.  I ask them to compliment the chef, and they bring him to the table.  His name is Raghul, and he is so thrilled by our acknowledgements;  he wants to give me the recipes.  The staff are so attentive, it's almost too attentive.  Do we need anything?  How was today?  Are you enjoying the meal?  I say yes, everything is wonderful, we are so happy, India is amazing, and so are the people, thank you so much, you are doing such a good job.  And he says with such sweetness my heart cracks a little "Thank you for the love, Maam."   Thank you for the love, Maam.  I want to hug him.  They have obviously been trained to speak to the passengers, and they do - dressed in their snowy white jodhpurs with long navy jackets with gold braid and buttons, shining black hair and white teeth - they are to a man, handsome enough to be in Bollywood.   (Don't start me off again).  

 

The train is stopping and will be stationary tonight, so perhaps we will sleep.  A 6 am wake up call for 7 am breakfast and an 8.15 am departure on our next tour. 

 

Gratitude for this day, thank you God and the Universe, thank you Gerald - and Mom and Dad.

 

 

 

Day 34 - 10th Oct 2016 - Aihole/Pattadakal - Deccan Odyssey

 

EAT, TOUR, SLEEP

 

It's another early start, I am feeling tired, and have another cold sore - but we leave at 8.15 am - so at 6 am there is a knock on the door by Nickinson bearing green tea and coffee.  He wears khaki trousers , with a white Kurta over the top, and topped with a short navy blue bolero, edged in gold braid, and he never looks tired or frazzled, He says that only 12 guests on board is easy, when they are full with 60 guests, then things get busy.  "After we clean your cabins, we rest when you go on tours."  Well, that's good.  Our bathroom is small and we have to take turns using it, Gerald's enormous tube of toothpaste dominating the shelf space.   We'e been gone 34 days and it's hardly dented, about 12" long and 2" round.  What did you bring THIS for?  Along with his Grey Flannel glass bottle of aftershave, I reckon there is a kilo in weight. He sniffs, and replaces them in his toilet bag, where he has six toothbrushes. I think I may be getting ready to go home.

 

Today we are going to explore the temples and ancient settlements of Aihole and Pattadakal, one of the world's largest temple complexes.

 

Breakfast of the sweetest fruit, papaya, watermelon, pineapple, kiwi fruit and apple, arranged like a work of art, yogurt, carrot and ginger juice so good I have to have a second glass, and an omelette.    Our retainer asks "Maam, may I present your eggs now?"   We'll certainly, 'present away', thank you very much.  

 

Our itinerary says:  "Aihole is often called the cradle of Indian architecture.  Explore a few of the over 70 rock cut temples constructed by the Chalukyan kings in a completely experimental style, with each temple different from the others in the complex and even from other temples in India itself.  Continue on to Pattadakal situated on the banks of the Malaprabha River and explore the architectural style here which combines South Indian (Dravidian) and North Indian (Nagara) forms.   In fact this architecture can be seen to have influenced later architecture commissioned by the Hoysala and other dynasties."

 

I saw this today, and it may interest you: 

 

The Rulers of the Deccan:

 

Chalukyas Dynasty 6th - 8th Century

Vijay anagram Empire - 1446 - 1520

Deccan Sultanates - 1490 - 1687

Mughal Empire - 1530 - 1707

Nizam of Hyderabad - 1720 - 1948

 

 

Our security team walk the corridors regularly bearing their guns, we hardly notice them now, they smile and nod their heads at us, and they are there when we 'gather' in the library car to disembark.  I wonder if one of our guests is someone special?  There is a band of men to welcome us to Aihole, playing musical instruments and a fair crowd has gathered to watch.  One of the senior male retainers says to us "If you want to dance, please do so."   So I do, the male musicians are pleased. Gerald leans over, and above the din, shouts in my ear "He didn't say 'dance' - he said if you want to talk (to the reporter) please do so."   Oh, but I keep dancing.  Apparently, one of the single females on board, is doing a short film on the Deccan Odyssey is speaking into a camera and in that din, asks what we think?  I do not hear her and am not prepared for the mike or the camera (having given up on Bollywood), so give a fairly lacklustre response, at the time I was uncertain if her question was about India or the train.  We have a trail of interested people follow us up three flights of stairs and across a bridge and down three flights on the other side, escorting us to our bus.  One of our retainers carries a large stick of bamboo and walks alongside of us.  Don't mess with this guy, nobody has specifically mentioned what the bamboo stick is for, but I think I know.  One of the senior members of staff approaches us with a chubby beaming man with a splendid moustache.  He is the General Manager of this section of train, and would like to be introduced to us.  He shakes hands firmly and bows, he is the one who ensures that during meal times, the rocking is kept to a minimum (??) and that all the points are changed at the right time.  He is star struck at meeting us, as happy as if he had just won a car with his face wreathed in smiles.   All this attention is going to my head. It is astonishing that still today, the mere fact that my skin is white has certain people hold me in a privileged and esteemed position.  It's not right. 

 

Sandhya points out a blessing ceremony at the police station next door:  all the guns are being blessed.  Isn't that nice?   All the buses and tractors and bikes have been decorated for the festival, and it's such a colourful and happy affair, even the police station is covered with marigolds, and I wonder if they garland the guns with flowers too?  We see a procession of men and women wandering the street, knocking on doors, and washing the feet of the residents, part of a cleansing ritual.  I can just imagine Howard and Adrienne, Phil and Julie and Gerald and I on a public holiday doing this in Hay Avenue.  We pass a bullock cart clipping along at a fast pace, with a family inside.   Tethered at the back are two small goats, doing their darnedest to keep up with the pace of the bullocks.  Oh dear me. 

 

The hour long drive is very pleasant, along almost deserted roads, which are largely very good today.   We have driven on some terrible roads, GErald thinks the worst he has ever seen in any country.  On either side is chocolate brown rich soil, lots of corn and mulberry trees, sugar cane and other vegetables.   India is one of the largest consumers of sugar in the world, which is not surprising, they do have a very sweet tooth, and many things are too sweet for us to eat, and the population is growing larger with every generation apparently.  There are flowers everywhere, flowers are a huge part of Indian culture says Sandhya, I love that.   But there are hardly any people here, it's farmland, and very very beautiful.   There are canals used for irrigation and for washing, and thousands of banana trees, their lush green leaves used for so many things here. We come across many, many sections of the road which are being used to thresh their wheat, waiting for vehicles to drive over it lying there in great mounds - hundreds of meters of road.  Kind of the Indian government, says Gerald.  They are not supposed to do it says Sandhya, but they do, nobody minds.   Lovely India.  Two men and a goat on a motor bike fly by.  In the car in front of us, is our Train Director, Madhav, he joins us at all our stops.  I guess he has this car in case we have need of the para medic in case of emergency.  Every detail has been taken care of.

 

The bus is swaying over uneven roads, and suddenly there is a loud crash on the bus, and a dozen heavy striped umbrellas fall from the overhead storage to the floor.   That could have been nasty. But nobody speaks shoutily, and they are just stacked on the floor in a neat pile.  There are many unspoken rules on roads here, one is "My bus is bigger than your bus, so get out of the way" - but perhaps that is an international rule? - and mostly people comply.   We see ancient bullock carts, still being used to carry produce, there are a lot here as they are used in farming.  All animals when tied up are on a very short leash, which makes my heart ache, they can scarcely move. As we pass though one village, celebrating the last day of the festivals, we see several white bullocks 'having a lovely bath" says Sandhya.   True, they are being gently scrubbed with a brush and a bucket of soapy water and look to be enjoying the process.  Men pass on bikes carrying huge loads of wheat, making their vehicles look tiny, but one man passes and he must have seventy plastic water bottles, all looped together with rope - his width is a good ten feet and you can hardly see him as he roars towards us. There are piles of cow dung expertly stacked, and Sandhya explains it is a very valuable commodity and has many uses, including being used as an antibiotic. There is a lady outside her modest hut decorating the ground - it is white rice powder, and she is making a blessing near her front door for good luck today. 

 

We have the front seats on the left and have a good view, too good a view - every time I see a dog on the road I sit bolt upright and clasp my hands in prayer repeating "Doggie doggie doggie doggie ....." until he is off the road.  I think this helps create a safety bubble around him.  The women here wear different coloured saris in different fabrics, it's more of a weave, and has more geometrical and diagonal patterning.  In this remote place, most of the men are wearing shots (the white cloth wrapped around their waist) with waistcoats, and many wear turbans.   Clothing, food, customs and culture is very different in all the places we have been.  The warmth of the people remains the same.  A little boy at the side of the road is crying, yellow snot running, but he is playing with a mobile phone.   Here??  He sees me waving, and stops crying immediately.  Sandhya says "He just wants attention that's all, nobody was bothering about his pretend tears.  Then he saw you and cheered up."  It takes so very little to make someone happy here, people expect so little.  Faces turn from gloom to sunshine when I smile at them, the smallest acknowledgement or gift is received with such gratitude.   I love this, we have so much to learn.  I also love it that very little is wasted here (except for the billions of filthy plastic bags in the garbage) - for example the corn.  The husks, the stalks, the kernels, and the cobs, are all used so resourcefully for so many things.   There are dozens of goats being herded, funny that we haven't seen a dead goat on the road.   The driver is trying to overtake our huge bus on a narrow road and the tuk tuk in front is not co-operating.  One of our retainers opens the window in the passenger seat next to the driver and in the first case of road rage I have seen, shakes his fist and speaks shoutily to him.  There is a man in the middle of the road (it's a two lane "highway" actually) - he has a hose pipe stretched some metres, and is asking a green plastic chair, whilst buses and motor bikes swerve around him.  What on earth?   A tiny dog, half the size of Cino, wanders across the road, buses and motor bikes swerve to avoid her too, and she moves on, unconcerned. All the dogs here seem very purposeful, as if they are on their way to an important meeting.  Unless they are sound asleep of course, on the road, or the train tracks.  They don't play like our dogs do, they have the business of surviving to attend to.  There is a lady doing her washing on the highway, she has two pots, one green and one orange, and is thrashing the clothes on the Tarmac.   What on earth?  Sandhya says "It says a great deal about the quality of the cloth here, it is said that the women try to break stone with cloth."  Today I see more handicapped people than I have seen elsewhere, club feet, and missing limbs.  And a scene which made me weep, in happened in just seconds whilst we waited for traffic.  A very, very old lady crept out of a dark doorway, holding on to the wall, she was clearly blind, and groping around for her walking stick, which I could see and she couldn't.  I wanted to leap off the bus and hand it to her.   A walking wheat field.  No, it is a man, he is in there somewhere, we just cannot see him - eight feet of wheat, walking. 

 

Getting on and off the bus wherever we have the man in the blue shirt with the big bamboo stick and another man who is the traffic cop.   He puffs his chest a little and extends his arms for 'his guests' to get on or off, and the traffic stops all around us.  The big stick deters some, but not all, of the Pied Piper entourage we had yesterday.  I overhear one of our lady retainers giving a local man a good telling off.  We were coming out of a temple and he spit a stream of red beetle juice, quite impressively I thought, but not of the standard of Pooper.  She told him in no uncertain terms that he has 'not to spit!  It is unhealthy.   And we have to walk on the ground where you have been spitting!  Promise me you won't spit again?  Promise me?"  He is nodding his head in agreement - she is clearly the authority here, with her smart uniform and badge.  I have tried something similar on a few occasions in Australia and been told to "Fuck off!"  We have seen hardly any Westerners since we started our train journey.  I wrote 'whites' then deleted it and put 'Westerners' in - but the truth is here that people do refer to us as 'whites', and acknowledge dark skin as 'black skin', without any rancour. 

 

On arrival, Sandhya asks who needs the loo.  I do.  I always do, I can wee anywhere, anytime.  She suppresses a sigh like a mother with too many kids, and starts to guide me to a toilet in the distance, I protest, saying I can find my own way.  I set off and am half way there when I realise there is a female retainer following me.  She holds an umbrella over her head and in her arms she carries a flat basket, in which there are two toilet rolls, hand sanitiser, and wet wipes.   She looks quite regal with the umbrella, and is pacing herself solemnly in my footsteps.  As it happens, I have my OWN loo paper and sanitiser in my bag, but I am grateful.  I ask you, where else?

 

We see three truly amazing World Heritage Sites today.  I wish I could be more specific about the temples we saw today, but we have seen soooooo many temples in our 34 days here, I can really hardly recall one from another.  They have all been magnificent in one way or another, and the carvings and artistry and workmanship are simply unbelievable.  Today we see scene after scene after scene of loving couples, "very tender" says Sandhya about one man and woman, but I thought he was groping her boob, but kept that to myself.  There are women with sensual curves, laden in jewellery, and being held by their men, eyes gazing tenderly, all carved from granite and soapstone and granite.  We see a lotus headed Goddess 'displaying her sex' - and she is indeed, sitting cross legged and naked. We see temples of totally different kinds, influenced by totally different empires, built in totally different materials, and all beautiful, all falling down, and many being restored, of the 6 and 7th and 8th centuries.  But the most amazing was the Cave Temples, the earliest of all - I think she said 5th Century, carved into hills of granite rock.  How did they do it?  The artistry and vision of this blows my mind, there are forms of Gods and Goddesses, animals and flowers, beasts and symbols, Sanskrit messages, with such attention to detail - some faces are so animated and others clearly bored, all done with a suggestion, and much humour, the Angels and the fat babies and the half men half women with servers at their feet.   There are many stones Sandhya calls "Hero Stones" - a monument to a Guerilla who fought for independence, some in circles, some in rows, all beautifully sculpted and decorated.  Like a headstone, except they are not buried here. 

 

Back on the bus our retainer comes around as he does at every stop with sanitiser and cold water, and there are Cokes with ice dripping off them.  I am horrified when Gerald says he would love one. WHAT?  Dr. Rita is having one, and so is her husband.  I give Gerald a look, and he opts for a lemonade, a fraction less sugary.  

 

We are back on board by 2.30 pm, third - it's been an hour's drive each way.  Lunch is waiting.  We have a clear broth with julienned vegetables and chilli, oh the flavour of this, so subtle and so delicious, and then a red curry which Gerald pronounces as the best Indian curry he has had here.  I tell him it is a Thai curry, 'oh well then it's the best Indian Thai curry I have had.'   So easy to please is my Beloved.  The rest of the guests are going on an 'optional' tour this afternoon to see more temples, but Gerald and I decline, much to their astonishment.  I can hear them saying "Those Australians, they were right here, and didn't go to see the X and the Y temples!"   They know all of these temples, they grew up with stories about them, they have read books and seen films, and all knew exactly what was going on today.   I guess I would find it odd if a visitor to our city declined to visit the Opera House.   But we have been on tour for 34 days, every day, with early starts and late nights, and we just need a break.  We need a holiday when we get home.

 

I lie on the bed and fall sound asleep for half an hour, all templed out. Nickinson knocks on the door, it's almost time for our 4 pm massage in the spa.  Don't you love it?  We walk through several carriages to the spa, in our bathrobes, but it's nothing like the foyer of the Taj Lake Palace in Mumbai.   Although we surprise the serving staff in the dining room, who clearly think all the passengers are off on tour, and  find them listening to very loud Indian music, their jackets unbuttoned, sitting in 'our' chairs.   They leap to their feet as if scalded, one sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes in the "Oops! We've been caught in the act!" but I dance through the cabin in time to their music, and they roar with laughter.  In the spa, we have separate 'facilities' for men and women, and I have a relaxing, nurturing hour long massage, as does Gerald, compliments of the Deccan Odyssey.  Thank you very much!  We squeeze into the steam room together, it's designed for one person and a tiny person at that and we take turns sitting down and standing up.  After ten minutes we are sweated out and feeling a little light headed.   I think the staff are happy to see us leave as 'sharing the steam' must be unusual.  We and head back to our cabin for tea.

 

I blog and Gerald reads his Lee Childs, his sixth book.  I, on the other hand, have read one, as every spare minute is spent blogging.  Nickinson arrives with a beer, gin and tonic, and nuts and we prepare for dinner.

 

I love the way they offer Gerald a beer at the table, they hold it out as if offering a rare vintage wine for him to check the label - they ask him to check the temperature.  He does.  It meets his approval.  I eat Hari Bhari, a traditional vegetable dish with mint sauce and Gerald has an Italian chicken dish, Chicken Olivetti, the sauce is full of olives and tomatoes and capsicum, I know because I try it.  I have a thick yellow dal soup, and then our King fish arrives, but we cannot eat it.  Although beautifully prepared and served, with crunchy delicious vegetables, the taste of the fish is so strong, it turns my stomach.  Our retainer is alarmed.  Maam?  Is something wrong?  Can we get something else?   I hasten to tell him it is just us, our tummies, please tell the chef everything is wonderful!  The food on this train has been outstanding, at every single meal.  I don't want the chef upset.  The lovely man who is serving us, our trusty retainer, places a small white candle in a silver holder on the table.  I say to Gerald, I wonder what this candle is for, and wonder if he is going to get yet another birthday celebration on the wrong day.  What candle, he says?  This one, I say pointing to it.   His eyebrows raise into his non-existent hairline.  "That Sandra is not a candle.  It's a container holding toothpicks."  I look closer, sure enough he is right.  The lighting on this train at dinner time is so bad.   I now know every time that man sets down those toothpicks that Gerald is going to smirk and say "Shall I light the candle?"

 

Back to the cabin, and Nickerton brings me chamomile tea.   What shall I do without you next week? I ask him.  He beams.  He has been into Joshua's website, threesongsnoflash and thinks it is 'wonderful, truly wonderful!'.

 

It is 10 pm and I need to sleep.   We are up at 6 am again tomorrow for another tour.  

 

 

Day 35 - 11th Oct 2016 - Hospet - Deccan Odyssey

 

AN ELEPHANT BLESSING, A KID GOING 'FREE' AND THE BEAUTY OF THE PEOPLE

 

A few things I have been meaning to tell you:

 

I want to tell you that Gerald has had a major breakthrough with the headaches he has been suffering from for some years.  He has been headache free for the last couple of weeks;  we hardly want to speak about it, but are holding our breath and feeling very very grateful. 

 

We have noticed that Indian people do not want to disappoint you.  If the answer is a 'no' and they think you may be disappointed, there are certain strategies employed to minimise that disappointment.  One small example, Gerald wants some laundry done, and on the first day we were told it could be done in certain places along the way.   He asked Nickenson today about it, and I could tell there was going to be no laundry today immediately.  He got an evasive look in his eyes and went on at great length explaining the way laundry is done and where it is done and who does it and the system and the forms we need to fill out and how long it takes, but ends with "But we are not yet ready for laundry?"  He looked so upset I wanted to tell him Gerald can wear the same shirts and underpants for the rest of his life, just don't cry!

 

Gerald was speaking to Madhav yesterday, and asked how much to tip the excellent staff for the outstanding service.   The train has a community box, and he tells Gerald it would not be fair to tip those who we have seen to serve us, there are dozens we don't see, the train driver, the vegetable peelers, the laundrymen.  Gerald asks for guidance as to how much to put in, and he recommends Aus $100 each for the week - $200.  I do not know how much this train trip cost, as it was included in a package, and I do not wish to demean the fantastic service, but it seems a lot of money on top of what we have paid.  Still, it's better than handing out notes to only a select few.   We were telling him about Sharpura Bagh and how much we loved it, Mira and Sah and her family, and how beautiful it all was, that they were more British than the British.  He says "Oh we can put it on for our guests, you know!   Did he have dogs?"  

 

I didn't tell you about a small exchange we overheard at the pool at the Taj Lake Palace the other day.   A young, attractive Western woman, wearing a very short pair of shorts and a very high pair of high heels was holding on to the arm of a balding, paunchy, middle aged Indian man and explaining to him that the area they were standing in, alongside the pool, "is for guests only".  I thought this was odd, not about the guests only part, but the young woman;  she clearly knew her way around and he had no idea.  "She's a high class escort girl, who knows here way around the hotel" said Gerald.  Really?  That would explain the inappropriately attired young woman in the heels and the red dress strutting up and down at the entrance the other day, as if touting for business.  

 

So, today!

 

We woke up in Hospet, the railways station for the city of Hampi, which was part of the essential hippy trail back in the sixties.   We slept well last night, as the train stopped travelling around 10.30 pm - trying to sleep when it rockets along is almost impossible, not only for us, but the others have said so too.  Quite different to the gentle rocking of our Second Class Sleeper train, which had many other disadvantages.  Rovos Rail in South Africa provided us with a gentle clickety clack lullaby to sleep,, but this train must travel faster, or have different suspension, or be on a wider track so Gerald says. 

 

Gerald and I are always on time and as usual are the first in the dining car at 7 am, we leave at 7.45 pm, and slowly the other guests straggle in.   The two single females arrive a few minutes before departure, hair wet from the shower, grabbing a cup of coffee and a croissant.  

 

When we got off the train on to our red carpet, there were two ladies in lavish white and gold saris, who placed red Tikkas of welcome on to our forehead, the farewell committee standing by to wave us off.   We climbed several sets of stairs and over a bridge to the village on the other side.   There was a doggie who had recently given birth, her breasts hanging low, her body painfully thin - and she had seven tiny puppies running after her.  Oh no.  I spoke to her in my special "I love you so much" voice and she did that whining sound that dogs do when they wish to communicate back, the sound of a being knowing they are being acknowledged in the world, and she trotted after me.  Oh dear God, I have nothing to feed this unfortunate creature and her family and a sense of helplessness rises in me, but Adita, the lovely lady from the train who has also an eye for animals, she and I see all the monkies and all the dogs and all the goats - she turned to one of our 'retainers' and instructed him to go and get food from the train for this mother. 

 

The festival is coming to an end, I think we have heard that for days, but really REALLY today is the last day.   Each house has decorations on the ground at the entrance, originally made of rice flour, which feed the birds and the insects -everybody doing a good turn for someone else - it's a good luck sign and a welcome sign, and the more 'messed up' it gets, the better - it means you have many visitors.  Gerald says he would prefer his to stay pristine clean, he has always wanted a moat around our house with a drawbridge and a few crocodiles, only letting our son in on occasion, and others on a strict annual visitation.  There are also smashed watermelons, I ask why - instead of sacrificing an animal, they smash fruit, and place limes under the wheels of their car, then drive over them to drive out any bad spirits.  I am happy to hear that the animal sacrifices aren't happening any more.  The blessings are happening everywhere, Sandhya says they bless their refrigerators, blenders, computers, motor bikes, cars, any piece of machinery that works for you.  Perhaps this has been my problem in the past with my technology?  I haven't blessed them before use which is why I am always plagued with such ghastly problems.  Take note Jane Toohey, it's not my lack of skill, it's my lack of blessings.  Houses and vehicles are decorated with flowers and banana leaves, people are wearing their best clothes, it's a happy atmosphere.   

 

There is a tall, mysterious man travelling with us.   The gun carrying security guards no longer accompany us, but this athletic, good looking man wearing a snowy white shirt and big sunglasses, dogs our every step.  I cannot see his eyes, but he is watching, all the time.   He is an undercover security cop, we are sure.   And we have discovered there is a VIP travelling with us, with his wife, who occupy the Presidential Suite on the train.  He works with India Rail, in effect he is paying the wages of everybody on this train, including the paramedic who also accompanies us everywhere.  I don't know if these men are here just because of the VIP, or if this is standard procedure, but it's pretty impressive.   I shall call them Nundy (him) and Rundy (her).  All our fellow Indian travellers have travelled the world, including Australia, and speak knowledgeably about our country.   Bringi says he doesn't know how Gerald and I have been so tenacious to be travelling in India for 35 days, touring morning, noon and sometimes night.  "Me, after 15 days travel overseas, I cannot wait to get home.  My head is done in."  

 

We are in the city of Victory, Hampi, another World Heritage Site.  Hampi is famous for its splendid architecture, sculptures and their historical significance, and we drive forty minutes through a changing landscape, of rich soil growing flowers and bananas and rice - we pass a huge waterway, Sandhya calls it a "tank" - it is the Kamlapur Tank, we would call it a dam, and it feeds the agricultural land surrounding it.   There are huge round metal containers at the side of the road, the size of a small boat, being scrubbed, they are for making sugar cane juice in.  We drive away from the city bustle, passing families living in small blue plastic 'humpies', oh dear it must be as hot as hell in there, to massive boulders, which remind me of The Matopas in Zimbabwe, thousands of rocks balancing one on top of the other.  At one section of road, there is a concrete barrier separating north bound from south bound traffic (ha ha).  Someone is doing their spring cleaning, because they have draped three large carpets over it - in the centre of the highway! - to dry in the sun.  

 

We spend the morning at the Sacred Zone.  First stop is at the Narashima statue, a vast statue to Shiva and there are Shiva Lingas everywhere.  It isn't too hot yet and the crowds haven't arrived, and it's pleasant, we can take photos and walk around quite easily.  And oh look! - there is an elephant in the stables!   My eyes light up (Anna Martin take note) and I head off, with Gerald in hot pursuit, this is not on the itinerary and our group have moved to the next marvellous sculpture.   She is standing contentedly munching on grass with her mahout alongside.  I take photos and a man steps up and hands the elephant a note, money.   She gently plucks it with her trunk and hands it to her keeper, then the man bows his head, and she places her trunk gently on top, in a blessing.   Oh my word!  An Elephant Blessing!  Can I, can I, can I?   Gerald is fumbling with the obligatory umbrellas we carry for the rain and the sun, his camera, and his wallet, and hands me some money, and I wait.   The mahout has to give you the word.  Please let me, please let me, please let me.  He nods gravely at me, and I step forward up to this magnificent creature looking her right in the eye.  She snuffles and reaches out for my money, I quickly remove my hat, and she lays that heavy trunk on my head, I can feel it's heat and it's weight and it's dampness, and for a moment I am in heaven.  Oh what a blessing, I am weeping as I write this, recalling that feeling;  elephants have this effect on me.   The gang are looking for us Gerald says, we have to go.  When we walk by later, the door is closed to the elephant stable, but I can see her.  I was lucky to be there at the right time. 

 

Next we visit "Mustard Ganesh", located at the base of the Hemkuta Hills.  It's a joke, as the elephant God statue is anything but mustard seed size, it's almost seven metres tall and carved out of one single piece of rock.  We have to all get into marigold decorated run-tuks, the drivers proud to be wearing the Deccan Odyssey badge, and driving such honoured guests.

 

We take in the view, it's breathtaking, the gentle hills surrounding us and there are caves and alcoves everywhere.  There is one section where there are piles of stones and rocks and chunks of granite, carefully placed one on top of the other.  What is it?  People have begun to build small structures using these stones, and they make a wish.  Gerald and I set to making ours, it has a flat base of granite, with a rounded chunk of pinky stone, another piece of granite on top, it's quite a balancing act, and then two more stones.  It wobbles a bit, we hold it and make our wish, and take a photo of it.  Then I dash behind a rock and pee.   There are toilets here Sandhya says, but there is no water.  Can you hold on for another couple of hours?   I'll find a bush or a rock, I say, and she is taken aback.  Perhaps other white women don't pee with the frequency I do, certainly the Indian women don't.  Young boys everywhere are selling postcards and maps, Sandhya encourages us to buy, they are 50 cents for ten, she says "They are not begging, trying to earn an honest living."  We purchase one from a skinny boy who looks about eight years old, but when I ask, he is sixteen.   He is a very good salesman, and has sold something to almost all of us on the bus, his mate has yet to make a sale. Life is hard here.   

 

We drive past ghats where people are bathing and doing laundry, and canals where kids are swimming and playing, there are dogs asleep in the sun.  There are monkies everywhere, I love it how the Indians all live together happily.  Monkies wandering in and out of homes, donkies, horses, cows, goats, dogs, pigs and people. I put some nuts down for the monkies who were running up and down the sides of the monuments, three had a fight and Sandhya pushed us back "Be careful! - they can bite!" - and the larger snatched the bunch of bananas they were fighting over and ran off.   We saw another snacking on a garland of marigolds, and a mother with her baby tucked under her arm.  We drove past The Smith Clinic today, a building about 3 metres square.  The only patient was a big white cow standing in its only room.  We drive past a waterway where there are a dozen people washing laundry, and white towels and sheets are spread out over every bush in every direction, like a snow drift against the lush green.  This has to be a hotel's laundry, how do they keep it so clean with all the dust from the road?  An eagle soars overhead, Gerald sees birds everywhere, he has to point them out to me, and even when he says, "Look at the fork in the tree on the left" I still struggle, his eyes see things mine do not.  A car is parked in the shade, and out of the driver's window is one bare foot belonging to a male leg clad in long grey trousers, a man having a nap.  A man walks past carrying a bleating baby goat in his arms, as tenderly as if it were a child, it looks comfortable, he smiles at my smile, and nods his head, he cannot wave as his hands are full of goat. 

 

It astounds us that these priceless treasures are treated so casually.   Cars and buses and tuk tuks drive in and around them, under arches centuries old, the bus can scarcely make it, surely he will knock the whole thing down? The pollution alone must cause enormous damage, and the Indian government cannot possibly maintain or restore the thousands and thousands of architectural relics of such value which are everywhere in this country.  The restoration work includes making new pieces to replace ones that are missing, and the colour can be seen immediately - many places are closed off with blue plastic or corrugated iron, and there are bamboo structures surrounding some sections.  But there are piles and piles of precious artefacts just lying around for anyone to pinch.  There are magnificent elephants with trunks hacked off, and statues with missing arms and legs.  Bits of buildings and statues and monuments have been sheared off and hacked away, not in quite the same way the invading armies plundered and looted and burnt and destroyed here all those thousands of years ago, but we are still wrecking this irreplaceable treasures.  (Gerald says to me, we are doing this right now in Syria.  And what plundering and burning and looting are we doing to our planet and our environment, right now, I say.)   Oh goodness, we don't seem to learn.   Fifty years ago, people were still living in these monuments, and the Government is still relocating people from several places where families are still living in them.   Some are incomplete, either they ran out of money when building them, or moved on.  Gerald says it is a metaphor for life, the incompleteness of so many buildings here, even many of the modern ones look unfinished and unlived in.  We are always moving on, and what do we leave behind?  We drove through a village today filled with astonishing monuments and families living in them, alongside shops and small houses, markets, and roadways clogged with garbage and traffic.  They have been subjected to thousands of years of families fires, cooking, toileting, vandalism, and it's amazing they are as well preserved as they are.   But it seems incongruous to have a tour car drive up and park in the entrance to one of them, or that piles of electrical junction boxes and light fittings lying in piles on the floor, cords in puddles of water, or that cheap lights and nasty signs are hammered into the precious rock work.   A red Colonial post box is tied to a nearby tree with rope, and a neatly lettered sign says "9 am clearance".  

 

There is a little boy about three years old crying that "I'm pissed off and I don't know why and I'm tired and upset and nobody is paying me any attention" sound that every mother is familiar with.  From the looks on the faces of his family, they are exasperated, he is being a complete pest on this holiday outing and driving them mad.  I stop, hands on hips, with a mock angry look on my face and stare at him. In a split second he sees me and stops crying immediately, and looks at me with a horrified expression on his face.  His family burst out laughing.  He laughs because they are laughing and I am laughing, everybody is laughing.   Satish, this is a Happy.  

 

It's a beautiful walk along the Tunghabhadra River, ruins of temples reminiscent of the Parthenon, giant boulders, the shining river, caves and unexpected carvings cut into the rock face.  There are boats for hire, draped in golden marigolds, and they are circular! - woven bamboo on the inside, and tempered on the outside with tar.  We do not take a ride, the sign says "Deadly Whirlpools, Do Not Swim".  It's beautiful, absolutely stunning.   On the opposite bank is a family living in just the way they have done for centuries, their washing laid out on rocks, the kids playing in the sand, a cooking fire smoking, they may not have electricity, but they certainly have plenty of running water.   What do they do when it floods, I wonder?  There is a ghat on our side, and there are men bathing and women doing washing, oblivious to the tourists taking photos.   Here we see more white tourists than we have for a few days, all young travellers with heavy backpacks, and a few wheeling suitcases.   It seems the hippy trail still lives on here.  Sandhya helps me buy some orange silken thread, the thread one ties around a wrist, or even your throat, as a sign of friendship, and they are wrapped in the traditional way, in newspaper, and bound with string.  She says orange is the colour of wisdom and love.  It's my favourite colour, I say, and show her my hat and my shoes.  

 

We leave the Virupaksha temple and our tuk tuks return us to the bus, which drives us a short distance to our last stop, to the famed Vittala temple, around 15/16th Century, much newer than others we have seen - some as old as the 6th century - these are the polar power sites of Hampi, one of which is a living temple, the other an extravagant architectural showpiece, and sometimes called "The Musical Temple" - apparently the pillars which hold up the structure can be 'played' with a bamboo stick, and skilled musicians can play complicated pieces of music here. We have to queue to get an electric car to take us up to this last group of temples.  The drivers of these cars are women wearing scarves over their nose and mouth, as the ride is dusty.  We are given masks to wear too, although it's unnecessary, there is as much dust elsewhere. What with the masks and the little bootees we wear to go into the temples, we look like surgeons preparing for theatre.  I joke with Dr. Rita that I am there to support her in an emergency, she takes it seriously, and says "You are there for me?"  I love how so many Indian sentences sound like, and sometimes are, actually questions.  

 

Hindu-ism is not about 'community' says Sandhya, something we have been told before, unlike many religions where people gather in hundreds and thousands to worship and pray.  It's a very personal thing, and it only takes a split second to honour your God and to receive his blessing.  Sometimes as a child, she says, on holy festivals her family would wait for literally hours in a queue to honour their God.  The queue shuffles along slowly, and you get half a second at the altar, but all you need do is look in the eye of the God.  Like me and the elephant this morning.  Then you can place a flower, or pour holy water on your head, or get a tikka, and then you 'take an ambulatory walk (haven't heard that word in a while) around the temple'.   You can pray anywhere, any time, God is always there, he is within you.   We are so slow to learn this, aren't we?  And it doesn't have to be a temple, there is a Frangipani Temple here.  Where, I say, looking for a structure.  She points to a magnificent frangipani tree, the biggest I have seen, with a gnarled and beautiful trunk, people are touching it and their foreheads, bowing to it.  Later we see another glorious very old tree, it's canopy as big as a house, it's a Neem tree Nandah tells us, very important to Indians, it keeps the insects away, and it too can be used as an antibiotic.  Nandah is a big wheel in the Indian Railways and Gerald asks about government employment and the pension, which Gerald thinks is unsustainable.  Nandah grows a little defensive, and says that India is managing fine, and employing many young people, and that policy of 'when you die a family member can take over your job' is only for the lowliest of staff.  Not for management like him then?  

 

The colour of India is a riot, this colour elsewhere would be totally wrong, but here, it's so absolutely perfect.  There are men with big round trays selling rounds of ruby red watermelon and golden pineapple, you eat it wrapped in a banana skin, and families are tucking in as they wait in the queue.   Sandhya says to me she would love a piece, but dare not, she cannot think where it has been, and look, he is rearranging it all with his bare hands.  It does look tempting though, but our tummies are not Indian, even Sanhya' s Indian tummy is saying 'no go'.  There is a young boy, he is thirteen, on holidays from school, wearing a cowboy hat, selling maps.  He speaks excellent English, and works from 10 - 3 pm, as handsome as can be.  I see him twice, we make jokes and smile.  We are walking along the track when a man with a boy on his shoulders calls out to me "Maam! You want a kid?"   What, I ask.  He is grinning broadly "You want a kid?" - he points to one kicking along in the dust, I can see this kid is a handful - and adds "You can have him for free!"  His whole family guffaws and so do we.   The Indian has a great sense of humour, it's very sophisticated, certainly compared to the African humour, which tends to be quite slapstick.  I have made good friends with a travelling companion, who I am now calling "Bringi" after we saw a sculpture yesterday.   A complicated story about a man and a woman, she needed or wanted a lot of stuff, and he had to work hard to please her, and he (Bringi) landed up looking like the third figure in the sculpture, a skeleton of a man. Bringi tells me that is who I am, yesterday I was instructing him to do the laundry, and he was up all night doing it, today I am telling him to send me photos he has taken, and keep accounting figures, he is worn out with all my demands.   He says he is going to call me "Bridey" - Gerald was a bridegroom for only one day in his life on his wedding day, but I am the Bride for the rest of my life.  Gerald and his wife Chit-ra are almost weeping with laughter, he is a real comedian, he says these things absolutely straight faced.   We saw a sculpture today of a man who looked decidedly under the weather, his body strangely contorted, and Gerald asks, was he drunk?   Bringi says, "No, he was the founder of break dancing, can't you see?'  So Bridey and Bringi are mates, and we had photos taken together today.  

 

I have run out of superlatives to describe the beauty of the monuments we saw today, the subtleties of the carvings, the skill of the craftsmen who worked with rudimentary tools, and carved giant slabs of granite - CUT giant slabs of granite - by chipping small peg holes in a symmetrical row into the rock face to determine the grain of the rock, then filled those holes with water, which expanded, and then they were able to literally shear away great chunks of rock.  How they carried them to where they now stand is a mystery.  The base of the temples here are made of rock, and what Sandhya calls "the super structure' - the huge towering part above - is made of brick and plaster, tiny pieces intricately laid, with such perfection.  There are so many charming incarnations and scenes of Gods and Goddesses, Vishnu and his partner Laksmi, and many more, a half man/half lion, children, Royal women being pampered with pedicures and hairdos, Gods killing evil spirits, lovers smiling, children playing, Arabian horses (brought here by the Portugese), and boars and birds and flowers and scripts and fish, and tortoises, and patterns so numerous and so lovely, we are in total overwhelm.  Our Indian fellow travellers know all the stories, like we do our fairy tales, and cry out in pleasure when they recognise the characters they know.  "The naughty one is Krishna." says Sandhya, who clearly has a soft spot for him and points him out often.  He was always up to mischief, and in one scene, he has pinched the clothes of the ladies who are taking a bath in the river, and they are beseeching him to bring them back.  Everybody laughs heartily at this.   Today we would call him a pervert, lewd at the least, and throw the book at him.  Mischievous?   We know nothing about what we are seeing really, we are completely ignorant to this marvellous culture.   There are Shiva Lingas in abundance, there are Yoni's carved into rocks, ceilings, floors and walls.   There is an acceptance of the human form and openness of nudity, and the Indian women explain to me that long ago, Indians were not to 'covered up' (a previous guide has told us this) - it is only with the coming of the Moghuls that women began to hide their bodies.   In many scenes the women are bare breasted, or just have a hint of a fine fabric across their bodies, their nipples and their female sex uncovered.  We see the Queen's bath, a big pavilion with a vast deep corniced and decorated pool, in the postcards the water is a welcoming blue green, but here it is black with garbage, mosquito eggs and God knows what else.   You have to be careful where you walk too, for there is monkey poo, dog poo, and all kinds of poo. 

 

The drive back is long, and I see two local men who look quite different from other people.  Their skin is darker and their hair! - oh my word, I would kill for that hair! - it's the colour of coal, and shines like it's varnished, thick and curly.  They are herding goats and have a royal bearing.   I watch as we are stuck in a traffic jam at a railway crossing for half an hour, whilst we wait for trains to pass, one in either direction.  There are men who stand and wave red and green flags to give them permission to do so.  Manual points.  God, I hope these guys go to bed early at night, and get a good night's rest. 

 

I am happy to be greeted by our Welcome Home Team and step into the cool, clean interior of our oasis of luxury and use the loo and wash my hands.  We do not feel hungry, but manage to put away a good amount of food, they misunderstand Gerald and he lands up with salad and two main courses, a curry and a fish dish.  And I, oh God, I cannot believe I am telling you this, forgo curry for the first time in history and have FISH AND CHIPS for lunch, and they are excellent.  I taste something called a "Malabari Paratha" a croissant like heavy buttery bread, which accompanies Gerald's curry, I have found another divine culinary delight.  A beer shandy does me in, I decide on a shower, a nap and some blogging. 

 

We have told the gang we are not going to join them this afternoon on the tour.  It's hot, it's long, and we are templed out.   Besides I want to blog.  Chit-ra tells me they will miss us on this afternoon's excursion, and Sandhya whilst disappointed tells us "You have seen the best".  We farewell them and head to our cabin, and dear Nickenson brings tea and a cafe latte.

 

At 4 pm I visit  Kaliyani in the spa, the lady who gave me the massage yesterday.  She is one of five kids, the baby, and (evasive eye happening) is "Thirty plus" in age.  She has been on this train for five years, and is very happy here, she sees her family once a year for a month.  The boys live at one end of the train and the few girls live right at the other end of the train.  She did her training many years ago, and the training company found her this job.  She must spend most of her time doing nothing, as none of the Indian ladies have been in here, and she can only work when the train is stationary.  Anna Martin, you have a contender for Pedicure Queen, Kaliyani does an outstanding job, is meticulous and finds me just the right shade of orange.   It's an hour and a half and costs Aus $16.  Manicure next. 

 

Nickenson brings us a beer, a gin and tonic, and nuts.  He knows now that Gerald is nuts about nuts, so there is a bowl of cashews and another of almonds.  Don't eat them all, I tell him.  I take a photo of Nickenson pouring the beer, and he laughs as he holds the glass, and says 'It looks like I'm drinking!'   I like this young man very much.  I want to adopt him, I want to support him, in Australia his passion for his work, his attention to detail, his ability to anticipate the needs of his clients, his professionalism and his ability to create relationship would have him in the top 5% of the nation.   Here, he is one of so many young people working hard to try and make a success of their lives.   He and another young man share a sectioned off space at one end of the carriage, two bunk beds behind curtains, where they sleep, with their mobile phones at the ready, should their guests call them, available 24/7.   We were born so privileged, I can never ever forget that here. 

 

The gang are back in time for dinner, and declare the tour excellent.  I notice how respectful they are in our presence, speaking English for our benefit, so that we are not left out.  This must be difficult when we are on tour, I see Sandhya search for the right English word at times, and they all rush to offer her the right one.  Here in the dining car we are all talking to each other across tables, and even when Gerald and I are not in the discussion, they speak English.  Then they switch back to Hindi form time to time. That is so clever.   Imagine Gerald and I talking to you in Australia, our home land, in say Japanese or German or Hindi?  

 

We eat very little at dinner, as we are still recovering from lunch.  We are training the chef and our faithful retainers to give us small portions, but this created an concern.  "Do you want something else?" "Do we not like the food?" And "Maam, you can tell me if something is not to your liking???!"  We manage a small but excellent three mushroom soup and a piece of chicken, before staggering back to our cabin, where Nickenson brings chamomile tea.  I am waaaaay too full. 

 

The train will travel all night, I hope we sleep. 

 

 

Day 36 - 12th Oct 2016 - Hyderabad - Deccan - First Blog today

 

MY FRIENDS REMEMBER 

 

Yesterday morning I had a message from my good friend June Spurr.  She said:

 

"Seven years ago today, I had a phone call from a very special lady, Vera.  I will be thinking of you on Thursday."  Oh bless you, Friend.  Seven years ago tomorrow, my Mother, after speaking with me on the phone and reassuring me that she was completely fine, but did not want me to pick her up for mass, called June and said "Please can you come?  Please don't worry Sandra.  But I need help."  

 

It was 7 am but June was there in minutes, she lived around the corner, and had my Mom in an ambulance a few minutes later.   She called me and I met them at the hospital.  My darling mother died two days later, on 13th October 2009, just two days before Gerald's birthday.   Friends remember these special days.  I will never forget how you nurtured and loved my mother June, how you loved me like a protective older sister.  And how you shielded me from the anger of my real older sister in the days that followed.  

 

So on this day seven years ago, I was keeping vigil at my mother's bedside at King George Hospital in Sydney.  She had been helicoptered from the Shoalhaven Hospital in Nowra to Sydney, where she was diagnosed with a split aorta, and at almost 87 years old, surgery was not advised.  Nobody was able - or willing - to give us a timeframe of how long she would survive.  Apparently a split aorta is like an old brittle hose pipe with a split in it, you can bind up that hose pipe, but it will split elsewhere some time soon.   She longed for my Dad, who had died just six months earlier, they were lovers and friends all of their lives.  Many of you will know that my Dad and she were born in the same street, in a small community reminiscent of Coronation Street, their grandmothers were both midwives and their laid out the dead, they never knew life without each other.  They were married for 68 years, and were the love and light of each other's lives, they had a truly loving and blessed relationship. It seemed appropriate to me that my Mother would die of a broken heart some time very soon. 

 

After the beautiful message from June yesterday, I woke up to this message this morning from my darling friend Paula Blanch:

 

Dear Sandra,

 

I am writing to you because I have had a reason to pause and evaluate the friendships in my life.  I recently lost one of the most significant people in my adult life.  His name was Christopher Crumlin.  He was my boss and my first professional mentor when I was a 22 year old registered nurse. He was the first person who ever believed in me.  I went on to have a very successful career.  This was directly as a result of his friendship and guidance.   I will have a coffee with you one day to tell you the story!

 

So I want to take the time to tell you how important your friendship has been to me.  From the first time I met you I was impressed with your demeanour and your genuine love of your beautiful dogs.   It was such a privilege for me to care for "critters" who were loved and cherished. 

 

Then of course there was the opportunity to meet and be loved by Vera and Tom, your spectacular parents.   Talk about "love on a stick", your Mum and Dad were without equal.  The way Vera knew exactly what I needed when I lost my own mum.  Just having her arms around me and letting my cry when I needed to.  Tom was such a gentleman and loving father figure to me.  I still refuse to take their phone numbers out of my mobile or home phone.  I never will.  As recently as Thursday of this week I drove up and parked outside their house in Berry.  I just sat in the car and remembered everything I could about them.  I do this often.  It makes me feel close to them. 

 

Then there is your friendship and support over the years.   I love you Sandra.  Just seeing the love and magic of your relationship with Gerald is also spectacular.

 

So I am saying all this because I want you to know how much I love you and that you are important to me.

 

Paula xxxxx 

Sent from her I Pad. 

Tears.   Thank you My Friends.

You are so remembered Mom and Dad.  I miss you so much, and I hold you close in my heart, every say. 

 

 

Day 36 - 12th Oct 2016 - Hyderabad - Deccan - Second Blog today

 

WE ARRANGE A MARRIAGE FOR JOSHUA AND HIGH TEA AT THE PALACE.

 

We are in Hyderabad.   Let me tell you an interesting anecdote about this city.

 

"The last Nizam of Hyderabad was known as an eccentric rule and the world's richest man.  He had 80 mistresses, 100 illegitimate sons and employed 14,718 employees.  In his main palace alone, there were about 3000 Arab body guards, 28 people paid to fetch drinking water, 38 to dust chandeliers, several specifically to grind walnuts, and others whose job was to prepare betel nuts for him to chew.

 

Yet the last Nizam of Hyderabad, Sir Osman Ali Khan, used to wear a crumpled turban, and knitted his own socks - in stark contrast to the Sterling 50,000,000 ostrich egg sized diamond he used as a paperweight."

 

Fancy a job as a walnut grinder?  A chandelier duster?  Betel nut preparer?  How about a sock knitter?  How did he survive with 80 mistresses anyway?  And how many WIVES did he have?  Who kept track of the names of his kids?  Did he have a list, or a means of identification, or did somebody brief him as his kid approached, "Psst!  This is Joshua/Sam/Liam/Noah/Zach - remember him?  The one with your eyes/hair/nose?"  Who came up with one hundred different names for his sons?  How come nobody mentions how many daughters he had?  I don't like this man at all, and I haven't even seen his house yet. 

 

Legends abound over how this capital of the Asaf Jahi Dynasty came to be called Hyderabad.  One of the more interesting ones is that it was named after Bhagmati, the Hindu wife of Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah, who converted to Islam and changed her name to Hyder Mahal.  We chose to miss out on visiting the epitome of Nizami culture and grandeur, Golconda, which was originally a must fort, it soon acquired impressive proportions after becoming the seat of power of the Qutub Shahi dynasty.

 

Gerald and I are having breakfast on this luxurious train with its 21 coaches and are the only passengers on it as it rocks out of Hyderabad.  Why, you may ask?  Because we have declined to tour the Golgonda Fort, and climb the 380 steps to the top.  We wanted to wake up when we woke up, have breakfast without a rush, and I want to spend the morning writing.   So all the passengers have gotten off, and we are changing platforms, hence we have this Royal train to ourselves.   I pinch myself.  

 

We got off for ten minutes only to see the welcome traditional dancing.  We were escorted by our entourage on to a red carpet on a wooden platform which had been hastily erected over a muddy puddle, so as not to wet our shoes, and were showered with rose petals and holy water, and then watched five men dance spiritedly, if not always in time, there is always one, isn't there?  He is missing the peacock feathers on his ankles and Gerald says "They phoned him late last night as the regular guy's Grandma died, and he had to replace him at the last moment."  His woven cloth keeps shifting off his shoulder, and he hefts it up, maybe it's the other guy's costume, and it's the wrong size.  They are wearing red peacock feathers on their heads and feet, bearing spears decorated with colourful fabric, and woven cloth wound around their shoulders, their faces painted with tribal markings.  They stamp and circle, brandishing their spears, fan back into rows, kneel and bow.  The green mat on the stage they are dancing on is curling up and I fear someone may pitch headfirst onto the ground, but my fears are groundless.   Our group surround them taking photos and there is a large crowd of locals watching, and when it is over, our journalist poses for photos, but the others are in the bus waiting for her, and she has to go.   We post too, and now the guys come to life, dressed as traditional warriors they may be, but these are young men just like my son, and probably work in IT, they are taking selfies and grinning, jostling to stand next to me and making jokes.  Isn't that marvellous?   Suddenly a man in a green t shirt appears, who is this guy? - he has ear phones in, and poses in the middle of our group, taking selfies and bossing people about.  He takes my phone and takes several pictures on my behalf, and now looking at them, he features prominently in all of them, and we have no idea who he is, muscling in in our scene.  They all shake my hand and thank me, as if I was the one who had given the performance, nowhere else in the world have we ever been welcomed in this way, over and over and over again.  I shall never forget this warmth.  

 

Our Swat Team are waiting to guide us back on to the little red carpet bridge over the puddle, on to the train.  A walkie talkie says something, I imagine it is "OK, back on board in 90 seconds, I have the two Western passengers secure.  Roger."  A crackle acknowledges him.  Up the stairs, over the bridge across the platforms, and to our train, where a retainer is placing a small stool at the entrance to the train, and a team are waiting to welcome us back as if we hadn't seen them for a year, and our tea and coffee is refreshed, and we place our order for 'our hots'.   I lift a tiny jar of marmalade and before I can open it, our faithful retainer takes it from me, and opens it, handing it back with a flourish.   We cannot have Maam tiring herself out now, can we.   I ask him about their days, they work such long hours, early morning and late nights.  He says "Not long hours Maam.  We get to rest for a few hours in the afternoon.  It's only about ten hours a day."   Tell that to the Unions in Australia. 

 

We are going on a tour to the Falaknuma Palace this afternoon, it's name means "like the sky", as it stands tall, reaching for the clouds, and we are to have a sumptuous high tea.  We are going to explore the old city area of Charminar and its bustling bazaars, at least that is the plan, but it turns out it it a Day of Mourning for the Muslims, and the city will be bursting at the seams, so it may not be possible.  We shall see.  Charminar is one of the most recognised structures of India, and was ostensibly build by Muhammad Quli Qutb Shah to fulfil his vow of building a mosque, if and when the plague epidemic ravaging the city ceased.  It must have, because he built it.  I am looking forward to walking through and seeing the markets in this area if we can.  They say Laad Bazaar is great for local jewellery and exquisite bangles (of which I need none), and to Pather Gatti for the famous Deccan pearls.   Which I do not need either, but looking is good, right? 

 

Checking out this itinerary it appears there will be even more eating than usual today.  Sigh.   The itinerary says:

 

Breakfast and Lunch on board the Deccan Odyssey.

High tea at the Falaknuma Palace.

Dinner on board. 

 

That's apart from the early morning tea in the cabin with biscuits, and the nuts which accompany our gin and tonic and beer at 6.30 pm.

 

You may want to read these excerpts from a brochure on board:

 

ROMANCING INDIA BY RAIL

 

Since the advent of the railways in India, train journeys have been the subject of much fascination and mystery.  Indian Royalty and the British aristocracy would often set out on a Shikaar on celebrations, in the wilderness or deserts or mountains, travelling in the luxury of their private palace on wheels.  Today, the Deccan Odyssey continues this legacy of princely sojourns by introducing fascinating journeys covering the length and breadth of the exotic and enchanting landscape of India.

 

The trains journeys showcase the opulence and extravagance of the palaces, the traditions and culinary wonders of cities and villages, untouched by the sands of time.

 

Ripe with romance, adventure and style, each luxury rail journey on the Deccan Odyssey is a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

 

There are passenger cars with four coupes each, Presidential Suites with two couples each, one coupe for disabled guests, a conference room that can be converted to a dance floor in the night, two restaurant cars, a lounge car and a spa car.  Get the bragging rights of slowing down with a calming massage at 80 kph.

 

Fine Indian and continental cuisine is served on board in the two restaurant cars.  A high level of on board service is ensured by experienced hospitality professionals.

 

AND

 

AT YOUR SERVICE

 

The Deccan Odyssey comprises of 21 superlative, Royal coaches.   Each coach was four spacious cabins, and each alternative coach has a common lounge.   Each cabin is equipped with every modern amenity to make sure that your journey is comfortable and memorable.  The Deccan Odyssey also offers four resplendent suites with exquisite decor and all modern amenities.

 

The Deccan Odyssey also offers cabins for guests with special needs, designed to meet their individual requirements, with 30 inch wide door frames and all amenities within easy access.

 

The two gourmet restaurants on board help our guests taste the local specialities of each of the very diverse states that the train makes its way through, and experience that captivates all the senses - taste buds included.  There is also a continental  menu at each meal.  The well stocked bar is the perfect place to devour Indian snacks and swap stories with your fellow travellers.

 

The delightful spa, Ayush, has well trained masseurs to help you relax your body after a long day of exploration, using ancient Indian techniques and skills.  The salon is a great place for some pampering and sprucing up.  The conference coach is equipped with all that is needed for meetings and discussions.

 

Our hand-picked staff members are always at hand to provide you with every service and take care of all your needs, making your journey relaxed and trouble-free.  Attendants are available around the clock, one for each coach, and one each for every suite."

 

(I didn't tell you that we have a mobile phone number for Nickenson, so we can call him around the clock .....)

 

Next week it's bread and water. 

 

I have been sitting here writing for three hours, very peacefully, the last two hours all by myself, in the deserted dining car.  I have drunk at least eight cups of green tea, and I need to pee.

 

Excerpt Article from The Times of India, today. 

 

"Flyer does full monty, harasses crew, held.

 

The vulgar incident took place on Indigo Air last month.  During the flight, the male passenger expressed to the crew that he did not know how to tie the seat belt.   They assisted him on the same.  The passenger then went to the lavatory where he pressed the call bell requesting assistance. The crew immediately went to help him, but saw him in an objectionable state.  The female crew member refused to go inside and politely requested him to maintain some level of decency while using the lavatory.   The passenger then somehow came out of the toilet, but his misbehaviour allegedly did not stop. Whilst passengers were being secured for landing, he passed derogatory remarks to the female crew member."

 

There are dickheads all over the world.   There is no alcohol served on airlines in India, and they are now calling for curbs on the sale of liquor in departure lounges as most unruly passengers board aircraft in 'an inebriated state' and then cause trouble.

 

I think we just inadvertently married our son off. 

 

We are parked at a platform in Hyderabad and can see across the track alongside of us to the next platform.  We are a source of great interest sitting in our cabin and we could close the blind, but it's dark then, and anyway, what is happening on the platform is every bit as interesting to us as we are to them.  Gerald laughs suddenly, he smiled at three teenagers, and they smiled back, and waved.  He waved back, and three more people joined the group.  They started gesticulating to us (I had joined him by now) to open the window.  Gerald gesticulates back, the window cannot be opened.  They grin, then the girl dashes off and returns with an A4 notebook and a pen, and writes a note, and holds it up.  Gerald can see it, I cannot - but it says "Where are you from".  He writes, Australia, and I do a kangaroo impersonation for good measure.  They laugh.  Where are you going?  Mumbai.  What for?  Holiday.   Have you got children?   Gerald raises one finger, and shouts 'BOY'.   She holds up a mobile phone, and gives the Indian nod, she wants our number.  We don't have a phone or a number.  Yes, we do, says Gerald, we have Nickenson's!  He gets it out and writes the number down on our A4 notepad, which is fast filling up with messages as Gerald and she communicate via holding up signs, she on the platform, he to our smeary window.  The phone rings, and it's her, the girl on the platform, whose name we cannot get, and suddenly we are talking to fifteen people (the crowd has enlarged), and divulging intimate details of our lives.  What does Joshua do?  How old is he?  I hold up ten fingers, four times.  Forty? she shouts back.  Yes.  Is he married?   No.  Ah!  Her face lights up.   What does he do?  I mime a camera and taking photos.   Her smile gets bigger, I can now see the wheels turning "He is well qualified then, he may be a good catch!"  Feeling a little panicked, I shout "BUT MANY GIRLFRIENDS!"   Gerald turns to me outraged.  That is not true, he says, he has one girlfriend.  Honestly, Gerald, this is not the time to get picky about mere details when there is a young woman, possibly several young women, on the platform trying to get their hands on Joshua.  Yes, but he has HAD lots of girlfriends, I say, and I think we have to deter her, give it to her straight, it's best that we disappoint her now, not down the track when she has already given her heart away and making plans for the future.  Now she wants my email, and what? - Gerald has given it to her!  Are you crazy??  She has remarkable eyesight and must have very persuasive negotiating skills for Gerald to do such a thing.  But she has no email, she cries.  Well why did she ask for it?   What about our phone number?  We don't have one, says Gerald.  Your Australian one, she insists.  I don't have her horoscope but this girl seems to be very pushy, and I don't think she and Joshua will make a good couple.  Gerald is getting flustered, and keeps handing me the phone, pretending to be busy writing messages, but now Gerald is getting the message, I am giving him "This is getting out of hand" looks, and so he cunningly writes down my number with one incorrect digit.   We need to escape  and save face at the same time as they now want to cross the railway track to talk to us through the glass of the window for some close up conversations.  Could we open the train door?  No, it is locked I say.   We have to escape and decide to flee the cabin on the pretence of lunch, demonstrating how busy we are by pointing to our watches and nodding our heads, Indian style.  It all escalated so quickly, Joshua, we didn't intend it to.  But I think you may have an Indian suitor.  Several Indian suitors.  

 

We spend forty minutes at lunch with the blinds down, and creep back down the corridors expecting fifteen young Indians to leap out at us.  Gerald opens our cabin door cautiously and sneaks a peak out of the window, they are still there, but momentarily distracted, so he slips in and rolls down the blind.  That could have been a Destination Wedding in the making.

 

The rest of the tour come back after their morning out, and I ask 'the boys' Amit and Lalit if they enjoyed the morning.   Very much, and they managed a bit of shopping, they have two small bags filled with bangles, which they show us.   Then Amit offers one to me "Please choose Maam" - really? - "Yes, please!"  Oh my word, how sweet.  Unfortunately my huge hands cannot slide them over my knuckles - I check, my hands are a third bigger than his - but he finds one which opens in two, and slides it on.  I declare "I have a boyfriend!" and all the staff blush and fall about laughing, Amit nods proudly.  I wear it for the rest of the day, and I can see how thrilled he is that I am.  

 

One of the young chefs comes out of the kitchen as we leave the dining car and nearly faints in surprise at meeting two of the guests, both white, oh my God.  The senior chef comes out to revive him, then a third, and I acknowledge them all for the truly magnificent food we are eating.  We have met the senior chefs before, and they thank us graciously, and one introduces the young one, saying "He is the one who makes the pappadams!"  (Gerald gets extra rations because he loves them, all of our faithful retainers know this and love him for it.). "Oh WOW!" we both enthuse, his face is pinking up with pleasure and his head is nodding so vigorously I think it may fall off.  He looks all of twelve years old, but tells us he is 22.  He has a big future with such amazing chefs to teach him, I say.  Now everybody is pinking up and nodding their heads off.  It really is such a joy being in this wonderful country.

 

HAVING KIPPERS MAKES GOOD BREAKFAST.  This is how children in India learn about the different dynasties and about which States are entitled to the 21 Gun Salute.

 

H - Hyderabad

K - Kashmir

M - Mysore (Mysuru, Hindu word)

G - Gwailor

B - Baroda 

 

Well, we went to the Nazim's house this afternoon.   I don't know that I like him any better, but boy, does he have a HOUSE!  Before I tell you about it, I will tell you a little more about his wealth.   He had an Olympic size swimming pool filled with pears. And he was a miser.   He once sent several trunks of golden coins to some cause with the specific instruction that he was giving the coins, and wanted the trunks back.  It is the custom of India to exchange gifts, and his were not very generous, although he did give Queen Mary a ruby necklace which had rubies the size of pigeon eggs.  In fact, all the Crown Jewels came from India, including the Koh-I-Noor, (??) which the Indians are still rankled about.  It is theirs as far as they are concerned, and they want it back.  The last Nizam died in the 1960's, he married a Turkish princess, who was his power of attorney, and is now a part of the Taj Hotel chain.   He left behind huge sums of money, which the family of sixty or more are still bickering about in the courts.  This family has become part of the Hyderabad folklore, so full of stories and anecdotes.  He had a Rolls Royce custom built for himself, with a throne inside of it.  

 

In fact, everything in the palace is custom built.   I know I have been telling you for 36 days about wonderful, spectacular things here in India.  But this place makes every lavish, sumptuous, extravagance pale into insignificance.   I don't know how to begin describing it. You have to google it, the Falaknuma Palace, and you can stay there, if you can afford the cheapest Palace Room at Aus $1000 per night, plus taxes.  If you are celebrating a special occasion, consider the Royal Suite at $4000 per night, or even the Grand Royal Suite at $5000 a night.  But what the hell, why not go the whole hog and stay at the Presidential Suite at $15,000 a night. Come for a month.  They have 'destination weddings' here where whole communities arrive, international plane tickets for guests are paid for, and a hundred rooms at a time booked out for the full seven days of celebration.  We see a dining room with a single table which takes two days to lay (it's a pain says the historian) - which seats ONE HUNDRED PEOPLE.  Who uses it, I say, baffled?  Oh many weddings, Maam, and conferences, and such like.  

 

If the girl on the platform comes from a well to do family, Joshua, we may have the wedding here, what do you think?    Don't get your hopes up though, she didn't look very wealthy, but appearances aren't everything.

 

Escorted off the train to the bus, without an official reception committee (we had one this morning) we tramp through some garbage, poop and puddles to get to the door of the bus, which is peculiarly parked up against bushes, making access difficult.  A marked difference from our red carpet treatment this morning.  We derive only a short distance, and we travel uphill to the imposing palace and there are a fleet of golf buggies waiting to take us to the Palace, a couple of hundred metres away.  But then a white Royal Carriage pulls up, and a faithful retainer gets out holding the hand of a five year old boy, and he strides across the cobbled courtyard to take him somewhere.  A Royal child?  We are taken to a jewellery shop in the palace grounds, where diamonds and pearls and rubies and jade and sapphires gleam in the most extravagant gold necklaces and ornate diamonds.  Two of our group examine them intently enough to be considering a purchase, and they both hand over cards as we leave.  Perhaps it's too gauche to purchase thousands of dollars of gems in front of a tour group - maybe they are protecting our sensitivities.

 

Do we want to drive u to the palace in the Royal Carriage, Sandhya asks.  Do we?  Let me think about that for a minute.  Nandee and Rahdee and Gerald and I take the carriage and the others shlep up in the buggies.  A man in a long black oat and white trousers with a red fez helps us in, another drives whilst we are seated under the Royal umbrella, and another holds the horses, and we clip clop up through manicured gardens, towering white buildings, it's like a giant many layered wedding cake, a mix of the White House and Buckingham Palace, but more grand.  There are pillars and staircases, galleries and porticoes, cannons and lamp posts, palm trees by the hundred, statues and emblems, and as we climb the marbled staircases, there are two, one on either side, a shower of rose petals fall from the official rose petal showerer above. We haven't even gone inside yet and I am in overwhelm.

 

We are met by a historian, a tall dark skinned elderly man, with such regal bearing I think he is the Nazim's himself, a faithful and loyal retainer, he knows more about this building than anyone on earth, and he is as proud of it, justifiably so, as if it were his own.  He has a strong Indian accent and is a story teller, pausing dramatically for certain facts to sink in, and then repeating things suddenly, as a question.  "This is a Satsumi Japanese vase, the most valuable of its kind in the world.   Everything you see that looks gold in this room is real gold."   Pause.   Look around, make eye contact.  "That is REAL GOLD.  REEEEEAL GOLD!!"  Big smile.  The cornices, the skirting boards, the picture frames, the chairs made for Queen Victoria who never even deigned to visit her Colony in all her years of Queen-ship, the goblets, the plates, the edging on the chandeliers.  ALL REAL GOLD.   The theme  is "Heavenly" - and there are cherubs and Angels, harps and doves, clouds and birds, waterfalls and Goddesses everywhere.   The vast lobby is like the Sistine Chapel, truly. Thousands of paintings, on the walls, the ceilings, the floor, the furnishings, in the softest gentlest pastels.   Faces with sweet expressions whose eyes follow you as you walk from one side of the room to the other.   An eagle bearing a richly embroidered cloth on the ceiling - from one side the cloth is in his beak and floating beneath his body, from the other side of the room, the cloth is splayed out above him as a he flies overhead.  Astonishing false illusions everywhere.  Fountains and floors of marble, the biggest staircase I have ever seen, made of Italian marble, which hangs suspended with no structures supporting it, eight Aussies could walk abreast up it (or maybe four Americans) without touching shoulders.  Hand made bevelled mirrors placed just so that on either side your image and the room stretches into infinity.  There is no wood used on the walls or floors here, it is all marble and stone and silk fabrics, but there are walls made to look like wood, imitation wood inlaid so cleverly - they imitated the English love of wood, by using different materials.   There are stained glass panels and windows, swagged pelmets and silken tassels.  Room after room of French and Italian furnishings, fabrics, drapes, artwork, sofas made of camel skin and embossed with flowers and birds, rugs so thick it feels as though I am walking on a mattress.  The furniture is made from around the world, mahogany, cedar, oak, cherry and heavily carved with animal heads, Queen Victoria's face, flowers and birds.   The flooring is marble or wood and parquet, intricately inlaid.  Our historian reels off names of First Class manufacturers of goods around the world, much here is made in England, and the materials feature every country, but craftsmen from England, Italy and France prevail. 

 

We have never seen wealth and extravagance, luxury and decadence, on this scale, anywhere, ever.  The architect's portrait hangs on the wall, handsome yes, but who could tell his genius?  How did we envision this place?  How did he then create it?  This glorious palace, the place Kings and Queens, Emperors and Empresses, Lords and Ladies, and the aristocracy came to visit, and revelled in the luxury.   Truly astonishing.  Our historian mentions the name Lord Curzon and Lord Elgin a lot, he thinks these two men wielded a great deal to influence around here.  

 

We are not allowed to take photos inside, but I notice that the guests who are staying here are.  I guess if you are paying $4000 a night, you are entitled to a few happy snaps. We enter a long ball room, currently set up as a dining room for a function, and at the end are two thrones, which the Nazim and one of his many wives or mistresses sat, overseeing events.  Nandee gestures to his wife "Quick take a seat!" and whips out his mobile, I race to occupy the second throne - you know I am reluctant to miss a photo opportunity - and he takes a couple of shots before we rejoin the group, looking innocent.  The others try it, but the security guards pounce, and they fail.  Nandee is sending me the throne picture.  Nandee is definitely a Big Shot, Gerald asks him his position later, I won't divulge it here, but let's just say he is in the top 1% of Indian industry.  We enter what Gerald says is the boudoir, but our historian says "This is where the ladies used to refresh themselves and gossip."  Nice.  There are buttoned pink silk three sided dainty sofas, each with a mirror above, a wardrobe which is silk lined, as although the Queen had 200 ladies to assist her, they could not risk her getting a splinter if she, perchance, happened to open the door.  Through the doorway is a bathroom as big as three bedrooms, inlaid with stained glass, and a bath centrally placed.   It has an array of pipe work at one end, and several taps.  One tap is for cold water, and one is for hot.  The other is for perfume, which sprayed out along with the water through a multitude of pin prick sized holes.  "The original spa bath" says our retainer.  Behind a discreet wall is a stand up shower, eight feet high and six feet wide, made of one single piece of marble.   And a toilet, which must have been added in the early 1900's I think.   There are regal paintings of Nazim all over the place, and stories of his many wives are being told, and I remark "Well, he was an active man!"   The ladies burst out laughing, they were thinking the same thing too.  I wonder what it must be like to think something but not feel free enough to say it.  The last Nazim was even more of a ladies man than his predecessors, and according to our historian, exported a Rolls Royce to Australia and drove several thousands of kilometres in it, before abandoning it, and flying back home.  If you find an old Rolls Royce somewhere on your travels, spare a thought for the Nazim.   

 

Bringi and Chit-ra have actually stayed at this palace.  Some years ago he decided to bring Chit-ra for a special celebration, and on arrival, there was a conference which used up all the 'cheap' rooms, so they asked if he minded being upgraded to a Palace Suite.  "It was a difficult decision, but I always try my best to make life easy?"   

 

All too soon this regal, mind blowing tour is over and we are escorted out of the front building into a courtyard the size of three rugby fields, with an avenue of trees, patchwork marble and grass groundwork, ornate benches, porticos with views to either side, and long cool verandahs along which the guest accommodation is. There is a frenzy of photo taking, we can take photos out here, and are escorted through the gardens to one of the dining rooms, a banquet hall, where a sumptuous High Tea is set up for fourteen of us.  There is crystal and silver, and no less than eight three tiered fine china cake stands and several other single platters.  There are four glasses at each place setting, huge starched napkins, lavish furniture with embroidered seats along the backs and armrests, and gleaming crockery.   Faithful retainers in livery stand to attention, and one of them, a chubby lady who drags her feet as she walks, explains what we are about to eat and drink.  Vasudha the Editor of the travel magazine, explains to me what Thandai is, it's a drink from North India, especially Pushkar and Varanassi, made from milk and spices, Gerald and I opt for that, whilst the others go for fresh papaya, coconut and lime, watermelon, guava and orange juice, pots of tea, and glasses of water.  There are sandwiches, tiny cakes, chocolates, fresh fruit, ham and potato bombs, and an unnamed dish which looks delicious;  small golden balls. I reach for one and place it in my my mouth, and Dr. Rita sitting opposite me, reaches out to stop me.  The table of Indians around me gasp in horrified unison and shout  "CHILLI!"  and wait for a reaction.  But nothing.  I must have got the only one on the plate without chilli.  They are astonished, and I watch as even they take tiny nibbles of theirs and expire with heat, fanning their mouths and drinking water.   Just lucky.  The conversation is lively, and Aditi, the lovely lady who accompanies us on our tours and represents the Deccan Odyssey, shares with us that she had a very bad car accident use two months ago, hence the scar on her face and the ones we noticed on her back.  She is clearly still traumatised by the event, and so I take her to one side and tell her I have a story to tell her.  I shall tell her about the car accident we had, and how my face was smashed to smithereens.   

 

As we leave, I use the ladies 'facility'.  Such a dainty word.  I could bring a sleeping bag and stay in there for a month, it smells like roses and there is a fine array of cosmetics and towels.  It is after 6 pm now and dark, and there under the frangipani trees are a group of men sitting cross legged, wearing white and with red fez's, playing musical instruments and singing in an Arabic sounding mezza wail.  It's so exotic, it's so beautiful, it's so surreal, my heart skips a beat.  We sit and watch, and clap along, apparently it is a prayer, calling to the Gods.

 

The Gods are here with us, definitely.   I am thinking of you Mother.

 

We drive back to the station in the dark, the streets are transformed from dusty and dirt to fairyland with lights.  Welcomed on board with cold drinks and iced towels, we sit with Bringi (Arvind Sonde) and his wife Chit-ra as they teach us a game called Corrum, a game all Indian kids play.  It is a board game which looks a bit like draughts, and there are four pockets, a bit like a billiard table.  You use your fingers to flick the coins, which have certain values.  They are both very good, and Gerald and I are not, Gerald is dying for a beer, and leaves us after one game, but I play a second, and they give me every second turn to play for Gerald as a way of training me.  Such decent, good people, generous with their time and very kind.  Bringi is recommending certain books to read, and one is about Ethics, I tell him about teaching at our local Beery Primary School once a week, and he says that as kids in India, they learned a subject called Moral Science, which sounds very similar to our Ethics classes.  I hug Chit-ra and thank her for the day and she hugs me tightly back.  I go to do the same to Bringi, and he rears back, saying "I am a traditional Indian man, all this hugging and kissing is not for me!"   She roars laughing and winks at me, "You'll get him before the end of the journey ...."

 

Dinner is ready so we don't even shower but go straight to dinner, not that we need a thing to eat, given the "Sumptuous High Tea" we have just feasted upon.   We have a small bowl of soup and then three glazed scallops in a sauce - it is absolutely excellent.  Gerald goes the whole hog, and has a small serving of duck breast.   We think of our son, who loves duck.  

 

Nickerton appears as we leave dinner, always, as if by magic.  He carries my handbag and my blue cushion, my shawl and my bottle, and leads us to our cabin, where he has turned on the side lamps, and turned the covers down.   Moments later, he is back with a tray with chamomile tea, and 'sweet dreams' wishes.  He will wake us in the morning with tea.

 

God Bless you, Nickerton.

 

 

Day 37 - 13th Oct 2016 - Aurangabad/Ellora Caves - Deccan Odyssey

 

SEVEN YEARS HAVE PASSED. AN ARMED ESCORT AND WE MEET HINDU BUDDHA 

 

 

Today it is seven years since you died, Mother.  Seven years since I saw your dear, gentle face or held your hand.   You left a gaping hole in my life that will never be filled, and not a day passes when I do not long for you.  You were the most self expressed, generous and loving person I ever knew, and I am so grateful you were my mother.  Gerald and I are living life just the way you wanted us to.  Keep singing and dancing up there with Dad.   I love you both so very much.

 

                               **************************************

 

We travel from Hyderabad to Aurangabad overnight and arrive around midday - a distance of 520 kms.   

 

Breakfast is leisurely and attentive, I have the lightest masala omelette, I am going to miss the chilli next week.  Our retainer brings out something which looks like a badminton racket, but it's actually a fly swatter, and chases away a pesky insect.  Gerald returns to the cabin to read and I sit in the empty dining car and blog, it's more comfortable than the room, where I have to perch on the end of the bed, and lean a distance forward to a small sloping table. At 10 am I walk down six carriages to find the lovely Kaliyani, the spa lady.   As I walk through the lounge there are several of our young staff playing the game Bringi and Chit-ra taught me last night, Carrom, and they leap to their feet as if scalded.   Sit, sit sit! I say, and they point to the table, they were watching my inept attempts at the game last night.  I bend and flick my fingers, and it's a lucky shot, the coins go all over the table and the black hits the pocket.   Yaaaay!  They all high five, shaking their heads in wonder.  Me too, how did that happen?  My manicure is excellent, meticulous and relaxing, and costs me Rp800 - Aus $16.  I head back to the cabin to blog some more, and have a twenty minute nap - it's lunch at midday and we leave at 1 pm.  All go.   Gerald is looking out the window at the platform, which incredibly, is almost empty.  I have made him promise not to make any more friends out there.   He tells me he has just seen a man shake out a length of cloth, and crawl under a parked train for a nap.  I guess he knows the train schedules off by heart.  

 

At lunch, the Girl from Ipenema is still walking, doesn't anybody else get sick of this song?  Suddenly it changes to jazz, too loud, but jazz, which is a sweet relief.   We eat three delicious prawns each, and a bowl of fennel and potato soup, which is delicious.  The rest of the guests are tucking into three courses, and I wonder how they do it, I just want to go to bed and sleep now, and we have a hectic afternoon of rock temples to attend.  Instead I talk to Aditi, the lovely girl who had the car accident recently, and tell her our story, and what happened to my face, the ordeal of the lack of medical attention and hospitals in Zambia, the plastic surgeon who visited me from the leprosarium in the bush, the man who told me "I promise you will be pretty again" - and who recommended Dr. Anthony Emmett in Brisbane to us;  by that time we had decided to leave Zambia, given the terrible state of the medical system.  Anthony Emmett performed surgery on me over a year later, who restored my confidence in myself.  I tell her that her skin too, will heal, that her beauty comes from within, that her strength and courage and understanding of herself and life will serve her always.  She has tears in her eyes, and she thanks me, we hug, but we have to run for the tour.

 

 

 

From our itinerary:

 

"Aurangabad is named after the last Great Mughal Aurangzeb, and is an industrial town in Maharashta and the stop from where we head out to visit the exceptional Ellora Caves, a World Heritage site.  The city itself has deep Mughal influences and there are several monuments of note here, the Daulatabad For, Bibi-Ka-Makbara and the city's 52 gates, each with its own history, amongst them. A scenic drive will take us to the Ellora Caves, carved into the side of a basaltic hill 30 kms from the city.  the finest specimen of cave temple architecture in India, the site encompasses 34 Rock-cut shrines representing Buddhist, Jain and Hindu art dating from the 4 - 5th Cenury AD.  The 12 caves to the south are Buddhist, the 17 in the centre are Hindu, and the 5 case to the north are Jain.  The most remarkable in the Kailash temple, ,meant to be a replica of Shiva's celestial abode on Mt. Kailash.  It is he best example of rock cut architecture and an engineering marvel."

 

An interesting anecdote about the Ellora Caves

 

"Ratana, King of the rakshashas, was a great devotee of Shiva.  Everyday, he would travel from Lanka, his island-kingdom in the South to Mount Kailas, and pay his respects to Shiva in person.

 

But as time passed, Ravan found it increasingly difficult to make these daily trips to the North. He decided to uproot Mount Kailas and take it to Lanka for his convenience.  He was endowed with the strength of a hundred Gods.  With his bare hands, he proceeded to lift Mount Kailas. The mountain shook and the snow tumbled down.  Parvati, Shiva's consort, was annoyed at Ravana's audacity, as was Shiva.  Shiva put his toe down on the mount and trapped the rakshasha-King beneath it.  Ravana cried out in pain, but Shiva refused to let him go.  To appease the angry God, Ravana began composing hymns in Shiva's honour.  The beauty of these hymns melted Shiva's heart and he let the demon-King go with his blessing.''

 

We are met by Sandeep, our guide for today and tomorrow, a tall man with no bottom teeth.  He speaks excellent English, although gets breathless, I wonder if he has a heart condition.  We are escorted out by our two khaki clad, beret wearing, gun toting security guards, as the platform is seething with people.  Why, Gerald asks Bringi.  (Real name Arvand, a tax lawyer).  "They take security very seriously in India.  And they want to protect the 'foreigners' - and the Deccan Odyssey does not want any bad publicity.  These people might jostle you or harass you."  The crowd parts as if Jesus has arrived, who would want to mess with them and those guns?   A space has been set up in the terminal, and there are four he/she dancers, wearing gold and and royal blue smocks over white pants, gold turbans and red waistcoats, their faces powdered and their lips pearlised.  There are four men wearing yellow tunics and dish shaped hats, holding a litter upon which sits Ganesh, but it is a real little chubby boy, with a Ganesh elephant head covering his.  And a lady wearing green and shocking pink, with a tray of lighted candles, flowers and and the red Tikkas for our foreheads.  They are here to welcome us.  The lady joins the dancers, she is diminutive compared to them, and they dance well together.  The crowd threatens to press around us but our Swat Team move up and down, and they keep their distance.   One dance ends, and Sandeep gestures to us all 'Let's go!" But one of the dancers has other ideas, they are not finished yet, and chastises him.  We all want to stay and see the second dance, Sandeep relents.   

 

The journey to the Ellora Caves takes about 45 minutes, through a very busy industrial city of one million people, 50% of whom are HIndu, 47% Muslim, and the remainder a mix of Buddhists, Christians "etc".   There are lots of Sunniis here,, but very few Shi-ites. (They have a very bad habit of flailing themselves, says Sandeep).  Many kinds of cars are assembled here, and they manufacture tractor chassis - Sandeep adds proudly, and the German company Siemens is here too.  We stop for a photo opportunity of the city below us, but it is hazy.  We can see a huge white building, what is it?  That is a parking station for vehicles, built by UNESCO and the Indian Government.  We see a lot of small temples, but no, they are Camel Guesthouses, or were Camel Guesthouses, during the time of the Silk Road. Now I bet you didn't know such a thing existed, did you?  The countryside is green and we pass an avenue of four hundred year old banyan trees.   Four hundred years old.  Their trunks are enormous, and look like a collection of vines, entwined around each other.  There are many hold Pipal (pounced 'people') trees, which are protected, they build houses around them to ensure they are looked after.  It's very attractive country and we arrive at our destination where there are hundreds of people.  Surprise, surprise! - tonight is the start of a three day long Festival!  Another one!   It opens tonight at 8 pm, there are at least a hundred security men lounging on the grass in the shade "Preparing for tomorrow" says Sandeep.  There is scaffolding being set up to hold musicians and dancers, and literally hundreds of plastic chairs are being set up in rows, sofas in rows, sound equipment being unloaded - Gerald asks when was the last time we saw this happening, and I respond "Lone Pine, for Anzac Day last year."   Except this is being set up in a UNESCO World Heritage Site, in front of the most precious rock temple of all, and Sandeep is very concerned about the effect on these precious buildings, just the vibration from the gigantic speakers, apart from the thousands of people expected, the resultant garbage, and the toilet facilities.   There are two toilets for men and two toilets for women, and I do not see any Port-a-Loos being set up.   Eeeww.  

 

We 'attend the facilities' before we go to the temples, and then take a complicated walk through the construction zone for the festival, and there is a security check set up, like at the airport, except it's another one of the very dodgy ones we have seen here that don't work very well, if at all, and a couple of disinterested people doing body searches.   Madhav says something and I hear the word "Foreigners" - and we are shown through, without a search.  It's good we aren't terrorists then. 

 

Sandeep is a very good guide, another passionate man who knows his topic thoroughly and cannot wait to share it.  Before we enter the first cave temple, he gives us a short lecture.  "One should be in a good state of mind to enter temples, feeling good in the heart, behaving appropriately, respectfully, behaving with honour, not speaking loudly, walking mindfully."   I get that. He tells us that this place was not isolated when it was created, as it is now - it was the centre of everything.  It is surrounded by flat topped mountains, a Shiva temple was a built on top of one recently, something he thinks is a poor decision, with no regard to the environment. This place is like nothing we have seen before, as the temples are not built, they are literally carved into the mountain rock face, and there are 1200 of them here.   Yes, 1200 rock temples. To give you an idea of the scale of what we are seeing, one of the temples is 72 metres long and the ceiling is 35 metres high, carved in one block of mountain.   And these were done with a chisel, a hammer, and a pick.   And a rope, to measure with.  These are monolithic structures, not supported by anything other than the mountain.  

 

All had to have rock removed to create them, ,and they were chiselled from the top down - try and imagine that?   To have no idea of what it looked like, to be working downwards, carving the side of a mountain?  One had to have 200,000 tonnes of rock removed to create it, and was started in 757 and it took 150 years to complete.   But that too is a guess, Sandeep says, they don't really know.  Many of them cannot be officially dated, they have not been able to carbon date them, as there were no details left, no records, all that was left was a half a chisel and an axe.  Sandeep says "Not thing left."  (Nothing). There were people living in them until the early 19th century, and the damage done is immeasurable, ceilings blackened with smoke, trunks broken off elephants, holes made through pillars to hold the tethers of the animals, holes ground into the floor from women making masala, the wounds people leave behind on their environment. 

 

It's mind-blowing, you cannot get your head around it, and they are 1300 years old.  There were meeting halls, sleeping quarters, and monasteries - the 6th century!  We stand in one with a high domed ceiling, carved in the shape of ribs, like the inside of a whale skeleton, the most beautiful structure.  Another where Sandeep asks us all to be quiet, and then chants "Ohhhhhm!" - the sound echoes through the chambers, we are standing in there in the half light, and I get goose bumps, it goes around and around us. In Nepal, they built their temples from wood, and if you have been there you will know that they have not survived time well, but here, in places, they make 'pretend' wood out of stone, and built in beams which hold up nothing, but are just for show.   Influenced by Nepal.  In fact,  there are influences from all around the world, Greece (we see Greek knots, patterns and  and inscriptions) Egypt (the Sphinx, the Phoenix and chariots) China (the lion and drums) Japan, and Africa - there are elephant carvings everywhere, but these elephants are definitely African elephants, not Asian, their size and skulls are quite different.  Did the artisans come from Africa, or did the artisans travel from here to Africa and come back with new images to carve?  

 

Buddha features strongly, but not in the traditional pose we are accustomed to, him cross legged in the lotus position, which is the Buddhist pose.  He is sitting with his feet placed on the floor, the Hindu pose - so people could kiss his feet.  Buddhism rarely shows any sensuality in its sculptures, but here there are a couple of rare scenes of couples embracing.  Gerald perks up.   Hindu's however, have many loving Tantric couples featured wherever we have been - one section is covered with them.  Sandeep explains that Buddhism was not a religion, it became a religion because Hindus wanted it to.  Buddha was a teacher, just a man on a journey to enlightenment.  The Hindu religion is not really a religion either - it really does not have Gods, it has mythology and many stories, says Sandeep, and this is what our fellow Indian travellers love, these stories - which Gerald and I have no idea about, and why it can get boring for us after several hours of not knowing who is related to whom, or what happened before or after this particular event. There are literally hundreds of thousands of tiny figurines carved into rock, and if you look at any one of them, the detail is extraordinary, you can see a hint of a smile, an angry face, a jewelled hand, a sensual breast.   "These large breasts are not meant to signify sexuality.  They symbolise motherhood."   If only our Western world could get that. We meet another little God called Ganas, who was a mischievous little fellow (I don't know if he too stole ladies clothing, but everyone in our group bar us knows who this guy is and smiles good naturally at his 'pranks'). I decide to call Bringi (alias Arvind) Ganas, it's nicer than Bringi, and he is a bit of a joker.  I tell him, he likes it. 

 

Percy Brown, a highly acclaimed British author of many books on these temples wrote:  "The Taj Mahal is called the Jewel of India.   But the Kailash Temple is the Jeweller's Shop". 

 

There are hundreds and hundreds of people here, jostling and pushing, shoving their way through the crowds.  These people did not get Sandeep's lecture about respect and honour.  As outside and inside, in the holy temple spaces, people are shouting at the top of their voices, screeching at each other and their kids, babies are wailing, and I am over this now, I am feeling a bit seedy, I am very tired, and this crush of people, like an army of ants, the suffocating heat, and all the information coming at me fast is enough.  I am ready to leave.  If I never see another temple or cave temple again, it will be fine.   Amit helps me through the dark spaces of the temple, leading the way, his face turning back regularly to see if I am OK, and down the steep, irregular stairs.  "We've come this far without mishap, Sandra, let's not screw things up now."  Gerald says.  

 

We make it back to the bus unscathed, past the persistent merchants selling the wares, and on to the bus.  Kailash and Vandals Nanda are leaving us tonight, and he makes a generous goodbye speech to us all on the train.  He is the Big Boss of India Railways, we have exchanged emails as they will send us the photo of Vandals and I sitting on the thrones at the palace yesterday.   It is a relief to sit down and enjoy the cool air conditioning, and I doze on the journey home.   I have noticed that people deliberately downplay the amount of time it takes to do anything here.  With an airy "Oh, it's just an hour's drive away" - you soon discover that it is twice that long, over terrible roads.   Then the tour takes 2 - 2.5 hours, and it's very hot, although you have cold water and umbrellas, you are jostling and trying to understand what is going on, and then it's two hours journey home.   India is marvellous and wonderful and fantastic and spectacular and wondrous.  But it is exhausting.  

 

Our armed guards are waiting to escort us from the bus to the train, where our retainers await us, oh I love these young men, a few of them have been out with us today, and are so thrilled to have seen these amazing temples.   Gerald drinks a beer and I have tea, and a very welcome shower, we don't have much time left here, and I look around this little cabin, and think how much pleasure we have had here.  The train sweeps on through the hinterland of Maharashtra, with its every changing colours and landscape as we get ready for dinner.

 

Which is divine.   A soup (this chef knows how to make soup, I tell you) of corn and mint, oh my Lord. And then - lobster Thermidor - on a train, in the middle of India, and it is outstanding.  I think they have filled the lobster tail with the flesh from two more tails, as one lobster tail cannot possible have that much flesh in it.  It's sweet and succulent, and I eat mine and scrape out the bits left in the shell of Gerald's.

 

I am in bed by 9.30 pm, pooped.   

 

My last thought is of you, Mother.   Gratitude.  Blessings on you and my Dad.   I love you.

 

 

Day 38 - 14th Oct 2016 - Ajanta Caves - Deccan Odyssey

 

JOHN SMITH AND GERALD'S BIG BOLLYWOOD BIRTHDAY BASH

 

We arrive at the Jalgaon station and after breakfast of a delicious spinach naan (I think it is called a Palak Paratha.) with a hot tomato sauce (tomato kibhahi) - we disembark.   It takes us almost two hours to drive to the Ajanta Caves, another World Heritage site and an architectural marvel of its time.  (We have seen so many architectural marvels, they are beginning to be wasted on us.).  There are 30 rock hewn Buddhist caves at Ajanta, all masterfully carved and are adorned with sculptures and paintings of Buddhist religious art, depicting universal pictorial art and depict the fusion between Buddhist and Hindu faith.

 

Here is an interesting anecdote about The Ajanta Caves, as given to us on the train each morning, along with our itinerary for the day.   These are known as "The Lost Temples of Ajanta".  

 

"In 1810, a group of Britirish troops was stationed around the area where the caves are.   Out on a hunt, the solider spotted a small opening across the river where they thought they would find some game to hunt.  They forded the river and entered the chasm but instead of animals and a good hunt, they discovered the remains of what appeared to be a temple.  Calling upon the services of the local services of local populace, the British formed a dig and uncovered the fist temple of the Ajanta Caves, in what is now called Cave 10."

 

Sandeep is once again our guide, he has stayed overnight on board with us, and will drive back to Ellora at the end of the tour today.  This town was also a military base for the British, and there are houses which look very English everywhere.  It still surprises me the lack of resentment and rancour the Indians have towards the English, they speak with noticeable affection of the people who ravaged and plundered their land, and yes, I know they did do good stuff too.  The journey there took us an hour and half.  I get a seat next to the window in this brand new bus, but as luck would have it, the curtains which have been fitted to a rail above have lost some of their curtain rings, and it droops lazily, just enough for the sun to blind me.  I drive part of the journey with my pashmina draped over my head, and it gives me the opportunity to doze.  When I awake we are driving once more through beautiful country, banana plantations and rivers.  We pass the Waghkhora - Waghk means Tiger, and Hora means River.  Looking around, you can see how this was once the kind of country heavily populated by tigers - alas no more - it's lush and  thick and green and tangled and very much a jungle.  We don't even discuss this unbelievable "Great Wall of China" which travels for miles around the temple area, the whole place is littered with monuments, temples, walls, moats, buildings - there is history in every metre, and I don't know how the Indian government is able to protect it all.  

 

There are buses and people and cars vying for space, and we have to leave our bus, and use a Government bus - an identical bus, I might add, but as Bringi/Gana says, "The Government has to be in on this" - to drive us the last one kilometre to the Caves.  One kilometre?  That was another Indian downplay of distance and time, it's a good four kilometres, but who is counting.  The bus also says this:

 

CAPACITY OF THIS BUS

88+1+1+11 plus 100 standing = 201 ??????

 

WHAT? Says Gerald?  There are sixteen of us in here and it's almost full! 

 

But no, it's apparently written in an odd dialect which even our Indian friends don't understand, but this is what they think it means:

 

CAPACITY OF THIS BUS 

44+1+1+11 = 57 plus 10 standing = 67 

 

There are merchants selling carved elephants, crystals, and carvings of Buddha and Gods and boys selling postcards and magnets and cut fruit and ice cream.  Sandeep says we will be climbing a lot of stairs, and if we don't feel we can do it, there are chairs which we can hire.  I am curious.   I see a large padded wooden lounge type chair, which is attached to a litter, decorated with marigolds.   I think at first it is a joke, but it's not, I say to Gerald "Oh I have to have a chair!" - and Bringi/Gana takes me seriously, and says "You can get one if you like."   Oh my goodness, four men will carry me - or you, or anybody - up all these flights of stairs to all of these temples in this heat, for the grand sum of Rp1000 (Aus $20).  I see three people during our tour who have availed themselves of this service, two men and one woman, all grossly overweight, and the four 'litters bearers' are running up and down those stairs, sweating, working their butts off.  I see an empty one, and ask if I can have a photo taken - they agree, and I pose, and then they ask for money.  "There are no free lunches" says Bringi.   Fair enough.  I notice that people here make a lot of allowances for 'old people' like me, they forgive your eccentricities and strange requests, I love the honour and respect afforded the elderly.  Speaking to Chit-wa brings it home to me.  She and Bringi/Gana lived with their parents, as they aged and their health became frail, she became carer to both sets of parents, and she nursed them till they were 90 and in ICU at the very end of their lives.   Bringi recalls this moment with emotion, telling us what an amazing woman his wife is, and apologises for his tears.  Gerald, a man who is moved to tears easily himself, takes his hand and tells him there is no need.  And now their son and his wife live with them.   They have been married a couple of years, and in the next couple of years, they expect to be grandparents.  I ask Chit-we about something I have heard, that grandmothers massage their grandchildren every day for the first two years of their lives, using coconut oil, baby oil, or mustard oil.   Oh yes, she says, the grandmother also baths the baby every day, they are the ones with 'the confidence' and teach their daughters-in-law such things.  Imagine that.  Living with your son and his wife, and having the opportunity to be a part of their lies, and the life of your grandchild,  in such a way.  I think that although our parents didn't live with us (apart from particular times in life between houses or countries or on holidays from Africa) - that our life with Joshua is the closest to that scenario that I know.  My parents were such an integral part of our lives, every day, and such a huge part of Joshua's life.  I felt their love and support, both emotional and practical, every day in my life, and that was such a blessing. Our son benefited from their love, their wisdom, their patience and their experience in so many ways.  I wonder if he is in a place in his life where he realises that?

 

We enter the first temple, a monastery cut into the Rock, in contrast to yesterday, many of which were very Buddhist and simple and quite austere, simple "stupas" with little decoration, except for a couple with the jewellery boxes atop the temples and those which imitated wood, and no Gods - these are heavily carved, with a far more Hindu influence.  Apparently in those boxes on top of the stupas is a box which holds the relics of the monks who lived here.  There are people everywhere, there are limits to how many people can enter at a time, as it's a bun fight in there, and you are limited to fifteen minutes in each one.   You could be forgiven for assuming there is a riot happening here, people are shouting and each other, taking flash pictures although it is prohibited, sitting on monuments - Sandeep speaks shoutily to a couple of guys and they beat a hasty retreat.   Sandeep is trying hard to impart knowledge to us and the noise is at riot levels in some temples, and I see for the first time a flash of anger.  He is a soft spoken gentleman, and whilst trying to explain some aspect to us, there is a couple refusing to share the space with us, and speaking very, very loudly as if in competition with him.  He asks politely in Hindi and nothing happens, and repeats his request - still nothing, his voice rises somewhat, and they speak shoutily to him.  He chooses to ignore this, whilst the young man exercises his power for a few more minutes, and then with a "See, I won!" look, saunters off.  Other tour guides are using powerful mikes to make themselves heard, there are two competing with each other and our softly spoken Sandeep, I want to yell 'SHUT UP' - but Sandeep just says wearily "Why do people have to use mikes?   They have a voice, why don't they use it?"  

 

Temple after temple of amazing beautiful extraordinary craftsmanship, it's really quite pointless my trying to explain the magnitude and the beauty of what is here.  And to think I had never even heard of these caves until recently - they should be one of the Seven Wonders of the World.   If you remember the anecdote I quoted up above, you will remember that these caves were 'found' by some British soldiers out on a hunt, probably a tiger hunt says Sandeep.  This area was habits by boars, bears, leopards and lions, and nobody came here.   So you can imagine their surprise when they parted thick bushes expecting to find a lions den and found this amazing carved temple.   How about that, can you imagine how excited they must have been?   Dating back to the 2C BC?  The Brits then did an excellent job of excavating them and have done a lot of work since, connecting all the temples with a walkway, so visitors do not need to climb down a hundred steps and back up another hundred to view each one.   He shows us an inscription in one.   Good God.  It's "John Smith.  28th April 1819. Cavalry".  He inscribed his name here!   Some years ago authorities discovered John Smith's relative in England - yes, I know, I said the same, thing, there are a gazillion John Smith's around the world - but apparently, he was the real deal, and had a photo of their ancestor who found these caves, which matched another held by the Government.   His name is Martin Smith, and they gave him a Royal welcome. 

 

I manage the hundreds of steps and the heat, but I am fighting with a rambunctious umbrella, it takes skill to manage a handbag, an umbrella whilst taking photos every minute or so.  The button which holds the umbrella closed is broken, so every time I slide it down to hook it over my arm to take a photo, it springs open like a red and blue Big Top at the circus, and I have to manhandle it shut, then try to bring around the little strip of fabric and button which keeps it shut.  It even springs that open, and I am wrestling with this umbrella whilst the others are learning things I am not.  Chit-wa and I enter one of the tiny cells which surround the perimetre of the centre hall, and she encourages me to try out the stone bed.   Talk about firm, even the pillow is made of stone.   I prefer our latex Tempur at home.  Sandeep speaks of the mythology and the stories, the Indians are fascinated, these are things they are familiar with, and they add bits to his story.  Sandeep calls it "MY thology'.  

 

There is a sad story here, many I guess, when I think of how many people must have died creating these marvels.   Remember they worked from the top of the mountain downwards - and a whole section, tonnes and tonnes of the basalt 'ceiling' they were carving fell, causing hundreds of deaths, and there are places where you can see work just stopped, as if to say, this is too awful, we cannot continue work - masterpieces half completed, the top half of the body perfectly detailed, the bottom just a rudimentary shape.

 

Finally we visit the last temple, we have taken so many photos today, Amit and Lalit are like professional photographers.  And I have to tell you that they are not gay, I asked them, and they roared laughing - they are work colleagues.  Bringi/Gana says that kind of relationship is very common in certain parts of India, and he believed I was incorrect in that assumption.  Gerald and Raj and I are interviewed for the documentary being made about the Deccan Odyssey, I definitely don't look my Bollywood Best with a sweaty, red face and no lipstick, but I do my best.   The most talented of actors have done some of their best work after putting on weight, with greasy hair and no make up.   We walk down the steps, and across a suspension bridge made of metal, with wooden flooring, great sections of which are broken and splintered and it's a Occupational Health and Safety nightmare, as is much of India.  We walk back along the river in the shade, to our bus, plagued by people wanting to sell their souvenirs.   It's a beautiful place, and I am grateful to John Smith. 

 

The government bus takes us to the regular bus.   Oh good, they have done some running repairs on the curtain rings, I close the curtains, and sleep most of the way home.   Dr. Rita and her husband Raj are leaving us here, they have a car come to collect them, and I am sorry they won't be spending the last night with us, as there is a celebration!  I have told Madhav and the group that it is Gerald's birthday, and he gave me the nod this morning and said "It's all on for tonight!"  Dr. Rita's husband, the travel agent, nearly let's the cat out of the bag when they say goodbye on the mike in the bus, but recovers.   Bringi/Gana says "And then there were eight!" - our little group is getting smaller each day. 

 

One of the things I love about Indian men:  seeing a group of sombre looking men (many Indians look sombre till you grin at them) who respond enthusiastically to my waves and smiles with even more enthusiastic waves and smiles.  And I am not just talking about young men, even groups of important looking businessmen respond, as if you were the best thing that's happened to them all day.  Where else in the world would that happen?  Can you imagine sitting on a bus in Australia/England/Germany/USA/Cambodia and waving like a kid at a group of people, men especially, and getting such a happy response??    I love that.  

 

We are back on board by 2.30 pm - it's been a long, hot, tiring morning and our faithful retainers, a couple of whom have been on the tour with us, are waiting for us with our last five course lunch, which we cannot do justice to.  Soup and salad and a shower, and a nap.  I am too tired to blog, and anyway, the train has taken off and is hurtling along at a cracking pace, every time I hit a key I have to delete a string of what looks like expletives.  Bringi tells us that there was an emergency during the night, the engine broke down, and they had to make an urgent switch, and whilst we have been out at the caves, this train has travelled 100 kms away to get a new engine, and 100 kms back, and was waiting for us on the platform, as if nothing had happened, we would not have known a thing.  That's professional.  

 

I have an appointment for a shampoo at the spa, our tiny shower and the poor water pressure make the thought of doing it myself difficult.  The lovely Kaylani massages my scalp with enthusiasm, and takes time to blow dry it, just so - after all, there is a party tonight!  All for Rp700 (about $14).  We have noticed how many people here have bright red henna'd hair, why?  Apparently, when people start getting grey hair, especially the Muslims, its traditional for men and women to dye it this bright red colour.  It's totally at odds with the wrinkles on their faces, and the changes in skin tone one gets as you age, but it's how they do things. 

 

Aditi took me to one side today and thanked me for the conversation I had with her yesterday about our car accident and what happened to me.  She says it has given her such hope, and bless her cotton socks "I look at maam's pretty face and cannot believe such a terrible thing happened to you!"  She hugs me tight, and says she will be coming to dress me up in an Indian sari for the party tonight.  She has chosen royal blue for me, and pink for Mr. Groom, she thinks these colours will 'suit our complexion well'.  I want to adopt this girl/woman.

 

Gerald looks gorgeous, and very much the part, in his white pants and pink kurta.  Adita arrives, and what an expert, she has done this before, and armed with a handful of pins, we laugh a lot as she expertly winds six metres of fabric around my body in the most respectful way.  I have worn saris a few times in Nepal, and earlier this year at our friends the Solanki's son's wedding, and they are a very feminine outfit.  But difficult to do much in, I tell her she may have to come to the toilet with me.  She laughs loudly, and says she will wait outside the door, and 'make it special when you come out'.  Tomorrow when the journey ends, she is getting on a plane and flying home to Delhi, as she is taking her mother for a medical check up.  She asks our ages, and is truly astonished when we tell her.   Her mother is 62, she says, and cannot walk to the market without becoming breathless, she can do very little around the house, you are 67 and 69!!!  She says she cannot believe how we climb so many stairs and do so many tours at our age.   Oh, this makes us feel good.

 

Our party of eight are all dressed up, the men in kurtas and the women in saris, all provided as a gift by the Deccan Odyssey, and looking very glamorous.  The Gateway car, from which we exit each day for our tours, has been transformed into a disco with lights and loud pumping Indian modern music, and we all sit a little unconsciously, as one does, waiting for the party to start.  Drinks are served and snacks, but nothing much is happening, especially on the dance floor.  Our faithful retainers are standing around the perimeter waiting for something to happen, and Adita says "Maam, you must start the dancing."  Well, you know me, all I need is an invitation, and sometimes not even that, so I am up, all by myself, dancing.  And my Beloved joins me.  Now this is what they have been waiting for!  They are grinning and clapping like they are at their best friend's wedding, and Gerald and I have a go at Indian dancing, then revert to our own western style dancing, and after a good five minutes, revert to jiving, which is quite something to attempt to Indian music, but after 52 years, we manage.  We know the moves, we know each other, we can improvise, we know how to cover our own mistakes, and each other's mistakes, and we look pretty professional on the dance floor, all that practise over all those years, we have impressed many people with our skill, but this crowd, oh my, they are electrified.  Old people!  Dancing!  Fast! For a long time!  I can see Adita reckoning how her mother would fare in this situation, and it makes me happy to know my body responds when I ask it to perform certain tasks.  And of course, I have my Bollywood reputation to consider.

 

It's such fun, but we are tiring, so I grab the hands of "The Boys" - they are eager to join in, but "The Girls" are shy, and Bringi/Gana and Chit-wa, are hanging back, dignified compared to our abandon.  Good God.  Look at The Boys go!   We are reminded of Russell Herford our dear old friend, my darling Graeme Soljan's partner, who took his life several years ago, he was such an incredible dancer, and made anyone who danced with him look like a professional.  Amit is swinging me around the floor, he knows what he is doing, Lalit is doing his own thing, Gerald is there, the girls have got up, and I encourage our faithful retainers to join us.  They are reluctant at first, uncertain if it is the appropriate thing to do, seeking permission.  But not for long.  That doof doof music is shaking the windows, the guys are getting into it, even Kaylani from the spa gets up, shaking her booty.  Madhav comes in and stand smiling, the medic stands smiling - I take his hand, he has been filming all this - and he shakes his head adamantly, no ma'am, I have a sore leg, truly, I cannot dance. You are not telling the truth, I say, dragging him on to the floor.  The girls encourage me, saying "He is such a good dancer!" - but he is determined, he looks quite panicked, "Maam you are such a good dancer, you and Mr. Groom are amazing, you must dance!"  Come on, I insist.  Maam, it's my TOE!  What?  I cannot persuade him, rare for me not to get a man on the dance floor, but I respect his leg/toe story.  The place is going off, Amit and Lalit are ripping up the floor, our faithful retainers have made a circle, these two guys can dance, Lalit is fantastic, but Amit - OMG! What a dancer!  Totally self expressed, he is jumping and twirling and stomping, and they are all singing along to all of the words, popular songs for modern young Indians.   Nickinson is not here, and I ask Adita to call him to come, he should be here with everybody.  I take a momentary break, and Chit-wa says "You know all of these songs?"   No, I say, never heard them before.  "Really?  But you are dancing so well!"  I figure you don't need to know the words, or the music, you just need to "Want to Have Fun" as Madonna so famously said.  We even get Bringi/Gana and Chit-wa up on the floor, the crowd goes wild, Nickinson is here now and dancing too, with a shy smile on his face, there are cameras snapping everywhere, and a movie being made, which will probably land up in the doco on the Deccan Odyssey.  Oh what fun this is!  I have to sit down, I am sweating and red faced and this sari whilst not unravelling is not the easiest garment to dance wildly in.  There are hot snacks being served, and more drinks, and I look around at the smiling faces of the staff on this train, and think that Madhav has such an asset in his people, and he seems to be doing the right thing by them, honouring them and including them in tours and events such as this.   A gentle voice "Maam?" And there is Nickinson, holding out his hand, like an old fashioned man in courtship "Will you dance?"   Oh my, will I dance?  He leads me to the floor, and the crowd parts, in respect of the Old Lady.  He dances with me in the sweetest of ways, expertly, he too can dance.  It is a kind of a Cha Cha movement, a South American or Mexican rhythm, which takes me a while to get, but as a gentleman and a dancer does, he guides me, overlooking my stumbling on his feet, my missing his hand as he twirls me.  His eyes never leave mine, I am the most important person in the world as a lover gazes at his loved one, clearly enjoying being with me in this way, I doubt he has done this before, I assume it is a privilege to dance with guests.  But clearly, he has my permission, and it is OK with me, in fact it is absolutely marvellous with me.  I don't even think my son would dance with me this way.  I have tears in my eyes, I am honoured, I am touched, I am grateful, and when the music fades, he leads me back to my chair, his arm outstretched in a graceful arc, and seats me, bows and says thank you.  I want to adopt this boy/man.  The crowd claps wildly, I get so many acknowledgements about my energy levels, how do I do it, you are amazing, and my Beloved is beaming at me in that benevolent "That's my Girl" proud expression he wears when he is particularly proud of me.   The crowd gets back on the floor, all the boys are going wild now, and Amit is doing a solo, it's riveting.  Oh this is such a wonderful night, such a wonderful party, we are having such a good time.  Gerald and Bringi/Gana are deep in conversation and it's getting late, Madhav brings the proceedings to a gentle close by announcing dinner, it's 9.30 pm already, and we file into dinner.

 

We know each other in a different way now, and dinner is much more relaxed, the way us guests are with each other, we leave tomorrow, and as often happens, there is a rush of intimacy knowing that 'this' is coming to an end.  The staff too, whilst respectful and professional, are more relaxed, very happy, their eyes shining, their faces too with the exertion of all that dancing.   We eat The Last Supper, another outstanding meal with the finest of ingredients - we have eaten cuisine from all over the world, and tonight is superb - then the lights dim, and all the staff are marching out carrying a birthday cake with candles for Gerald and singing Happy Birthday.   My Beloved's face is shining with delight and happiness, and he blows out the candles.   What a party, what a delight, what a memorable 69th birthday.   I love this man so much.

 

It's late when we climb into bed, and the train is rocking and rattling, it is trying to shake us out of our beds, but we sleep.   Even energetic 69 and 67 year olds get worn out, and today has been such an exciting one.

 

We have shared 53 of your birthdays together, Gerald - I pray that God and the Universe grant us many more, we have lived a long and happy life.  I recall your 21st birthday in 1968 in Salisbury, Rhodesia, just three months before we married.  It was the day your Mother died, what a sad birthday that was.  She loved you, her Gerald Boy, so very much and I recall her sweet face.  I know she smiles on you every day, but especially tonight, she loves that you are happy and blessed in life. 

 

I don't need to tell you, as you already know, but I want to say it.  I love you in this life and I will love you in the next.  Blessings on you darling husband. 

 

 

Day 39 - 15th Oct 2016 - Mumbai - Taj Mahal

 

TEARS AND KISSES, A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY AND MORE BALLOONS

 

The ever prompt and smiling Nickenson knocks on our door at 6 am, we seem to have been in bed for a very short time, but I leap up, and he places the tea tray on our bed, backing out the door "Good Morning, Good Morning!"  He has been trained, I think, not to tally too long in the mornings with guests who can be potentially grumpy.  We aren't, we are morning people, but I think my darling Sue Hobson would not be at Her Best at this hour of the morning, day after day.  She is a nurse, accustomed to shift work, and is wide awake at 10 pm and sound asleep at 8 am, a quality which both awes and mystifies me;  I like to be asleep at 9.30 pm and up at 6.30 am.

 

We pack efficiently, we are very good at it now, quickly shower and are at our final breakfast by 7 am, our room zenned bar leading behind my tablets to take after brekky, and our toothbrushes and toothpaste.  Madhav makes a farewell speech over the PA system, thanking us for the honour of serving us, hoping we will return to the Deccan Odyssey, and wishing us a safe onward journey.  Then all the staff, well most of them, the driver and engineer are clearly otherwise occupied, walk through the dining carriage, and the eight of us clap and applaud loudly, well particularly Gerald and I, Indians seem to be more restrained in this area.  One by one, they file by, beaming with pleasure, Gerald and I are at the end of the carriage, so we give them the Big Finale Encore, which they clearly enjoy.  So many people have been taking care of us, so many of them have been invisible, behind the scenes, making our journey a five star experience.  The medic, the IT specialist, the spa lady, the cleaners, the chefs in their hats, the valets, (we give an extra loud cheer for Nickenson) our waiting staff, the electrical engineer, the manager, many whom we have never even seen but been an integral part of the comfort of this journey, and finally Madhav himself - tall and handsome in a soft white cotton Kurta patterned with small elephants which I covet - he is so Indian, so elegant.  I fill in the comments book with a full page of acknowledgements and accolades, Gerald places a very generous tip in the "Community Box."  We spoke last night with Nickenson and told him we would like to give him money as he has been outstanding, but Madhav says it is best if we place it in the community box.  He nods in agreement, "We must share it Suh" - this kind of community sharing is such a beautiful thing.   But I have taken a necklace which he admired early in the journey, one from Mexico which my friend Jane gave me, it's made of ring top pulls from cans, and very unusual.  I have placed it in a voile bag with a note of thanks and acknowledgement, and I give it to him.  His eyes open wide.  "But your friend gave you this?"   Yes, she did, and I know she would be happy for you to have it, to give it to your one day girlfriend.  I love to think of him remembering me - and Jane - in this way.  Is this egotistical?  But I like that thought.   I give Adita a necklace too, one which my friend Miriam gave me earlier this year, she too, would love to know I have given this to someone who will truly treasure it.  Adita's eyes tear up "Oh Mrs. Groom!  I shall wear this, and send you photos of me wearing it, and I will always recall you.  Thank you so much."  Did I tell you I want to adopt her?  And Nickinson? I think I did.

 

I go back to the cabin for my tablets but they are gone, Nickinson has done a big clear up, and all the linen is piled on the bed, and my toothbrushes and tablets are gone too.  I call him, he comes, and is mortified.  He thought we had cleared out the cabin, Madhav who has heard about my search for my tablets, asks me about it.   "Oh, no problem" I say airily, "I have more in Australia!".   Nickinson has had an unblemished record on this journey, I don't want to wreck it.

 

The train pulls in to Mumbai a bit late, it is about 9.30 am when we arrive.  Madhav has apologised, but this is a holiday train and gets low priority in the city.  Bringi/Gana tells us that there is something called the "Super Dense Crush Load Capacity" per train (yes really).  I have written the numbers down and mislaid them, but will try to get them from Bringi/Gana - it is something like 1700 passengers per train, and that rises to 3700 on a 'normal' train on most days.   Remember, there are 23,000,000 in this city.  He and Chit-ra point out their home as we race past, it's the middle tower in a threesome of big white towers, in the south of Mumbai, and they live on the 18th floor.  It's a pity you can't just jump out here, I joke, but they tell us their driver will be waiting for them at the station, he has picked up the keys from their son.  It's a shining black Mercedes Benz, and a quick check confirms there are no new scratches on it.  It's hard to say goodbye to these good people, my heart feels heavy.

 

The staff are all lined up to say goodbye, and I go down the line, shaking hands, stroking cheeks, and hugging a few who I feel especially close to.  Tears are running down my cheeks, and when I get to tall, impeccable imposing Madhav, the Big Boss, he reaches down and wraps his arms around me in a bear hug, reminding me of Ashish at Bandavargh Tree Hideaway in the Tiger Park, shushing me with "Don't cry, don't cry!"  I hug and farewell Nickenson, my heart is so sore to say goodbye to this young man with so much promise and so much heart.  I managed to give Bringi/Gana a kiss last night, as I promised him I would before journey's end, and I sieze the opportunity to give him another now, he offers his ear.  I don't want your ear, I want your cheek.  It's worse than a visit to the dentist for him, but he submits.  Chit-ra hugs well, and we kiss each other on both cheeks.  I kiss the boys, again.  And again.  Our driver and the representative from Mysteries of India are waiting, and we sadly wave goodbye to that wonderful, unforgettable, amazing train full of people and all the adventures we shared.

 

We are back in Mumbai, here is an interesting anecdote about the city, from our last itinerary:

 

The British acquired Bombay or Mumbai, as it is now known, in 1661 when the Portuguese Princess Catherine of Braganza married King Charles 11 and brought Bombay as part of her dowry.  However the Portuguese refused to part with four of the islands which Britain insisted come with the dowry.  Finally in 1665 these islands were transferred to the British.  Three years later the Crown transferred Bombay to the East India Company at a farm rent of ten pounds payable on September 30th each year.  Interestingly, a clause in the royal charter noted that 'all persons born in Bombay were to be accounted as natural subjects of England.' "

 

The Taj Palace is just as beautiful and just as busy, cars being inspected with mirrors and I guess bomb searchers, the cars wait in a line, and when cleared, the four large round metal posts sink into the ground, allowing access into the driveway at the front entrance, where the security machine, like the airport, waits to check the luggage.  They rise again as the car passes through, security is stringent.  The smiling men in kurtas and turbans bow and namaste, other men wearing striped grey pants and bow ties with waistcoats, many with twirling moustaches, do the same.  The foyer is filled with elegant people, glittering lights, towering displays of fragrant and colourful displays of flowers, it smells of lemon and roses, and we are 'tikkad' and a welcome necklace placed around our necks.  "Welcome back to your home at the Taj" the smiling lady says.  Not a detail is forgotten here.  Whisked up to our room by a happy man with a shaven bald head like Gerald's who grins when I call them 'twins', we have been upgraded to a beautiful room in the Old Wing, just two doors down from where we were last week.  It's exquisite, and it's not rocking, the bathroom is almost the size of our cabin on the Deccan. I gaze longingly at the bath, oh yes, that is for me.  We unpack the few things we shall need overnight, and the luggage we left behind last week is delivered to the room.  Our butler arrives in pin stripes with a cold drink;  his bow tie and tails straight from the 1920's.  Is there anything else we need?  Please call, here is my card.  We drink tea and sit for a couple of hours and catch up on our messages and Facebook, and then head out to a shop that Viv Craig recommended and Bringi/Gana gave us a map to get to. "You will find good things to buy there, both of you."

 

It's not far, we walk about twenty minutes through the throngs of people, it's Saturday and everybody is out at the Gateway to India taking photographs;  the homeless lie asleep, oblivious to this world, dogs are trotting along late for their meetings, and others are sound asleep in the hot sun, tuk tuks are touting for business, people are selling postcards and magnets, others want to take our photographs, the traffic toots and rushes endlessly.  Our guide told us that even he does not drive here, and that you need three essential things to drive a car in India.   A good horn, good brakes, and good luck.   Fab India is the shop we are looking for, and it's a treat, if a little unconventional in its lighting and "Trial Rooms".  Clothing is not displayed in the way we are accustomed to, with all the same shirts in the same colour in different sizes on the shelves.   In this shop, all different colours and different styles are piled together in cellophane bags, by size.   So a pile of 40's can be a variety of different colours and styles.   So if you find a style you like, but it's the wrong size, you cannot find another like it easily.  This does not deter me, however, I am an infrequent but determined shopper who knows what she likes, and pretty soon I am in the "Trial Room" with a young woman with bad teeth passing me three items at a time through the door as I stand in my bra and pants. I try on at least twenty garments, by which time my hair is standing on end and I am sweating with the exertion, the aircon is not very effective, the room is small, and the lighting is poor.  But I have three long cotton dresses, and two cotton blouses for about Aus $80.  Gerald has been looking in the men's section upstairs, and has found some shorts, he is sitting outside the Trial Rooms looking dejected, as he always done on shopping trips.  (In Samoa once, I found him outside a shop I had been in for exactly four minutes as it didn't have what I sought - sitting on a bench with his head in his hands, looking as if his best friend had died, whilst other husbands were gaily enjoying the shopping trip with their wives.)  My husband is even less of a shopper than I am.  I follow him up uneven, badly lit stairs, through the shop which is teeming with well dressed middle class Indians laden down with purchases, no sign of a slowing economy here.  It's torture for Gerald in a small Trial Room as I hand him trousers and shirts and shorts to try on, he is getting to the end of his tether, but with a few encouraging words from me, he perseveres, and we have found him some great clothes, light cotton shirts and cotton pants, the legs cut in an elegant slimline, which suits my husband's skinny bum and legs.  The home furnishings section is a hive of activity with people buying furniture, linen, the kind of stuff you see in Haven and Space at home at much more expensive prices;  I find a birthday gift for Suzee.  There is a strange system of paying for clothes, a little like Bali, where things are ticked off and passed over to someone else, you keep a docket and walk a distance, then hand that docket over, in exchange for another docket, things are ticked again, and finally you are free to leave with your purchases.  We boosted the economy of India here today.

 

We share a prawn curry and a shandy at a Seafood Restaurant which Bringi/Gana recommended, called Trishna.  It's good, and filled with Indians wearing western clothing, drinking wine and speaking English.   We walk to Colaba Street laden down to see our lovely man who we bought the hair clips and kurtas from for Barbara and I, we want to ask him where to buy an elephant.  He greets us like his favourite Aunt and Uncle returning from a long trip, shaking hands and thanking us for the birthday cake we gave him last week, which he shared with four friends.  An elephant?  Sure, follow me!  He takes us to a street seller, and bargains on our behalf, and we leave with three little elephants for the grand sum of Rp600 (about Aus$12).  Now you will shop in my shop, yes?  Um, no.  You are not going to shop in my shop?   No, sorry, we have enough stuff, which he can clearly see, looking at our Fab India bags.  He looks disappointed but makes the best of it, and guides us to a barber who will trim Gerald's beard.   We wait, a trim will be Rp400 (Aus$8) but decide against it when Gerald sees the barber is making a hash of the man's hair he is cutting, and his offsider tells us he is going to Adelaide, he wants nothing from us at all, but can we just look at his shop over the road?  We stop and buy some beers and tonic, and head back to the opulence of our beautiful Taj Palace, where I blog with a gin and tonic and and have a bubble bath and a cup of tea.  Why not, I think.  In two days time I shall be washing every single item of clothing in these bags, catching up on emails, vacuuming, phoning, cooking, shopping and cleaning.  We get in the charming old lift and head to the pool for a swim.   There are fat people everywhere.  We need to go home, or we will be fat soon too. There is a young, very white, pudgy couple sitting under an umbrella and a butler is pouring chilled champagne from an ice bucket into fluted glasses.  Did I tell you what champagne costs here?  French champagne?  Starts around Aus $500 a bottle.  A very good looking white man and his wife arrive, with a baby boy about nine months old.  The man has long wavy hair, and film star good looks, but he is grossly overweight.   He removes his gown and stands in his bathers, and his belly hangs down in a huge pocket of skin, which were he naked, would cover his genitals.  I hope he lives long enough to see his son through school.  Such a young man!

 

But we have a tour of the hotel at 5 pm.  Last week when we were here, I had a walk around it by myself and marvelled at the history and the majesty of the place, she really is a Beautiful Old Woman - The beautiful Taj Palace Hotel, at The Gateway, I repeat it, as if you ever get to Mumbai, treat yourself to this glorious place.  Sue Hobson, take note in particular, and for history and added glamour (because its all divine) - stay only in the Old Wing.   The building is exquisite, but the Old Wing, is too, too gorgeous.

 

About forty of us gather in the foyer of the Old Wing, and a beautiful young woman briefs us on what we are about to see, and a short history of this iconic building.  It was built by Mr. Tata, who has built so much of everything in India, he started with a small textile company, and is one of the richest men in the world today.  He has a hundred billion dollar business (I don't know how many zeros that is). His son was the first licensed pilot in India, flying from  Karachi to Bombay.  And he built this hotel because one night, he attempted to gain entry to the Watsons Hotel nearby, and was not allowed in.  The sign said "No Dogs and No Indians".   That was the policy.  Can you believe that?  My skin crawls.  He wanted to build a hotel that people of all races could enjoy, and on 16th December 1903, he opened this one, it wasn't even complete, there was no electricity, and the second floor was still being built.  It was affordable, she says, at Rp6 per night (about twelve cents in Aussie money) - and at the time, the average wage at the hotel was Rp3 a month (about six cents in Aussie money).  My word.  And the architect who designed it (and this is true) built the hotel, back to front.  Really.  When it became obvious what an error he had made, rumour has it that he took his life and jumped to his death, but that is not confirmed, she says. This hotel has been the accommodation of Presidents, Kings, Queens, Princes, rock stars, actors, famous sportsmen, infamous characters, high class prostitutes, John and Yoko, who spent five days here and never left their room, had only brown rice passed through the door, whilst they 'inhaled whatever they inhaled'.  Charming, interesting, wild, improbable, scandalous, amazing, incredible stories and people have stayed here.  And now The Grooms.  Except out photo is not in the Hall of Honour.  The new wing consists of the Greens Hotel which was once across the road, separated by a thoroughfare of buses and cars and tuk tuks, bought by Mr. Tata, and that thoroughfare became the vast lobby of today, as he demolished the Greens Hotel, and in its place, built the towering new wing.  

 

The lobby in the new wing is mind blowing.  The reception desk must be twenty metres long, behind which is a brilliant, almost fluorescent orange painting, three panels actually, created by one of India's leading artists, I am sorry I did not get the name, but the painting is called "Eternal Evolution".  It glows like the sunrise behind the fifteen impeccably dressed staff who man it.  On the opposite wall approximately a football field away, is a bank of marble fretwork, hand carved by 'not famous artists, but very talented local people in a village'.  The snowy whiteness of that is in stark contrast to its sunrise opposite, and the rich marbled floor has four separate lozenges of highly decorated artwork, one at north, south, east and west, each different, each worthy of its place in a global art gallery, and there are people casually walking over them, I doubt many people even look down, but here I am, snapping away like a proud mother at her baby's first birthday party.  There is a central seating point, defined by a rug the size of half a football field, about which are dotted richly upholstered chairs and carved wooden tables.  The focal point of this unbelievably beautiful space is an enormous round table, with a floral display that towers perhaps twenty five feet, with literally thousands of fresh blooms.  I tried to count how many in just the bottom foundation circle, and could not.  And its changed every few days.  

 

We walk down long checkerboard marble corridors past banquet halls and function rooms, conference centres and 'toilet facilities' so sumptuous, you could roll out a swag and spend a week there.  There are displays of photographs of the early 1900's, old menus, pictures of glamorous women in flapper dresses holding long cigarette holders, stockinged legs stepping from Rolls Royces, men in tuxedos with moustaches, big bands with Louis Armstrong playing the trumpet, women in ballgowns and ball rooms filled with handsome men in tuxedos, with people dancing and drinking champagne.  It is hard to believe that at one point in it's long history, and it may have been during one of the World Wars, this majestic place became a 600 bed hospital.  What a history!  We come eventually to the Art Gallery, in which the Taj Hotel - and Mr. Tata, I guess - support up and coming artists.  This is my second visit there, as I came last week, and it is a different exhibition.  I loved the last one, and met one of the artists, the paintings and bronze sculptures reminded me of Gunnel Watkins, and were all of people's faces, bodies, eyes.   This exhibition is by one artist, who is there, and it is work I do not understand at all. Large paintings in various tones of one colour, say all different blues, and what appears to me to be horizontal long lines.  Then there is a green one of horizontal long lines.  And then, a mix of blue and orange, at least there is some colour here.  I shake his hand and wish him well, and make a mental note to do some research on modern art. 

 

The hotel is influenced by Egypt, Greece, China and England, and there are vast ballrooms and chambers and galleries and hallways and it's stuffed to the brim with antiques and artworks and marble floors, artwork and flowers.  It's truly magical.  The grand staircase sweeps upwards with scrolled metalwork and then branches off on both sides, if you look up you see floor after floor after floor - almost to infinity - of scrolling and panelling and above it, the most exquisite Florentine Dome and arch, which is the one you see in all the photos.  There is a bronze bust of "Mr. J.R.D.Tata" - looking quite gloomy, although I saw a quote of his which I love:  "One must forever strive for excellence or even perfection, in any task however small, and never be satisfied with the second best." There is an ancient wooden carved panelling on one side of the staircase at ground level opposite the Sea Lounge, which was once the counter front of the Air India offices, which once graced this site.  The Sea Lounge was always the 'In Place' to meet in Mumbai in the Roaring Twenties and subsequent eras, where many a tryst occurred, I am sure.  It's quite tryst looking, with discreet palms and dark wood, large columns behind which one could sit with a demure expression and a fan and await one's lover.   There are two paintings on the wall, which look to me to be in need of a good tidy up.  They are dull and dreary, grey and leaden, I cannot make out anything of what they depict.  It looks like someone has painted a canvas and thrown a bit of gravel at it in places, and then painted over that too.   But they were valued some years ago at 27 crore.

 

Here is an Indian valuation of money:

 

One lakh = 100,000 rupees (Aus $2,000)

One crore = 10,000,000 rupees (Aus $200,000)

 

Which means that each of those paintings are worth around Aus $5.4 million.   

 

And this is where we can have complimentary tea and coffee 24 hours a day.  Sitting under these paintings in this a historic place were authors, actors, poets and the aristocracy, where they met, as I suggested sometimes clandestinely, oh there are many stories here! - and that is only one of the many places to eat and drink in this hotel.  This was the first place in India to have a licence for a bar, the licence number was 0001  (India lived with prohibition for many years, and still you cannot buy alcohol in a shop on a Saturday).  And that same bar still runs as a bar today, history runs rampant in this place.   Back in the room we watch an entertaining short doco about the hotel, the narrator is who is sharing the hotel's history is an elegant Indian man, apparently a butler here, except he is more British than the British, his impeccable Sandhurst accent telling us amusing anecdotes and facts, as he takes us on a journey through the hotel, flicking out his tails as he sits, or polishes an apple, or flicks an imaginary speck of dust from the glory of the staircase.  The old elevators were German technology, the bathrooms were Turkish design, the furnishings English, it was the finest building of its time, and "she" (this remarkable hotel is given a human persona in the doco) is over 100 years old, and more beautiful than ever, she will survive at least another 100 years - she has survived earthquake and terrorist attack, she is a legend.  "She" - see, I am humanising her too, re-opened after the attack on 15th August 2010.  The terrorist attack is mentioned only in the briefest of terms, no point in dwelling on what happened here, right?   

 

But then we are taken to a moving monument to those people who died during that terrorist attack on 26th November 2008.  As you enter the Grand Lobby in the new wing, it is on the far side wall, a vast sheet of glass, behind which is a wall of trickling water, a 'fountain wall', and a bronze Tree of Life, which was one of the only things left standing in the lobby after the attack.   It is not lost of any of us, and it touches me deeply that the Tree of Life survived.  To the left of the fountain, there is large metal wall upon which all 32 names of those who died are inscribed, plus one last one, which is 'Lucy', who was the hotel security dog.  Thirty two people died here, but I stifle a sob when I see Lucy's name.

 

On that sad note, we end our tour.  I was hoping for a glass of champagne which they gave us at the end of the tour at the Lake Palace in Udaipur, but no such luck.  I guess at Aus $500 for the cheapest, our thirsty group of forty may need several bottles, and Mr. Tata has to make a profit, it must cost an absolute fortune to keep this place running.

 

We return to our suite with a new appreciation of all that has gone before.   Now its 'Business'.   The room is still filled with balloons and flowers celebrating Gerald's Big Day, but he is lamenting the fact we will not fit everything into our cases, with all the shopping we did today, but he wasn't brought up by my Mother (she only took him on when he was 16, so he missed sixteen years of invaluable training.). One of my Mother's mantras was, "What you cannot carry, drag."  She and I were/are Masters at this and have dragged a lot of stuff over the years, oh the stories!  So this is not really a challenge for me.  He fusses over me as I start unpacking everything and laying it out.  I pour him a beer, and point him to his laptop, and with a gin and tonic in my hand (my mother would be proud, I am my Mother's Daughter after all).  I spend the next couple of hours proving him wrong.  I am always happy creating order out of chaos, and this is no exception, and perhaps he is right, I do love to be right.  I toss out brochures and half empty tubes of toothpaste, folding things tightly, placing things inside of other things, and feeling grateful we have given so much clothing away;  and everything fits in, with space for our toiletries which will go in tomorrow.  In our small suitcase are the things we will declare at customs tomorrow.  Our lap tops and I phone and books to read will go in Gerald's backpack, and my Magic Bag (Ari, in Lombok, thank you for this name for my handbags that produce everything you might need at any moment in life). The clothes we will wear are hanging neatly.  We each eat two slices of chocolate cake for dinner, washed down with another beer and a gin.  Tasty if not nourishing. 

 

I stand under the hot shower with the water pouring on my face, aware that I am not in a train, the divine Deccan Odyssey, and not having to try to keep my balance.  I kind of miss it, a sort of ongoing yoga balance posture.  A fast moving film is running in my head of just some of the things we have done, some of the things we have seen, what a holiday, what an adventure, how blessed are we?  When I come out, damp and warm, sweet smelling and body lotioned, Gerald is asleep, its 10.30 pm and  it is his 69th birthday.  The Real One.  The room is festooned with balloons and the waste bin is almost full with empty beer and tonic bottles, there is a cushion which says Happy Birthday, there is a party going on.  Not.  So I wake him up and present him with his final birthday present;  Me On Our Last Night in Mumbai.  Say what you will about my Beloved - say what I will about my Beloved - he is a very co-operative man, extremely willing.  He is also a very happy man, and I feel such love, such gratitude, such happiness, and so very, very blessed in my life. 

 

Lights out.

 

 

Day 40 - 16th Oct 2016 - Mumbai to Sydney

 

A DOG'S BREAKFAST, FAREWELL MOTHER INDIA, AND A REUNION WITH CINO AND IMPORTANT MEMBERS OF OUR TRIBE

 

This bed is one of the best we have ever slept in, I reckon.  The pillows are very large and very soft, the mattress is firm, the sheets are the finest quality, and the doona is warm but feather light.  I could lie here for three days with my Beloved, except we have run out of illicit gin and beer, and we won't pay room service prices.

 

We are awake before the wake up call at 6 am and then there is a knock at the door, it's a faithful retainer bearing the tea and coffee ordered on Gerald's behalf last night by the lady who took our wake up call.  He is stumbling around in the dark in a short gown and the faithful retainer hands him a docket to sign, it's Rp1200 plus taxes for a half a cup of hot water and a tea bag, and a cafe latte.  (Aus $28.). My Beloved, who has created and maintained and increased our wealth over 52 years, says "WHAT?  I was asked if I wanted a drink with my wake up call!  We can make our own!  I have a kettle here in the room!"  The faithful retainer meekly suggests that Sir does not want this then?   Gerald does not need to respond he takes one look at my Beloved's face, and backs out of the room.

 

Gerald is now in Getting To The Airport Mode, which is his mega speed persona, and you are wise to keep out of his way.  It's speed shower, speed tea and coffee, speed last minute pack, speed breakfast, speed zen, speed everything.  We have our last breakfast in the strangely quiet dining room with its beautiful courtyard.  Gerald remembers yesterday morning on the train at breakfast.  We were stationary and he asked me to open the blind, which I did.   He said "Oh God, quick!!! Shut it!" So I did.  There was a man taking a crap outside the window.  Ten minutes later he asked me to open it again, after ten minutes, he thought the guy must have completed his ablutions and considered it safe, and then said "Oh God, quick!!!  Shut it!"  So I did.  There was a pig eating the man's crap.  He went right off his breakfast.

 

Back in the room, Gerald is speed tooth brushing, speed checking passports and documents.  I, on the other hand, am gathering fruit, toiletries, slippers and half of the 6th birthday cake together to deliver to someone on the street, and we have yet to take early morning photos of the Gateway to India.  Gerald is not happy and says to me to go alone and he says "The plane won't wait, Sandra, not even for you!" So I go alone, the baking sun seeping sweat into my clothes in minutes, and outside the Gateway to India are many families and babies asleep on the floor, but just opposite are two men, one sleeping on rags, the other on the ground.  I crouch to my knees and position the two plastic bags of goods, and add a quick namaste over their sleeping forms.  Dear God, bless these people.  Two men walking past stop to stare.  I  make eye contact, clasp my hands and bow, they do too, with a nod of the head, it’s a silent thank you.   My heart cracks again.  People really do believe in karma here, and as has been explained to us several times, this is why there appears to be no resentment or any sense of entitlement, which to some degree explains this sense of peace in this place of chaos and confusion and poverty and dirt, and generosity and laughter.   This is my life now.  That is your life now.  But there is a next life.  And a next life.  My time will come.  I love it, and want to embrace it, but it is extraordinary to me, a child born in Africa, and so very unlike Africa.

 

Back at the hotel I insist Gerald comes to the Gateway for photos with me, it's our last day, and we are there at 7.30 am, before the crowds, the designated Pigeon Feeder (job, anyone?) is feeding the pigeons.  The pool in the Taj Palace has an acre of fine wires strung between the old wing and the new wing to keep the pigeons out, which it does very effectively, and a few early morning risers are posing for pictures.  There are a few women in very glamorous outfits, inappropriate for this hour of the morning, posing in unnatural positions, skirts swirling, faces in practised carefree abandon, being lifted to the sky in a moment of joyful pleasure by their handsome Beloved's, over and over and over till the picture is perfect. Fashion shoots.  Don't trust those pictures of models in famous places wandering along with their hair artfully tossed and the pigeons cooing.  It's all fake.  You can see how disillusioned I am with Bollywood due to the unfortunate incident that occurred, it's beginning to seep into my way of being in an insidious way, and I intend to rectify that.

 

Gerald is pacing outside in the corridor whilst I brush my teeth, apply lippy, do a final zen and a wee, and I close the door behind me.  But! I have left the dozen red roses behind.   refuse to 'waste' them, and have to find a faithful retainer to open the door and retrieve them, I shall find a lady to give them to, en route the airport.   We are in the foyer at 8.14 am for an 8.15 am pickup.  Gerald is still 'speeding'.  I am still  not sufficiently enlightened to allow this moment to pass, and cast a quick look at my Beloved and say "There was no need to panic, see?"   We leave this beautiful space, our last resting place in India, and for the first time it is without a fanfare and a fuss and people lined up to say goodbye, perhaps they think we are just off on a tour.  It seems appropriate, were it another way, I would be weeping. 

 

It's eerily quiet at 8.15 am on a Sunday morning, a few people jogging and walking dogs along the Marine Drive, we pass the Nanna and Nannie Park (the Grandad and Grandma Park) and Chowpati Beach, there is hardly any traffic, and we speed along. One way streets, as I think I may have mentioned, are of no real consequence here.  I got out the car the other day in a one way street to cross the road, the driver was holding the door open for me, and I was nearly ran over by a policeman on a motor bike, travelling on the wrong side of the road.  But none of that applies this morning, most of Mumbai is still asleep. 

 

The representative from Mysteries of India is another handsome young man, aged 25, as is the driver.  Both are not married, and both have their mothers breathing down their necks, collecting horoscopes from prospective brides and introducing suitable young women.  Young men here discuss these details with such a disarming honesty, you can tell its part of their lives to talk about these things we regard as 'intimate' so openly.  I love this.  I cannot imagine even having this conversation with my own son, he would roll his eyes, shut down, get pissed off, and vacate the space, although his body might still be in the room.  (Then I recall, I do have these conversations with other young people, just not Joshua.). The rep calls Gerald by his name with a hard "G" as in "Get Going" - "Mr. GGGGGGerald, can you fill in this feedback form?"  What, now?  Can't we do it at the airport, or at home? 

 

I see a scene which makes me weep.  A well dressed man with a handsome, well fed black and white spotted dog, is standing feeding three stray dogs on the pavement, from a newspaper package.  I wind down the window and gaze at him, such goodness.  I call out "Good man!" - he turns and smiles shyly.  I am amazed, his own doggie is sat watching, with a gentle tolerance of his owner bestowing food upon these unfortunate waifs.  And the three doggies, this is what gets me, are sitting there, so sweetly, so patiently, being hand fed by this beautiful soul, one at a time, each waiting their turn, without a shred of anger or territorial stuff.  Nobody snatches or pushes or snarls or tries to get the lions share.  My own Cino would be muscling in with her own well fed body for food, she is such a fang. He feeds first one, then the other, then the other, and each one waits, with a happy face, a panting pink tongue and a slow wag of the tail.  Another one of Life's Beautiful Lessons.  Patient India.

 

The car moves off, and shortly I see a lady and her husband at the lights, about to cross the road.  I tap the driver on the shoulder "Stop please!  Open the window!" - Gerald says, what what???  I call to the lady "Excuse me!" - she stops and frowns, what do you want?  And I offer the roses.  Her face instantly softens, but there is still a question.  For me?  She looks around, perhaps there has been a mistake?  I hold them out again, and she gives a little curtsy, and that charming Indian nod, her face uncertain, but a nano-second from a smile.  Her husband is beaming all over his chubby face.  The lights change, and I wave, she stares in disbelief.  Did this just happen?  Our man tells us "She is a Maharasha lady."  How do you know?  "Her tikka."   It seems fitting, one last grateful gesture, a kindness, in this wonderful country, India, who has given us so, so much in these last six weeks.   I am happy with this morning.

 

The airport is not busy, our guide organises a man to assist us through the check in, and immigration, all in less than half an hour.  A total contrast to the debacle which was our arrival here eleven days ago.  I never take for granted the privilege it is to sit in a business class lounge to await a flight, this has to be one of life's special moments, although there is a hundred or more young people from the airforce, all going on a jaunt somewhere.  The noise is similar to a crowd at an Australian rugby match echoing off the marble floors and high ceilings, the acoustics are pitch perfect in this stylish lounge.  The grog is flowing, they are in party mode at 10 am and I fervently hope they are not flying to Singapore with us.

 

They aren't.  Walking down the ramp to the plane I think it is unlikely that we will visit India again, that these may be my last steps in this country.   Farewell Mother India.  I am so grateful for the incredible, unforgettable time we have had here, how generous you have been with us, how much you have contributed to us.  Viv Craig, you created the perfect holiday for us, at just the right time, in just the right places.   Thank you so much. 

 

Settled in wide, comfortable seats, attended to by smiling Singapore Airlines staff, I eat fish soup and peanut sates, have two Singapore Slings, and  watch "Finding Dory" a film Joshua recommended.  He said he cried during it, and it is about family.  It's about a little fish with short term memory loss, who loses her family, and has a happy ending, when she discovers them again after a very long journey.  I cry during it too, and I have the thought that when we die, our son will have no family.  We have no contact with my sister nor her son who lives in the UK who is divorced and has no kids, nor my brother, who has no kids either.  Gerald's two sisters have five sons between them, and quite a few children, but our relationship with them is negligible.  Who will be there for our boy?   I hope he marries a woman with a large, loving and supportive family.  We have Our Tribe, those friends who are closest to us and share all of our live's celebrations and heartaches.  But Josh is not particularly close to them, which is a source of sadness for me.  I wish our son had the kind of relationship I had with my parents friends, whose company I enjoyed, many of whom I loved.  And my parents shared a relationship with many of our friends, and they loved every single one of them. I wish I knew more of Joshua's friends, but he seems to keep them separate.

 

I find out how to adjust my seat into a bed and  sleep for a couple of hours.

 

We are now at Singapore Airport, we have almost six hours here, and we spend it happily engaged, me in this blog and Gerald reading.  The lounge is almost full, but softly lit and quiet, there is an array of food and drinks, and the time flies.   Gerald buys some duty free and packs it into our roll on.  The flight leaves at 12.45 am, and we have wonderful, almost beds, very big seats.  I give up trying to work out the technology to watch a movie, I have already asked Gerald twice and he's pressed buttons and left me to it, somewhat peeved with my ignorance, so then I asked the flight attendant, who did the same thing, but still no luck, it keeps reverting to "Mothers and Daughters" which despite the stellar cast, is terrible, but my lack of skill prevents me from finding another one.  It's relentlessly bad, but I continue to watch until the last excruciating scene.  It takes quite a bit of sorting to get the whole bed thing to work, its dark and people are sleeping and Gerald is giving me one of his "Oh my God, she's at it again" looks, so I decline to ask him.   But I am short and I can stretch out, and rearrange two pillows, the quilt, my pashmina, and my neck rest into a comfy little nest.  Its only the next morning on arrival in Sydney that I notice that the big fat man opposite me has gotten the attendant to do the whole make up the bed thing by pressing buttons I do not even know exist, and now she is putting it all back whilst he stands and watches, scratching his bum.  Dam, I should have asked the attendant.  

 

The plane lands on time at precisely 11.25 am, and we are one of the first off and rocket through Sydney's busy airport, no need to stop at the duty free, Gerald does our express check in which is 'speed express', oh I get so nervous with those things.  The bags take a while and I feel a strand of anxiety, and I remember they got lost in Mumbai.  I dash to the loo, which is absolutely disgusting. Yes, at Sydney International Airport - and I have just come from India.   Someone has left a sanitary towel on the top of the sanitary disposal unit, and the toilet, I can hardly believe this, is ringed with brown stains at the water level, and all the way down the flush system.   How can a cleaner fail to see this?  How can the hygiene standards of this international airport permit this?  I stand and aim, not placing my bum on the seat, not wanting to connect in any way with this First World Toilet, and I wash my hands extra thoroughly, and use my hand sanitiser for good measure.  The bags are here! - yaaay! - and we sail through customs and out into the concourse.   The smell of cigarette smoke hits me immediately.  Eeeeewwww.   We've smelled a lot of smells in India, but smoke has not been one of them, people there hardly smoke at all.  Uber, now permitted at the airport, works a treat, and a nice Turkish man drives us to Lane Cove, playing good jazz on Pandora all the way;  we discuss how beautiful his home is and how much we enjoyed our stay there last year.  He is running his own floral business and is out at Flemington Markets very early in the mornings, and does Uber as a second job.  He needs two jobs, as his Mother expects him to go back to Turkey twice a year to visit her, and he does.  Good Son.

 

Our darling friends, Barbara and Les, are waiting at their front door for us.  Well, not waiting exactly, they are like lion tamers trying to maintain order in the circus.  They have three dogs barking and jumping, all in a state of great excitement.   Rosie the kelpie is being babysat for the day, Buffy the poodle/Bichon and one of Cino's best friends, is here for his regular daily visit, and Cino too, and she has been brushed to perfection for this reunion.  It's chaotic with trying to hold Rosie in as she is an escape artist and the driveway gate is open, Buffy is trying to scratch a hole in the screen door, and Cino doesn't know whom to run to first, Dad or Mom, Mom or Dad, Uncle Les? Aunty Barbara?  Buffy?  Rosie is dropping balls for a fetch game, Buffy feels a bit left out at all the attention Cino is getting, and the noise reaches a crescendo, but we are all finally indoors, nobody has escaped, Barbara is telling everybody to calm down, people included, things become a little quieter, and we are being licked all over our faces.  It is a good ten minutes before we can straighten our clothing, and hold out our arms to Les and Barbara for a hello hug, fortunately they don't mind a bit - or a lot - of dog saliva on our faces.

 

I know you know this, but its always nice to say again, to describe Our Friends, Our Tribe.  Our Friends/Tribe in life are those people who are there for you when the shit hits the fan, like when your parents die, or when you lose a beloved pet, when you are seriously ill, frightened or lonely, or have done something stupid or careless and they don't judge you or make you feel like a dickhead, they are there when you are in pain, emotional or physical.  Our Friends/Tribe  are those who pick up the slack for you when you cannot do it for yourself, and never let you know that is what they are actually doing.  Our Friends/Tribe  tell you when you are being a pain in the arse, or not living with integrity.  Our Friends/Tribe  are those people who rejoice in all your celebrations and successes and wins with genuine delight at how thrilling it is that this is happening to YOU.  We don't have to live close to Our Friends/Tribe, they can be in another city, another country or right next door, they are the people who when you see their name on the incoming phone call you are happy and your heart lifts. They are the people who look after your precious, somewhat eccentric little dog, and love her with all of their being, who generously share their bed and their home, their time and regularly rearrange their lives for her, who treat her with kindness and respect and intelligence for weeks on end, walk her every day, feed her dinner and breakfast and special treats, put ointment in her sore ear, pick up her poop, and then hand her back to her parents, and then insist the pleasure was all theirs - with her hair done, her nails clipped, her ears sorted, her bedding washed, her toys packed, and her dinner prepared for the next few days, and then smile and wave goodbye as we drive away.  I know they go back into their kitchen and have a little weep together for the loss of their companion, their little "Shadow", that somewhat eccentric little dog who they love with all of their generous hearts.

 

These are some of Our Friends.  These are some of the members of Our Tribe.  And we are so grateful.  Thank you so much Barbara and Les;  Cino is so lucky for your love and so are we;  we feel very grateful to share this life with you.

 

Cino sleeps all the way home, as we round the Kiama Bends and see that strip of beautiful beach and at low tide, the waves are just curling gently in from a long way off.   This is our territory, its green and sleepy and peaceful.  Cino awakes at the IGA in Gerringong, she keeps vigil on the front seat, waiting for my return, and has a false alarm when a woman with blonde hair and Barbara's build exits the shop.  But no, its not Aunty Barbara.  I run in for bread and milk, a cooked chook for dinner, some fruit and veggies.  We are in our driveway at 5 pm.

 

In Africa, when we returned from anywhere, even an overnight stay, we were always heavy with dread at what we would find on our return home;  the house had often been broken into, the second car may have had its tyres or its battery stolen, a dog may have been poisoned, sometimes even the fencing had been rolled up and the tap heads pinched.   We remember this every time we walk into our home, no matter where we have lived in Australia.   The blessing of feeling safe and secure is never lost on us.  Sure we have had an alarm on, but beyond that, we never give it another thought.  The grass is cut, good on you Carol.  Howard and Adrienne, our neighbours have collected our mail, there are cobwebs on the verandah and a lot of dust, a parcel was delivered six weeks ago, and it has sat here all this time, untouched.  Never in Africa, land of our birth.  

 

I always greet our home after a long journey in the same way I always say goodbye when we leave, I always thank her for protecting us.  I feel our home is a female, a mother, and I feel her welcome us.   Everything is just as we left it, thank you.   We open the blinds in the living room and there is a stormy sky over the Shoalhaven River, our jetty on which sit two big pelicans (my parents) keeping watch.  Ten minutes later, Cino and I are on the beach where she races after her ball and digs holes in the sand.  Heeeeey!  We're at the beach, Mom!

 

I laugh at her antics and breathe in the clean, salt air.  I give thanks.   Gerald and I really had no idea what was ahead of us when we left on this epic adventure, although we did a lot of research and read our itinerary and pored over maps endlessly.  We could not do this in another ten years;  we are closer to seventy than sixty, and we are tired, its been physically demanding and often confronting, we've met the most beautiful souls, seen things that took our breath away, things we had not heard of, things we could not even have imagined, we've laughed and cried and wondered.   We've been together twenty four hours a day for six whole weeks, and love each other even more deeply in the sharing of this.  It has only been in the in the doing of it, that every single page of that thick itinerary has come to life, in vibrant colours.  What a journey this has been.  

 

Thank you Viv Craig, thank you Mysteries of India, and every one of you who contributed in so many beautiful ways to give us this experience.  As I write this, I see a slow visual in my head of so many of the people we have met, your smiling faces.   You gave us Mother India, in our hearts and in our souls. She will hold that special place, just Hers,  forever.

 

Thank you God and the Universe, Mom and Dad, for taking us there, and then bringing us home safely from this long and wondrous journey. 

 

And thank you my Beloved Gerald, Love of my Life.  

 

"Who would have thought?  Us two kids from Chingola?"

 

 

SANDRA GROOM

Final Edit, 1st August 2026.

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