Day 18 to 25: Goa, Mumbai, Varanasi and anal violation

My temperature’s soaring. Sweat is pouring from almost every orifice. My sleeping bag is saturated, my pillow a wet sponge. I’m falling in and out of a delirious sleep, my dreams unconnected and abstract except the constant, sadistic echo of ‘Malaria’ throughout. My fever’s clinging to me like molten metal. But yet I’m shivering, I’ve never felt so cold – my fleece lining and sleeping bag, equipped to stand minus 10 degree nights up in the Himalayas is doing nothing to bring me the warmth I desperately need…

Things are looking bad.

And home has never felt so far away.

We had arrived in Anjuna on the Saturday. And I vowed to take it all back.

Looking back, Palolem beach is an untouched, virginal tropical paradise compared to the seasoned prostitute of Anjuna Beach.

After our 4 days in South Goa, we headed north – Mai, Aliss (I know I’ve spelt your name wrong but consistency is key), Caroline and myself. Crammed into a taxi we bumped and throttled for over 2 hours to our new destination  – one of the old flagship hippy hang outs before savvinness and dubious exploitation took its grip. Its essentially what Palolem would be like – now observed in retrospect – if there wasn’t so much of a reasoned mentality to keep it chilled, harmonious, safe and amenable; everything a middle class 30 something like me appreciates.

To be fair, we went north in search of Goa trance raves and its associated debauched affiliates, so we had no excuse to be critical of what we found. From the second we arrived there was a seediness that told us we’d found what we were looking for.

Grouping resources we found cheap accommodation (looking back at the prices I was paying elsewhere to what I got, I’ve learnt a valuable lesson in cheap is just as cheerful), and headed straight to the beach. Our first stop was the patch of sand in front of Shore Bar, where the clientele openly smoke Charrus on beds and cushions while listening to trance and beats. To get there we crossed a half mile of beach littered with dead fish, overflow pipes, cow and dog turds, and the usual ensemble of girls attempting to sell us jewellery and knick-knacks.

Just like in Palolem, these girls would ridiculously give themselves English pseudonyms like ‘Julie, Tiffany, Sara’ in vain attempts to make themselves more appealing. What was more disturbing in Anjuna however was the way they had awfully rehearsed posh British accents, as if they were products of St Trinians left to fend for themselves on Goan beaches.

Lovely Kerry who was there in Mumbai with me, joined us late on, and on our way to dinner we bumped into Irish Drummer Barry. And so it was the 6 of us who went in search of our long awaited rave at Curlies – Anjuna’s legendary Beach bar where ‘every night is a party’. As long as, it seemed from what Barry told us, your idea of a party is a handful people swaying drunkenly in a living room to A-ha, while even fewer stay in the kitchen drunkenly defending the virtues of the latest X Factor reject.

We needn’t have worried. It was Saturday night. And even that holds some kudos in day-less Goa.

Curlies was rammed, and true to form blasting out Goa Trance, across a UV lit dancefloor, illuminating psychedelic drapes and imagery. It was Uni days all over again. Except with less Indians. Made me realise that Goa to young affluent natives is what Newquay is to English school leavers.

It was a wicked night, with the rum and coke along with shots of feny (a retch inducing Goan liquor made from Coconut) flowing like the water we should have been downing instead.

We stumbled back – me and Caroline especially pleased with our successful trance mission – to sleep and wake up fighting fit for another day.

‘Cept that I didn’t. Something was creeping over me on that Sunday morning. Initially I thought it was just lack of sleep, or lack of food – but as the sun shone, and bore down on us in our usual spot outside Shore Bar, it dawned on me it could be something a lot worse. After heading back to grab showers and head for dinner, I started to feel really weak and feverish – I’ll fight through it though. Surely?

I let everyone go to dinner early while I slept and did some work, but couldn’t shake off what I was feeling. Mai had even uttered the words ‘Malaria’ which didn’t help my already fragile constitution. Managing to get some food down me an hour later, I headed straight back to bed, with the full intention of a world record sleep and some internal fixing.

Also, the prospect of an overnight sleeper train to Mumbai the next night was laying on me like a burden of Bella Emberg proportions on my shoulders.

Then came the sleep from hell. Next morning bought nothing but panic, and though I felt I appeared calm on the outside, I was fearing the worse.

And this where that instant bond of your new travelling companions really goes to work. Caroline went off to get the doctor, Mai stayed by bedside. I was still in and out of sleep, struggling to concentrate, move let alone go to the toilet – which was often I may add – but everything I needed (except my mom) was being  catered for by these wonderful friends who I’d only just met mere days before.

When the doctor finally came, with his big friendly face and trusting eyes – I was still a little delirious but I could have hugged him – he calmed me down, went through the symptons, took in everything and in a measured, professional manner, went about trying to cure me.

So he stuck a big fat needle in my arse.

‘You’ve got a bacterial infection. Its very common to foreigners in Goa. You may have eaten, consumed something [fucking feny], drank sea water – can happen in many ways. But with this magic injection you’ll be fine in 6 hours.’

Crack on. (No pun intended)

He also armed me with anti-biotics, told me what I could and couldn’t eat for 3 days and left me to rest.

And in 10 hours I was well enough to travel overnight to Mumbai. I know he was only doing his job, and it cost me £30, but that man is my hero. And as we pulled away from Margao for the 12 hour trip up north, my relief and gratitude to him – and the friends I left behind – was tangible.

Thank you all x

And so back to Mumbai.

Its incredible how a place can so quickly come to feel like home. I knew I had to make my way to Varanasi on another marathon trip soon, but my second 2 days in Mumbai was a happy re-acquaintance that made me fall in love with the city more.

I strolled, I ate incredible street food, I watched games of cricket in the Oval Maiden, I watched a dire but fun Bollywood move. I reveled in Bombay’s hospitality.

It also made me think back to the terrorist shootings 2 years previously. Its weird when you hear of terrorist incidents in other countries how you distance yourself from them, because of the alien geography and culture they attack.

But now knowing Leopolds, the stunning Taj Palace Hotel and the streets of Colaba – walking between and betwixt with the strutting confidence of an established resident, you picture the carnage of gunmen running round, firing indiscriminately affecting the places you’ve grown to love, the fear of those avoiding the bullets, the bloody, tragic scenes they produced…

…it may be 2 years, but the wounds of Mumbai now to me seem as deep as those of London and New York.

It hits you, as Muslims, Hindu, Sikh speaking Urdu, Hindi, Marathi all around you that terrorism is far more global than the arrogant and ‘persecuted’ West like to think.

But I say goodbye to Mumbai – one of my favourite cities.

A 28 hour train journey awaited to Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in India’s pretty extensive portfolio of holy cities. And with it another landmark moment in my Indian travelling evolution. I suffered during my first 8 hour trip on track, I’ve even upgraded and taken the more lucrative AC class for other journeys – but 3 weeks in and this mammoth train journey, in standard sleeper class was nothing more than a memorable, sociable and more importantly comfortable day in my itinerary.

And so I finish this chapter, looking over the Ganges in Varanasi...

...at a place where religious Hindus (though not exclusively) burn their loved ones on funeral pyres, with these thoughts of my mini-sickness, the Mumbai memories and its tragic recent past, and India’s fascination with death and I feel one thing very clearly…

I’ve never felt so alive

Day 13 to 17: Goa, Cocktails and Dreams

So whats it like then?

Goa? Sea, surf, sand, beach front bars, fresh grilled fish, beautiful women, lazy days, rain, tanned men with bulging six packs…

Woah. Hang on, what’s last thing you said?

What? Tanned men with bulging-

Nonono, before that

Beautiful women, lazy days, rain-

RAIN??!!

Yeah, rain.

Bugger

I arrived at Margao station – the central serving point for the rest of Goa – on the morning of day 14, after milling around Mumbai the previous day waiting for the overnight sleeper south.

After posting my last blog at a nearby Internet café to my hotel, I had strolled the Bombay streets only to be confronted by a huge swathe of TV News vans on the streets, as more developments arise from the aftermath of the Mumbai terrorist attack.

We were 2 minutes walk away from the hotel that played such a dramatic role during those 3 days – the Taj Hotel. Its a place I passed a couple of times, a stones throw from my hotel.  Strangely it made me realise how much of what people know of Mumbai (other than the slums) rests within the relatively small areas of Fort and Coloba – the gateway to the rest of the world, where nations across the world have docked and left their mark.

The overnight sleeper left Chatraphati Shivaji Rail Terminus just after ten, a mighty Victorian giant of station, filled with people, who surprisingly, considering the international feel of Mumbai, still finds a little Brummie boy fascinating ogling material.

And onto Goa. The place where dreams are realized, and broken in equal measure.

From Margao I employed my now increasingly successful tactic of chipping up to a fellow foreigner to share a taxi – in this case the victim was Mai, a Dutch art student, who having no idea which beach she wanted to go to, was more than happy to accompany me to Palolem. To team up with Mai was to be the first of many great decisions.

Palolem – South Goa’s very-much-discovered ‘hidden gem’ – is a lovely place. Its clichéd beauty as satisfying as it is spiritually damaged – a warm sea laps a thick golden sand of stray dogs, cows, tourists and hawkers as a line of huge palm trees hide restaurants offering English Breakfasts, and cheap booze.

With 3 or 4 weeks before the season properly starts its very much a work in progress, preparing itself for an onslaught of Glastonbury proportions, with hundreds of temporary beach huts being built to accommodate the hordes…

…only to be taken down post season while the monsoon clears away its debris, but not its conscience.

But we’re not in season. And its peaceful. There’s a laziness in the air as if every sinew of Goa is chilling out and relaxing before the carnage it expects. And that suits me fine.

Yes there are westerners, yes there are drunken ozzie girls stumbling to the sand to puke, yes there’s harassment from those with something to sell…

…but just periphery enough to ignore.

Me and Mai found a lovely little cabin right on the beach, the back of Connie’s – a washer womans – house, for just 200 rupees a night – less than 3 quid. Through the gap in the palm trees the waves of the Arabian Sea serenades its neighbours, with the beach a mere hop skip and a jump.

You can see why Palolem was such a draw on the Goan landscape. Many of the states beaches are littered with high rise tourist hotels, sun loungers and Western sheen, so Palolems rawness was always going to attract the more spiritual traveler. But where people go, others follow. It may not be bosom buddies with North Goa’s more tainted resorts, but the wounds of this picture postcard paradise are getting bigger.

We met with Caroline – the Cricket loving Wolves fan from Delhi – and her Goa friend Aliss. We were all single travelers, so finding yourself in a group dynamic that immediately gels and sticks together is a wonderful respite to the loneliness of travel.

Since that Tuesday night, we’ve operated as a unit, and we all head to North Goa together for fun, frolics… and hopefully no more rain

Its not that its been constant. Wednesday and Thursday gave us incredible weather, and provided a stunning backdrop for me and Mai’s journey into the Goan countryside on scooters, unearthing hidden waterfalls and isolated beaches.

But its never been too far away, and as I write this on Friday, since I returned from swimming with dolphins before breakfast this morning (excuse me while I just slip that in) it has been incessant all day. Big booms of thunder flank pounding rain as Mother Nature flushes the last of the monsoon out of her cistern.

There’s plenty of shelter though, none more accommodating than Cocktails & Dreams, the 24 hour bar restaurant that dominates the Palolem social scene. Perched on the edge of the sprawling beach, looking out over the ocean, the fishing boats, rose tinted tourists, full sari’d Goan ladies selling jewellery, it’s been a late, LATE night sanctuary on a couple of occasions – its cheap booze drawing out umpteen ‘Just One mores’, leaving the worse for wear (me included) to stumble back in pitch black staring up at the stars, hoping the hangover fairy will be lenient in the morning.

Its wide open plan seating area hosts traveler after traveler. A cocktail of Europeans, Ozzies, Israelis – all with their own story to tell. And its amazing how many people share similar circumstances to me, their call to action mirroring mine. Weirdly I’m not sure if I find solace in that, or now see myself as a walking cliché (it makes me cringe when people say that they’re off ‘to find myself’. Fuck off! You’re right in front of me)

Over the varied drinks menu, there are stories of Indian escapades and adventures, the heady mix of the country’s personalities satisfying the most demanding of thirsts, where between the jokes and stories, people take their dream of travel very seriously.

People blend, make friends and travelling buddies, hatch plans with strangers to move on to squeeze more rich flavours out of this country – and I’ll be one of them. I’ll have enjoyed my beach stay when I head back to Mumbai on Monday night, but I need to move on eventually. Reacquaint myself with the vibrant pungent taste of the north and Varanasi, to wash down the western aftertaste of Goa.

Cocktails and dreams anyone?

Day 8 to 12: Udaipur, Mumbai and bottling it

I’ve broken

I’ve caved

I’ve capitulated

(I’ve the exhausted my Thesaurus)

After swearing to myself that under no circumstances would I set foot there –  a potent threat to my momentum, the Hotel California of my adventure – its name has followed me like an Indian hawker throughout my travels, wafting its alluring scent time and time again, via story and anecdote, via invitation and recommendation, beckoning me into its sunkissed, blue water arms.

Goa

And I’ve bottled it. On Monday night I take the 10 hour sleeper from Mumbai to spend 5 days of beach in this broken paradise.

I know, it’s not the real India…

…but then how much of the real India can you see?

On Day 8, I caught the overnight from Agra to Udaipur – India’s lake city, propping up the mighty state of Rajasthan. Called the Venice of India, its grand lake flanked by houses and hotel holds more of a torch to Lake Como than anything else. It has floating palaces – featured in Bonds last official Fleming adventure, Octopussy – that lend a bizarre, but magical edge to its vista.

Its narrow sloping streets, doesn’t just cultivate traffic chaos, they also house gallery after gallery, artisan after artisan, showcasing the best of India’s art from modern, abstract takes on Krishna, to traditional colourful puppets a la Indian Punch and Judy

Blighted by homesickness on my arrival (overnight sleepers don’t do much for the soul), I went on to spend 2 happy days in Udaipur, leaving charged and invigorated to take on Mumbai.

But before I left, I managed to escape into the surrounding countryside on horseback. Led by a guide I cantered, trotted and galloped into isolation, only finding civilisation in a remote farming village.

The village’s children burst out of their houses in greeting us, running beside the horse, shouting excitedly ‘Namaste, Namaste’ (and getting the suitably inferior pronounced reply from me). This poor but welcoming place was surely the slice of real Indian life every traveler wants to see, peeling back the veneered surface of the omnipresent and  rather limited Incredible India marketing campaign, an insight into how the other half live…

…until my guide paid a handsome fee to their village leader. Had I been an unsuspecting player in a tightly choreographed performance? Were the village children trained in expressions of unhinged joy at the sight of the white man?

Maybe. But as the sun set, and tying our horse up behind Lotus Lake, in the middle of rolling countryside, as local kids jumped in and splashed around in the cool inviting water (not often ground water isn’t infested with rubbish), I’d much rather leave the cynic in Agra

‘It is very hard to see the real India you see,’ said Saurabh, a civil servant heading south for work. I had met him on my flight from Udaipur to Mumbai. I had cheated, I know – but just this once I had sought sky rather than track to get south to compensate for my delay in Delhi.

‘The government want you to see the good bits, but they hide everything that is wrong with this country.’

But surely things are improving? India’s the second fastest grow-

‘NO!’ He was a passionate man, ‘The money is going nowhere needed. Too much corruption. And even if you wanted to help, too much red tape, too much bureaucracy . You would give up. Look at Britain – you only have 2 parties going for government’ (felt it unwise to interrupt), ‘that is good, that is simple. In India, we have so many parties, too many voices – in the last election, there was one coalition made up of 24 separate parties!’

Two dozen Cleggs and Camerons? That’s a scary prospect of smugness.

Saurabh maybe right, but he was also quite negative – a charge he leveled on himself. ‘I know I am very damning, but I still hope things will change, but slowly.’ He was an everyday, middle class Indian, wonderfully caring, extremely passionate, angry of what he saw in his own country, but fiercely proud of where he was from.

Maybe in him, just maybe, I had found the a slice of the real India I had been looking for.

So then onto Bombay – the melting pot of Mumbai

The entrepreneurs playground.

Without sounding like a adverts for Sharwoods, this really was a city that is defined by ‘East meets West’. With wide ‘ramblas’, grand Victorian architecture, modern bars and exclusive clubs, bustling street stalls selling vibrators, porn cards, and knock off DVD’s…

…the south of Mumbai is more Barcelona than Delhi.

Arriving mid-afternoon, I shared a taxi from the airport with Kerry and Libby from Glasgow. Its amazing how when you meet people on your travels, how quickly they become part of your adventure…

…and this initially unassuming pair were to play a big part in mine.

We met later for food, and being guided my our Lonely Planets proceeded to sit down in some of Mumbai’s most famed and recommended eating establishments. I say sit down, cos as soon as we saw the prices, we got up and walked out.

Then we bumped into Leopold.

This open plan café/bar in Mumbai’s teeming Colaba district, is world famous. Packed with Indians and Tourists alike, serving huge beer towers and simple, unfussy Indian dishes, it has a look, feel and welcome you would imagine to find in the heart of New Orleans. We drank, we laughed, we chatted…

…and when we thought time to go, we discovered it had an upstairs pub/club. And bugger me, if it isn’t Villa Chelsea on the telly!

Things are really looking up.

And as we continued our night we were truly blessed with the character s we were to meet there – the crazy dancing German Fritz, his sister Julia, Mongolian/Turkish Suha and mighty, mighty Zambia

They say one of the must do’s in Mumbai is dive headfirst into its nightlife – like nowhere else in India. I can safely say we ticked that box. 

When Leopolds called time at 1am, we were pointed to one of Mumbai’s most exclusive night spots Polly Esthers. After convincing the doorman to let me in wearing sandals, and after Fritz unbelievably paid all our extortionate entry fees, (‘I make a lot of money at home. Seriously a LOT of money’), we finished the night dancing among the young Indian wannabes and socialites, like friends who had known each other for years.

It was one of those truly random nights that you never forget – one that gathers it own momentum that you never want to control, allowing you to just glide through the night, absorbing the people and stories that lie in its wake.

Brilliant.

And as if to endorse the night, the next morning was met without an echo of a hangover.

So clear headed, myself, Libby and Kerry ticked a few more boxes on ‘The Mumbai Hitlist’ – visiting the Gateway to India, Elephanta Island and sampling the evening food stalls on Chowpatty beach, where we tucked into Bhatpuri, Pan Puri, Pulav, and Kulfi.

Udaipur to Mumbai – vastly different cities, vastly different experiences. And neither apparently the real India.

But as my 10 hour train trip awaits, again heading south, you realize just how big this country is. How can you put a finger on what is the real India when you’re faced with size on this scale?

Whether dancing with cosmopolitan kids from Mumbai, sipping whiskey with restaurant owners from Udaipur, listening to impassioned patriotic critiques from Civil servants to sharing stories over Chai with Sikh families on the train…

…perhaps the real India isn’t definable by one single thing, but in the sheer variety of its people and personalities, its sights, sounds and smells.

From the sacred Sikhism of the north, the powerhouse of Delhi, the mighty monuments of Utter Pradesh and Rajasthan, the metropolis of Mumbai…

…the differences are stark.

But underlined by one obvious, but telling fact.

Its ALL India. And its all very, very real.

Day 4 to 7: Delhi, Agra and Bad Romantics

Shah Jahan has a lot to answer for

In building one of India’s – and the world’s – landmarks monuments as a token of love to his dead wife, he has created a monster.

On the banks of the Yamuna river, the Taj Mahal, is something to behold. Created out of marble from all corners of the planet, this is an opulent, indulgent, stunning work of construction.

It is also a magnet for the hawker, the tout, the peddlar, the hassler, the hustler, the beggar – all those that dog your every footstep before you have set eyes on it

Perhaps it’s the cynic in me, the symptons of travelling alone across the hectic plains of India, or just plain old intolerance…

…but the Taj’s majestic beauty seems somewhat tarnished by the sprawl that rests directly in its wake.

However this shouldn’t dispel from the fact that this enormous eulogy to love lost – with its sheer size, its decadence, its beauty – is something India and ol’ Shah himself should be proud of.

Even if he did get thrown in the slammer to die by his son. Its amazing the lengths people go to to avoid putting their parents up.

This is Day 7 – and its been a week since I departed.

I write on the top of Hotel Kamal, overlooking said monument, in the heart of the Taj Ganj in Agra, negotiating power cuts, ghekkos and persistent flying nuisances.

On my return from Amritsar on Saturday night, I stayed in Delhi and caught the Hockey and Rugby sevens at the Commonwealth games. I made friends, a couple of enemies (will explain) and already a suitcase full of memories to send back.

Several people warned me about Delhi, but leaving the city I realised I’d made a good home there. True, the government have done a massive clean up job, and I’ve avoided the muddy carnage of monsoon season, but its still far from perfect. However Delhi’s randomness, its personality, its whirlwind of colour and smells (which aren’t all pleasant) consistently charmed me.

My only issue was that it kept me there for so long. But that’s the fault of the Commonwealth Games.

Which isn’t the only thing its at fault for.

The stadiums are half full, but try and get a ticket to some events, and all you get is a ‘Sold Out’ followed by a sympathetic side to side roll of the head.

‘But there’s loads of empty-‘

‘Sold Out’

‘Surely you can’t be –‘

‘Sorry sir - sold out’

The Rugby Sevens are a classic example. Following a heated exchange with the tickets office (I tried to pull ‘the lost ticket’ ruse – failed) me and a French Canadian girl called Caroline had to stand outside the stadium holding a sign saying ‘tickets wanted’.

Luckily one kindly soul (or money making tout – whichever floats your boat in 32 degree heat) offered to sell us his spare tickets to go in. Still only paid 300 rupees (about £5). But on entering we had a huge pick of empty seating to choose from – and eventually joined a few new and old faces a whole stand away from our designated places.

There’s more. The neurotic security also prevented you from taking any water inside the stadium – even though the outdoor events are without shade, leaving you to suffer the consequences of the heat and an uncompromising sun beating through a cloudless sky.

For the Rugby there was a group of about 7of us cheering on England, Wales, Canada and New Zealand and we made several attempts to sneak water to our seats. However many of those were scuppered by the snitching stewards who bought forward tyrannical police to take away any hope of rehydration. One of these stewards in particular caught the brunt of our anger. There’ll be a fair few Indian spectators that day who’ll know how to enunciate ‘You sneaky little shit!’ in a brummie accent should the opportunity arise.

Ironically if beer had been available I think the atmosphere would have been a lot more subdued.

Anyway our group consolidated, and as the evening drew shade, cooler temperatures and the classic England vs Australia contest I was able to savour what a wonderful day it had been.

We even met the Indian Rugby team, joining us in the stands after their several tonkings (including Rohan!, Rohan! – their revered no 7), a Bollywood star and director…

… and one even got to shout abuse at the Aussies (‘Oi, I can hear a Dingo eating your Baby!’)

The boys and girls that made up the rest of our seven – Chris (Taff), Nick, Laura and Vicky (Kiwis), Caroline (Canadian) and Dash (a not so sauntering Brit apparently – did a half marathon in 1hr 18 – you have competition Si) – puts me in a great frame of mind for the rest of my travels. If I can meet and enjoy time with a group of people this warm after mere milliseconds of contact, then I’m sure I’m going to be just fine. Thanks guys – hope you enjoy the blog x

Oh yeah and to those wondering (ie Stoo), Delhi Belly’s hit – not with a vengeance (I knew all that undercooked chicken I made at Uni would pay off), but enough for me to scope out loo escapes at every juncture. The culprit was a late Sunday night Veg Chow Mein, wolfed down hungrily after a few beers with a female Cricket-loving, Wolves fan of all people. Great company, lousy food.

So after staying far too long, but not regretting a thing, I finally make my way south. Agra now, overnight to Udaipur – the lake city –  tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll find a place that I can actually relax and stroll through the streets at leisure, where I can put my feet up and taste that timelessness that extended travelling offers…

…that is until Mumbai rears it ugly, beautiful head.

I cannot stress how absolutely fascinating India is, how it polarises life at every turn.

From the way that men show such natural, genuine affection to each other, holding hands, lying on each other - comfortable with their displays…

…to the tangible awkwardness they have with their wives invading their private space

From massive, majestic monuments…

…standing a gnats breadth from squalid inner city street life, open sewers, floating turds, stray, diseased dogs and street smart monkeys.

And then there’s rail system. A mighty machine of track and train, a jewel in India’s crown. But in this country its not just from getting from A to B.

Each station hosting whole communities of people – of homeless – who sleep and live on the platforms,  as the seemingly oblivious working Indian commuter blindly steps over them (or on them in some cases) as they negotiate their way across the platform. And though they share the same air, never the twain shall meet.

It’s hard going.

Especially when you leave newly made friends behind and venture solo. Especially when you leave one busy, smelly town…

…to be faced with another busy, smelly town.

But India’s beguiling charm never lets you down. So far anyway.

As the going gets tough, the tough just have to get tougher.

And pack plenty of bog roll.

Day 2 & 3: Delhi, Amritsar and the Art of Silly Walks

Bollocks

6.10am

Goddamn. Bastard. Phone. Alarm. Cheap Pile of-

It’s the morning of Day 3. I’ve got half an hour. 30 minutes to cross Parhaganj to catch the 6.40am train to Amritsar. Its going to be close.

Very close…

Day 2 started conveniently enough. After a much needed sleep, it was onto some basic housekeeping. Indian Sim Card – check. Indian Internet Dongle – check.

Thought long and hard about it and decided that before Agra and the Taj Mahal I would go up north to see the Golden Temple of Amritsar (Sikhism’s Mecca and the resting place of its Holy Book), and the border ceremony at Wagah.

So… ticket to Amritsar – check. This travelling lark’s a doddle.

This would mean a return to Delhi on the weekend, and the Rugby Sevens on Monday – for which I left the purchase of my ticket in the hands of reliable, sauntering Dash.

So efficient was I that I veritably breezed over to the national stadium (albeit with a lot of pushing and shoving on the Metro) to catch fellow brummie Mark Lewis Francis claim silver in the Athletics – well done my boy. Met a guy called Chris, who regaled me with stories about being in South Africa for the World Cup, Portugal for Euro 2004,  Australia for the whitewash Ashes…

…so I told him about the time when me Tom and Si got beaten up by Blues fans before a game against Ipswich. May have been best to keep my mouth shut.

So, a bite to eat methought, where I risked meat for the first time. Take note: what we regard as a ‘cutlet’ is not what India regards it as, unless pummelling meat into a patty, deep frying it till cardboard would melt in the mouth quicker is your idea of a cutlet. Think I dodged a bullet there.

And so to beddy bumbles, and the promise of another day….

Day 3

Bollocks

6.10

Goddamn. Basta- well lets skip to the end.

I made it. Just. After legging it with my 20 kilo rucksack for 15minutes. And onto my first Indian train journey.

It was an experience that seemed to epitomize what India’s like in my short time getting to know her.

After crossing 14 heaving platforms to get to mine, I was faced with a train as long as the M6.

Slight exaggeration. The M54 then.

Looking at my ticket it read ‘Coach D3’. I looked on the coaches for some direction.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I got on and decided to just plonk myself wherever. After all, that’s what everyone else was going to do. Right?

I barged my way from packed coach to packed coach, squeezing my huge rucksack through unmoving crowds of ambivalent watchers, dripping with sweat and mouth parched (pharoah’s sock an all that), and found the first spare seat I could find.

It was only then the true consequences of my late wake up call dawned on me. I was about to embark on an 8 hour journey through the Punjabi heat with no water, no food, and the same clothes I wore the day before (needless to say I hadn’t even showered).

That’s when my berth partner (that’s berth with an E), came to my rescue. Davindra and his family were travelling north to Patiala, and starting chatting to me, where I felt it necessary to explain away my frayed appearance. Taking pity on me, he bought Chai tea from the vendors (I wasn’t being tight but having only 500 rupee notes to pay is like calling the vendors mother a lady of the night), and fed me noodles from his families packed lunch.

It was an incredibly generous and heartwarming gesture. He even dealt with the arsey Conductor (apparently you don’t just plonk yourself anywhere – at least not from Delhi).

Amid the chaos that is the Indian transport system, I was made to suddenly feel and home, comfortable and safe. As I said a little like India – crazy, disorganized… warm and unashamedly friendly

The train chugged its way north, a characterless, barren landscape offering no respite, with platforms of local towns emerging from rivers of litter and sewage. We were visited by blind singers, limbless children, dancing girls and clapping eunuchs with aim to separate us from our rattling rupees. All it needed was Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan and we'd have had TV gold.

At half 2, we rocked up to Amritsar. I had said goodbye to Davindra and family – and a couple of other friends I’d made (I have a list of Bollywood films I need to watch, and homes to stay in on my travels – not a bad return) and ventured into the cauldron that is Amrtisar.

It was carnage – it made Delhi look like Dibley. I convinced a rickshaw driver to take me to the Lucky Hotel for 30 rupees. Thing is his rickshaw wasn’t motorized. It was pedal power.

And pedaling my fat ass, my 20 kilo rucksack and guitar up a hill quickly became a problem. So I did what any demanding customer would do in that situation… I got out and pushed. That was money well spent.

Arrived at Hotel and went straight out to buy the water reserves of the Punjab to calm my dry throat, where I bumped straight into a guy offering a shared taxi service to the border ceremony at Wagah. Perfect timing.

‘How long have I got?’ (needed shower and food remember)

‘Half an hour.’

What is about today and bloody half an hour!!!!!

Soon enough me – and 8 others – were crammed into a taxi (don’t ask) and headed to Wagah – the border between India and Pakistan, 30km away from Amritsar.

Wagah is only official border between the 2 countries, and seemingly the only place where relations are actually cordial. In fact, they’re rather celebratory. At sunrise, with the raising of the flags, and at sunset when they come down, both sides of the border perform an elaborate, silly but incredibly charming ceremony. Goosestepping towards each other a la John Cleese Silly Walk (how they don’t regularly suffer pulled muscles is anyone’s guess) they face off against each other before opening the gates and shaking hands.

This is all done to the backdrop of thousands of Indians and Pakistani’s on their respective sides – many who have travelled hundreds of miles – shouting, singing and dancing, trying to out-celebrate their opposing country.

Imagine the dance off in Grease.

It was remarkable – and one of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen, and all set against a cloudless sunset.

Smiling to myself after what I’d witnessed, we all headed back amidst the throng of traffic. It reminded me of Glastonbury – people still celebrating in their cars, music blaring out…

…actually scrap that. These people didn’t look beaten and weren’t crying for their mummies – nothing like closing time at Glastonbury then.

Getting back to Amritsar, I ended the evening walking round the stunning Golden Temple, wearing my little turban (its in the rules). A gold plated temple, lit up at night and floating on water – it’s as good as it sounds.

And after another Veg Thali (me and meat need to have words), bed.

Thing is, I’ve sussed out the formula to this country I think. Oh, and there is one.

Basically India takes you to the end of your tether with its shambolic infrastructure, tolerance of absolute, unhinged chaos… only to take your breath away in a second.

Patience really is a virtue.

Now it’s about putting this formula to the test.

Game on.