The Trek
Day 1: The jeeps arrived early on Friday morning to take us from the Zarim Hotel to the starting point of our trek, Jagatsukh. I liked the jeeps. They reminded me of one of the missions on the play station war game Call of Duty, expecting at some point we'd be ambushed or taken down by some missile loaded helicopter. That would’ve been a twist of events for the trip.
In effect, what lay before our eyes when we arrived was a huge valley which leads all the way up to Mount Deo Tibba base camp at 4800 metres. As I gazed up at the row upon row of pine trees and gushing waterfalls, with many of the higher ones jutting out above the clouds, I already started feeling daunted by the prospect of three days of walking up, and then another couple walking down again before we’d even started.
But as we placed our main rucksacks on the small pack of donkeys that were going up with us, I began to feel they had the more strenuous deal
. Yet is that really a way to feel better about yourself? By looking at how much better off you are than other people? I’m certain that’s why nearly everyone watches the news. To feel a sense of comfort sat in their living rooms with a cup of coffee, safe in the knowledge that they’re nowhere near the latest earthquake, draught or terrorist attack. After all, these donkeys did have to trudge up and down again with luggage every single time a group of enthusiastic hikers felt like conquering a personal goal in life. Like the donkeys, the cooks and guides seemed use to it; as we started puffing and panting to make our way up on the first long winding road in our expensive boots and hiking gear, Pintu would breeze past in his sandals as though popping out to the newsagents.
We came on and off the road leading upwards by ascending long stretches of woodland, where we allowed to take a lot more rests than I’d anticipated. (Not that I was complaining.) By the time late afternoon came, however, we encountered a fairly dodgy-looking wooden bridge crossing the threatening white water of the river below. Beyond this lay a clearing in the woodland- Our first camp for the night. 'A clearing’ of sorts, that is, for when we crossed the raging river we had to use our walking poles to hack down a forest of plants. It was as though we were forcing our way through an uncharted jungle, with the exception that most of the walking poles snapped with the pressure of people whacking them too hard.
Finally, once we’d set up our tents, dug our very own man-made bog (a hole in the ground) and settled down in our new natural environment, we were shaken out of our skin by the sound of an ear-piercing explosion from across the river. When we got a closer look at where the sound had come from, we spotted workers ahead using TNT to erode white rock out of the cliff nearby. Spending the night in a fully-functioning quarry clearly isn’t something they tell you beforehand…
In effect, what lay before our eyes when we arrived was a huge valley which leads all the way up to Mount Deo Tibba base camp at 4800 metres. As I gazed up at the row upon row of pine trees and gushing waterfalls, with many of the higher ones jutting out above the clouds, I already started feeling daunted by the prospect of three days of walking up, and then another couple walking down again before we’d even started.
But as we placed our main rucksacks on the small pack of donkeys that were going up with us, I began to feel they had the more strenuous deal
. Yet is that really a way to feel better about yourself? By looking at how much better off you are than other people? I’m certain that’s why nearly everyone watches the news. To feel a sense of comfort sat in their living rooms with a cup of coffee, safe in the knowledge that they’re nowhere near the latest earthquake, draught or terrorist attack. After all, these donkeys did have to trudge up and down again with luggage every single time a group of enthusiastic hikers felt like conquering a personal goal in life. Like the donkeys, the cooks and guides seemed use to it; as we started puffing and panting to make our way up on the first long winding road in our expensive boots and hiking gear, Pintu would breeze past in his sandals as though popping out to the newsagents.
We came on and off the road leading upwards by ascending long stretches of woodland, where we allowed to take a lot more rests than I’d anticipated. (Not that I was complaining.) By the time late afternoon came, however, we encountered a fairly dodgy-looking wooden bridge crossing the threatening white water of the river below. Beyond this lay a clearing in the woodland- Our first camp for the night. 'A clearing’ of sorts, that is, for when we crossed the raging river we had to use our walking poles to hack down a forest of plants. It was as though we were forcing our way through an uncharted jungle, with the exception that most of the walking poles snapped with the pressure of people whacking them too hard.
Finally, once we’d set up our tents, dug our very own man-made bog (a hole in the ground) and settled down in our new natural environment, we were shaken out of our skin by the sound of an ear-piercing explosion from across the river. When we got a closer look at where the sound had come from, we spotted workers ahead using TNT to erode white rock out of the cliff nearby. Spending the night in a fully-functioning quarry clearly isn’t something they tell you beforehand…
Storm Clouds Approach
Day 2: The Trek certainly wasn't getting any easier, and more like harder and steeper as we ascended a rocky, zigzag path up an area of pine forest, losing our first sight of ground in the mist. Every now and then we passed a horde of donkeys or the occasional Priest, who must’ve been taking the same journey as us every day, yet looked about my grandparent’s age.
The fog thickened as we passed through an industrial dam-building site, and we pushed on through what seemed like miles of ascension up the pine tree valley and along a path marked out by dodgy, unstable rocks which would occasionally tumble into the nothingness below (Hopefully not on some quarry worker’s head.)
Our arrival at the second camp came with our first taste of the monsoon season. Apparently we were camping near a sacred place for Hindus, but I saw nothing sacred about setting up our tents on a field of cow pat while it chucked it down with rain. Worst of all, I was on bog-hole digging duty that night.
The fog thickened as we passed through an industrial dam-building site, and we pushed on through what seemed like miles of ascension up the pine tree valley and along a path marked out by dodgy, unstable rocks which would occasionally tumble into the nothingness below (Hopefully not on some quarry worker’s head.)
Our arrival at the second camp came with our first taste of the monsoon season. Apparently we were camping near a sacred place for Hindus, but I saw nothing sacred about setting up our tents on a field of cow pat while it chucked it down with rain. Worst of all, I was on bog-hole digging duty that night.
Air Runs Low
Day 3: Following a suitably damp and cold night, we started taking Diamox (altitude sickness) tablets. That was when the height we were at hit home and seemed slightly unsettling- One night back at the Zarim Hotel, before the Trek, we stayed up playing cards with a group of northern world challengers who'd apparently had to abort the Trek early since someone in their group had gone slightly mad and fell ill after the tablets failed to work.
Packing up again, we set off some distance up a series of rocky hills with boulders and more hardened, jagged trees. After having, inevitably, slipped and bruised my knee on a boulder, we eventually made it to our first river crossing. As we crossed in groups of three using the 'huddle’ formation, I remembered how different the climate was back when we’d first practiced crossings outside the Zarim Hotel; the icy wind whistling past us appeared an age away from the blazing hot sun and humidity of Manali. While I sat ringing out my socks on the other side of the river in fact, I caught my first glimpse of snow.
As the glaciers became larger and larger, so the traces of any wildlife and sufficient oxygen levels became smaller and smaller, and after we’d crossed a stream trickling into a huge sheet of ice on the river, all that lay before us was an upward slope of jagged rocks pointing into the mist above. So, with hours of wet, cold and tiring trekking, came the first group member to fall ill and have to use the horse instead of walking. Unlike the rest of us, however, who were feeling the side effects of the tablets (the urge to urinate every ten minutes, which Gabriel, the guy who wouldn’t shut up about the sweet packets, successfully irritated the girls and Mr. Stuart with by pissing too close to view,) the girl who’d fallen ill evidently wasn’t. I just hoped she wouldn’t end up going off her head like the incident the Northerners had described to us.
Eventually the land became flatter and devoid of any rocks until we reached an enormous expanse of barren, marshy land spread out into a thick fog, with the river we’d been following spreading out into a lake. The place was virtually lifeless, the only elements of life being a large, wolf-like, yet timid Sheppard dog staring at us, which may’ve belonged to the few nomads sat in a tent in the distance. Later on, however, as the thick fog began to clear up, the view spreading out before us was incredible; surrounding the flat, vast expanse of sand, marsh, and murky water loomed great, black towering mountains with snowy peaks, which shone radiantly when the sun broke through the clouds… We’d reached our third and final encampment.
Packing up again, we set off some distance up a series of rocky hills with boulders and more hardened, jagged trees. After having, inevitably, slipped and bruised my knee on a boulder, we eventually made it to our first river crossing. As we crossed in groups of three using the 'huddle’ formation, I remembered how different the climate was back when we’d first practiced crossings outside the Zarim Hotel; the icy wind whistling past us appeared an age away from the blazing hot sun and humidity of Manali. While I sat ringing out my socks on the other side of the river in fact, I caught my first glimpse of snow.
As the glaciers became larger and larger, so the traces of any wildlife and sufficient oxygen levels became smaller and smaller, and after we’d crossed a stream trickling into a huge sheet of ice on the river, all that lay before us was an upward slope of jagged rocks pointing into the mist above. So, with hours of wet, cold and tiring trekking, came the first group member to fall ill and have to use the horse instead of walking. Unlike the rest of us, however, who were feeling the side effects of the tablets (the urge to urinate every ten minutes, which Gabriel, the guy who wouldn’t shut up about the sweet packets, successfully irritated the girls and Mr. Stuart with by pissing too close to view,) the girl who’d fallen ill evidently wasn’t. I just hoped she wouldn’t end up going off her head like the incident the Northerners had described to us.
Eventually the land became flatter and devoid of any rocks until we reached an enormous expanse of barren, marshy land spread out into a thick fog, with the river we’d been following spreading out into a lake. The place was virtually lifeless, the only elements of life being a large, wolf-like, yet timid Sheppard dog staring at us, which may’ve belonged to the few nomads sat in a tent in the distance. Later on, however, as the thick fog began to clear up, the view spreading out before us was incredible; surrounding the flat, vast expanse of sand, marsh, and murky water loomed great, black towering mountains with snowy peaks, which shone radiantly when the sun broke through the clouds… We’d reached our third and final encampment.
Deo Tibba Base Camp at 4800 metres!
Day 4: For most of us, by this stage we'd past that barrier where you no longer care how muddy, cold, or bruised you are and simply want to make the final push, in this case to Deo Tibba base camp. To get there, we would have to cross the huge marshy lake and the river beyond, after which we would climb a final pathway leading up a cliff, the top of which was base camp. For some, however, such as my tent mate who wouldn’t stop coughing the previous night, the altitude sickness couldn’t be staved off, which meant they had to miss the final ascent and stay at camp. I’d never experienced the illness before, but from what the victims told me, it gave you the worst headache ever, like being "stabbed in the neck with multiple daggers." But how could you compare it to that experience if it’s never happened to you before? People exaggerate too much sometimes.
So, after arising from our groggy, sandy beds and gulping down Pintu’s morning porridge, we set out for the final ascent, wading through the lake and freezing our feet off almost immediately
. Memories of playing with the kids in Haripur Primary School returned when we started warming each other up by playing the Okey-Cokey.
Following a long trudge through the marshland, we made it to the rocky upwards slope, but first we had to cross the river, which meant me standing at the front of a V formation and, once having crossed, losing nearly all my remaining energy before we’d even started the last climb. Many others felt the same way, as we all needed a break every two minutes, the effort as we ascended made all the more daunting by one of the fitter guides who waited for us higher up, staring down at us with a pointed hat as though he were the grim reaper leading us to our deaths.
In the end though, it was our lack of oxygen which had stopped us from going very fast, and after much effort and encouragement form each other, we made it to our final destination at 4800 metres- A dull, snowy field surrounded by two boulders to which the first question uttered by someone was; “Is this supposed to be base camp?” And I don’t blame their confusion. All along I’d imagined 'Base Camp’ to be some sort of glorious summit where a huge flag blowing in the wind would exclaim; ‘Deo Tibba at 4800 metres, well done!’
Then again, most of us just wanted to know we’d made it to the top, and, despite the fact I’ll never be sure whether or not the sweat, blood and tears committed to getting there was really worth it in the end, I can be sure of one thing; that the panoramic view of the valley below where our encampment was set up, through which the river spread out like veins across the landscape was magnificent
. So was the fine, circular Chandra Tal (meaning ‘Lake of the Moon’ in Hindi) on the other side of base camp in the distance, which we’d had plans to Trek to but simply couldn’t as the tide of the river we needed to cross was increasingly rapidly. But before we left, something needed to be done to celebrate… So, from within my coat pocket, I withdrew the bottle of mountain dew I’d saved all along to drink triumphantly at the top. It tasted horrible.
And so began the descent. The constant slipping and sliding on the steep downward slope and desperate clinging to the rope as we crossed the river with it’s higher tide swelling like a bad bruise was, without doubt, enough to ensure us a long night’s sleep.
So, after arising from our groggy, sandy beds and gulping down Pintu’s morning porridge, we set out for the final ascent, wading through the lake and freezing our feet off almost immediately
. Memories of playing with the kids in Haripur Primary School returned when we started warming each other up by playing the Okey-Cokey.
Following a long trudge through the marshland, we made it to the rocky upwards slope, but first we had to cross the river, which meant me standing at the front of a V formation and, once having crossed, losing nearly all my remaining energy before we’d even started the last climb. Many others felt the same way, as we all needed a break every two minutes, the effort as we ascended made all the more daunting by one of the fitter guides who waited for us higher up, staring down at us with a pointed hat as though he were the grim reaper leading us to our deaths.
In the end though, it was our lack of oxygen which had stopped us from going very fast, and after much effort and encouragement form each other, we made it to our final destination at 4800 metres- A dull, snowy field surrounded by two boulders to which the first question uttered by someone was; “Is this supposed to be base camp?” And I don’t blame their confusion. All along I’d imagined 'Base Camp’ to be some sort of glorious summit where a huge flag blowing in the wind would exclaim; ‘Deo Tibba at 4800 metres, well done!’
Then again, most of us just wanted to know we’d made it to the top, and, despite the fact I’ll never be sure whether or not the sweat, blood and tears committed to getting there was really worth it in the end, I can be sure of one thing; that the panoramic view of the valley below where our encampment was set up, through which the river spread out like veins across the landscape was magnificent
. So was the fine, circular Chandra Tal (meaning ‘Lake of the Moon’ in Hindi) on the other side of base camp in the distance, which we’d had plans to Trek to but simply couldn’t as the tide of the river we needed to cross was increasingly rapidly. But before we left, something needed to be done to celebrate… So, from within my coat pocket, I withdrew the bottle of mountain dew I’d saved all along to drink triumphantly at the top. It tasted horrible.
And so began the descent. The constant slipping and sliding on the steep downward slope and desperate clinging to the rope as we crossed the river with it’s higher tide swelling like a bad bruise was, without doubt, enough to ensure us a long night’s sleep.
The High Feeling of 
Descent
Descent
Day 5: After one last horrible, cold, sandy night in the third camp, Dave told us that the descent, as we gained more oxygen, would get easier and easier, and he was right; Not only did we get a much better view of the pine forests stretching out across the mountain on the way down, but, miraculously, everyone was in a much better mood when we returned back to the first camp that night, especially after passing another world challenge group on the way down, with the secret, collective feeling; 'We've already done it andyou haven’t.’ We ate a celebratory curry with the guides and cooks that night, and with everyone in such high spirits, our return to Jakatsukh and consequent end to the trek the following day came about as swiftly as the relentless mountain breeze.
A Tour of the South
The Zarim Hotel was a luxury to return to. As usual I spent far too long faffing around by washing my clothes and sorting out my personal hygiene, a problem that desperately needed sorting out. But that's what I do when I have a lot of time- I faff. And I faff so much to the extent that I still leave things to the last minute. It’s human nature to only get things done when you’re under pressure.
To prolong the relaxation, as an expedition group we’d arranged to have a massive lie-in in the morning, on Thursday, which, of all the ideas we’ve had certainly wasn’t the worst. Apart from buying provisions over the afternoon, it was only in the evening that we actually did something, and that was to hop on the overnight bus for Delhi. The 'provisions’ we’d bought for that night, however, in other words chewy bread and a mega packet of ‘Uncle Happy’s Crisps,’ weren’t such a good idea. And I certainly wasn’t ‘happy’ when I tried one of those crisps either.
As the bus continued further south, the climate became noticeably hotter, yet while trying to sleep that night with the blasts of air-conditioning that were far too cold, bad memories of the previous overnight bus journey started becoming a reality again. Even worse this time, was the bus driver’s decision to honk his horn at anything on the road that moved, but it wasn’t just your average horn. Not in India… Indian horns like this one have to have some sort tune or melody to them, in this case the kind of horn from an American football game blasting all night long.
Having finally reached the tourist building in Delhi after a nearly sleepless night of horn blowing and what should be known as the air ‘hostile’ conditioning, we stepped out into the all too familiar humidity of the central Indian city. While we were waiting for the next bus to take us to Agra, I decided to tuck into a packet of ‘Spanish tomato tango crisps.’ Not exactly Indian, but they were the only flavour crisps you could get that didn’t have some sort of curry in it. When I needed to throw the packet away, I couldn’t have been happier to see the green bin nearby, the one I tried to use the last time but couldn’t as an aggressive mother chimp was guarding her baby on it, was completely clear. That’s why I couldn’t have been more disappointed to approach the bin expectantly with my crisp packet, only for a crazed monkey to leap up from the inside and threaten me with its huge claws… Once again, I tried in vain to throw the packet in from a distance, and once again I missed and got moaned at for littering. If there’s anything I learnt from that day, it’s that India isn’t dominated entirely by Indians alone.
We were wrong to believe that as we reached the flatlands of the south our journey would become easier. Our transferral to a smaller, shabbier bus at the tourist centre meant that we were riding on a vehicle with considerably less suspension on a road with considerably more potholes. Reading and sleeping was made a nightmare with the occasional, unexpected thud as the driver pushed on through a steep ditch in the road.
The only thing to distract my mind at this point was the vast plains of the Indian countryside. Despite the crumbling remains of unfinished cement buildings and marshes, polluted with sewage and crisp packets from the neighbouring towns, rural India still had a lot to offer in the way of beauty. No sight in the big city could compare to the much worshipped cows under mile upon mile of ancient, crooked trees, their leaves sheltering them from the blaze of the midday sun. The bright orange saris worn by the women labouring amongst the lush green fields shimmered under the light in an almost tropical fusion of colour.
Finally, I managed to fall into a long, humid slumber, every now and then woken up by the aggressive thud of a deep pothole. But when one thud came, it wasn’t coming from a pothole; it was coming from the window… Jerking my eyes open, I merely expected it to be another street vendor, but as my vision cleared, I was amazed to see, staring wildly back at me, a monkey’s face. At first I was slightly stunned while everyone just laughed at the creature with the slightly strained look it had on face, but when it started trying to break through the window with its sharp, bare fangs I felt I had to get a picture before the moment passed. But when I switched on my camera, someone tapped on my shoulder telling me to stop and saying "they’ll charge you for the photo." I didn’t know what that meant initially, but it wasn’t long before I did, and when I spotted it, I saw for myself a cold reminder of India’s more ruthless side. Because beneath the soft fur of the monkeys neck, a gleaming strip of iron was attached to a long, rusty chain as a collar. As I ran my eyes along the chain, I saw at the other end a leash, clutched by a fat, grubby hand. While the eyes of this unappealing man had been made black by the passing car fumes, so the tar was a reflection of his soul as he stood, rooted to the cement while his apprentice, not too dissimilar from a chimp himself, leaped frantically at the bus door, crying out in a viscous thirst for rupees.
As we discovered when we stopped off at a service station, the multitude of unfinished buildings was as interesting as it was unsightly. On entering the toilet there, for example, I found a long row perfectly operating urinals within a four-walled interior, only to look upwards and discover a non-existent roof. Even more peculiar were the row of sinks, which, as I approached to wash my hands, appeared to be devoid of any taps, and existed as merely clean cut, well sized, yet altogether pretty useless holes in the ground.
I later found that the state of the toilets very much reflected in the value of the snack prices at this remote service station. The average price for a coke in India is 25 rupees. But when I asked about the price of a bottle here, the sweating shop assistant, evidently nervous about potentially making what seemed like his first sale in years, hastily grabbed one from the freezer and mumbled the price to me;
“15 rupees, did you say?” I asked, but he corrected me guiltily;
“150 rupees…”
We’d walked straight into a tourist trap, and with Agra being India’s main city for tourism, things didn’t look like brightening up when we got off the bus there and faced the long trek to our hotel called ‘Shanti Lodge.’ Evidently, the name didn’t have great impressions on the group at first, but when we made it there, it didn’t seem as ‘shanty’ as initially thought; In fact, The
Taj View restaurant on the hotel roof, despite having a misleadingly close up picture in the advert poster, did have a detailed view of the well-known Taj Mahal in the distance when we headed up for a look, and I could even see the white, tit-shaped gem from the window of my hotel room. While waiting for dinner and playing cards in the evening, we couldn’t help but glance in awe every now and then at the transparent marble changing colour beyond the shabby, corrugated rooftops and shrubs, dimming under the setting sun.
After sacrificing sleep for a 4:30 am get-up so we could see close-up the oscillating colours of the Taj Mahal that come to life at dawn, we were slightly disappointed to find that it was daylight by the time we’d made it through the long security check at the gate. And it wasn’t just because of the large queue, as I’m sure we spent half the time trying to push our way past camera sellers on the street- A pointless business venture, since you’re hardly going to get many tourists visiting the Taj without a camera. Then again, the building, with its perfect symmetry, incredible attention to detail and warm, glowing marble exterior didn’t fail to impress. And, of course, as my Dad had insisted on before the expedition, I had to pose in front of the spectacle with my hand raised and pinching the top of the dome to capture the novel; ‘Tweaking the nipple’ impression, currently my laptop screensaver photo.
When we got up close and onto the platform of the Taj, I sat on the ledge on one of the back corner minarets, staring out at the sun’s reflection on the Yamuna River, the passing muck and debris staved off beyond the white, gleaming walls of the palace. After his wife died, Emperor Shah Jahan, the man who built, (or rather ordered thousands of slaves to build) the Taj, intended it to represent ‘paradise on earth’ in memory of his dead wife. But what about the thousands of workers forced to carry tonnes of gleaming white marble from the North of India down to Agra just to create the artificial beauty and statement of power for a dead woman? I
couldn’t help thinking about this, however impressive the building was with its symmetrical, geometric patterns and smooth domes. Some say slavery in India might’ve only existed hundreds of years ago under the Mughal rulers, but with the great social divide I’ve witnessed, over half a billion Indians under the poverty line, and labourers with little option but to work on the construction of flimsy, cheap sky-scrapers adorned with the political slogans; ‘Building India,’ the authorities now hardly seem more responsible with their power than Emporer Shah Jahan was, and he was put in prison for spending too much money on the Taj. Maybe they should do the same with the wealthy Indians today, to stop them from building their own palaces in memory of their dead wives.
Strategically, when we reached the bus station to leave Agra, the market vendors had set up row upon row of stalls in an attempt to sell souvenirs to passing tourists. Considering I hadn’t yet obtained any memoir of Agra yet except my photos, I thought it would be a good idea to
inquire about the price of a small model Taj Mahal on sale. But it really wasn’t; Indian market vendors are like wasps. Occasionally a few may venture out for their prey, such as when one attempted to sell us a small plastic toy for one rupee and Gabriel colourfully reminded him why it was worth that much. Yet most of the time they tend to remain in packs under the shelter of their stalls/nests, regularly attacking passers by. After foolishly interrupting the wasp’s nest myself, the only thing I gained was realizing that the model I’d seen was made of plastic and was worth an extortionate 250 rupees. So began my hasty farewell to Agra as I leaped onto the bus, the bus driver’s assistant having to physically force away the horde of vendors trying to squeeze through the door. The consequent screaming of; “Come, we arrange price!” was only just drowned out after having travelled a mile away from the bus stop.
The city of Jaipur lies northwest of Agra, and was our last stop before returning to Delhi and home. With the money we’d saved from strict rationing and budget control, we were able to afford a night in a five star hotel called the Chandragupt Hotel in a central area known as ‘The Pink City.’ The name given to this area wasn’t surprising when we reached it, as even after a hundred years since its first coat of paint for the Prince of Wales visit in the 1800’s, the buildings and arches along the long, straight streets still retained if not a darker shade of pink.
I couldn’t help but feel selfish that day from the moment we entered through the large iron gates of the Chandragupt. I knew we were dismissing third world when the hotel staff greeted us each on the shining stone floor with a reef of flowers while planting a red Hindu eye on our foreheads and the urinal sensed my presence on approaching it.
That said, the moment when I entered a bath that night was glorious, and my stomach couldn’t take any more when we had our celebratory meal in the hotel restaurant, which included enormous rounds of curry, spices and naan bread. I also can’t forget to mention the surprisingly strong Kingfisher beer, which Mr. Stuart was insistent on us not taking photos of drinking. Not surprisingly therefore, I began to feel slightly tipsy after the meal, and so I floated down to a clothes shop in the hotel lobby where a man was selling saris and male versions of saris known as pyjamas and scarves. I bought some pyjamas and a scarf…
The next morning, I fully realized I’d bought some pyjamas and a scarf. When trying them on, however, I noticed the trouser waist was twice as large as my waist, and so missed most of the banquet breakfast to return to the shop and be told by the owner that is was meant to be that big, telling me;
“You just need to put some rope through this hole here.”
“Oh right, do you have any rope?”
“No.”
What’s more, because I’d only discovered when buying them that the male versions weren’t actually called ‘saris,’ when I asked for a ‘sari,’ the shop owner brought out a multitude of various cloths to sew together, thinking I was buying one for my mother. He was starting to look irritated therefore when I told him I wanted something for myself and not a female relative.
The long, market streets of the pink city we visited around midday were one of the most vibrant and colourful we’d come across in India, with a comparatively average level of chaos. When I say ‘average level,’ I mean to say the time when we were leaving one of the dark, dingy covered markets that sold rotten vegetables, and I nearly stumbled into a chicken coop whilst attempting to dodge two squealing pigs running past. Either they’d escaped from a cage, or lived wild; probably the latter. What’s more, we had to squeeze through a noisy parade of Hindus in bright orange pyjamas and saris, and could only cross the road in the hope that we didn’t get run over.
It was after passing through a market where chains of flowers were being tied to make religious necklaces that we stopped outside a shoe shop, as some people had some money left they wanted to spend. My pockets, on the other hand, were looking comparatively thin, which wasn’t surprising as I’d spent most of money of such items as a drum, prayer gongs, pyjamas and a prayer hat back in Manali, which had got damp on the trek and shrunk to the extent that it would only fit me now if my head was the size of a golf ball. So as we waited outside the shoe shop, I looked around at the bustling street, which was a contrasting mixture of people rushing around (mostly men) as though their lives depended on it, and homeless families who took refuge under the arch shelters provided over the long, pink pathways. I continued to observe this until a flash of light from the alleyway to the left almost damaged my eye. Turning to left, I saw it was coming from the sparks created by two young children as they burnt a piece of metal, and despite the fact that the light was presumably enough to blind you if stared at it for longer than three seconds, they didn’t seem to care. They weren’t even wearing goggles. On the whole, it proves you simply can’t visit an Indian city like Jaipur and not discover something you’ve never seen before.
To prolong the relaxation, as an expedition group we’d arranged to have a massive lie-in in the morning, on Thursday, which, of all the ideas we’ve had certainly wasn’t the worst. Apart from buying provisions over the afternoon, it was only in the evening that we actually did something, and that was to hop on the overnight bus for Delhi. The 'provisions’ we’d bought for that night, however, in other words chewy bread and a mega packet of ‘Uncle Happy’s Crisps,’ weren’t such a good idea. And I certainly wasn’t ‘happy’ when I tried one of those crisps either.
As the bus continued further south, the climate became noticeably hotter, yet while trying to sleep that night with the blasts of air-conditioning that were far too cold, bad memories of the previous overnight bus journey started becoming a reality again. Even worse this time, was the bus driver’s decision to honk his horn at anything on the road that moved, but it wasn’t just your average horn. Not in India… Indian horns like this one have to have some sort tune or melody to them, in this case the kind of horn from an American football game blasting all night long.
Having finally reached the tourist building in Delhi after a nearly sleepless night of horn blowing and what should be known as the air ‘hostile’ conditioning, we stepped out into the all too familiar humidity of the central Indian city. While we were waiting for the next bus to take us to Agra, I decided to tuck into a packet of ‘Spanish tomato tango crisps.’ Not exactly Indian, but they were the only flavour crisps you could get that didn’t have some sort of curry in it. When I needed to throw the packet away, I couldn’t have been happier to see the green bin nearby, the one I tried to use the last time but couldn’t as an aggressive mother chimp was guarding her baby on it, was completely clear. That’s why I couldn’t have been more disappointed to approach the bin expectantly with my crisp packet, only for a crazed monkey to leap up from the inside and threaten me with its huge claws… Once again, I tried in vain to throw the packet in from a distance, and once again I missed and got moaned at for littering. If there’s anything I learnt from that day, it’s that India isn’t dominated entirely by Indians alone.
We were wrong to believe that as we reached the flatlands of the south our journey would become easier. Our transferral to a smaller, shabbier bus at the tourist centre meant that we were riding on a vehicle with considerably less suspension on a road with considerably more potholes. Reading and sleeping was made a nightmare with the occasional, unexpected thud as the driver pushed on through a steep ditch in the road.
The only thing to distract my mind at this point was the vast plains of the Indian countryside. Despite the crumbling remains of unfinished cement buildings and marshes, polluted with sewage and crisp packets from the neighbouring towns, rural India still had a lot to offer in the way of beauty. No sight in the big city could compare to the much worshipped cows under mile upon mile of ancient, crooked trees, their leaves sheltering them from the blaze of the midday sun. The bright orange saris worn by the women labouring amongst the lush green fields shimmered under the light in an almost tropical fusion of colour.
Finally, I managed to fall into a long, humid slumber, every now and then woken up by the aggressive thud of a deep pothole. But when one thud came, it wasn’t coming from a pothole; it was coming from the window… Jerking my eyes open, I merely expected it to be another street vendor, but as my vision cleared, I was amazed to see, staring wildly back at me, a monkey’s face. At first I was slightly stunned while everyone just laughed at the creature with the slightly strained look it had on face, but when it started trying to break through the window with its sharp, bare fangs I felt I had to get a picture before the moment passed. But when I switched on my camera, someone tapped on my shoulder telling me to stop and saying "they’ll charge you for the photo." I didn’t know what that meant initially, but it wasn’t long before I did, and when I spotted it, I saw for myself a cold reminder of India’s more ruthless side. Because beneath the soft fur of the monkeys neck, a gleaming strip of iron was attached to a long, rusty chain as a collar. As I ran my eyes along the chain, I saw at the other end a leash, clutched by a fat, grubby hand. While the eyes of this unappealing man had been made black by the passing car fumes, so the tar was a reflection of his soul as he stood, rooted to the cement while his apprentice, not too dissimilar from a chimp himself, leaped frantically at the bus door, crying out in a viscous thirst for rupees.
As we discovered when we stopped off at a service station, the multitude of unfinished buildings was as interesting as it was unsightly. On entering the toilet there, for example, I found a long row perfectly operating urinals within a four-walled interior, only to look upwards and discover a non-existent roof. Even more peculiar were the row of sinks, which, as I approached to wash my hands, appeared to be devoid of any taps, and existed as merely clean cut, well sized, yet altogether pretty useless holes in the ground.
I later found that the state of the toilets very much reflected in the value of the snack prices at this remote service station. The average price for a coke in India is 25 rupees. But when I asked about the price of a bottle here, the sweating shop assistant, evidently nervous about potentially making what seemed like his first sale in years, hastily grabbed one from the freezer and mumbled the price to me;
“15 rupees, did you say?” I asked, but he corrected me guiltily;
“150 rupees…”
We’d walked straight into a tourist trap, and with Agra being India’s main city for tourism, things didn’t look like brightening up when we got off the bus there and faced the long trek to our hotel called ‘Shanti Lodge.’ Evidently, the name didn’t have great impressions on the group at first, but when we made it there, it didn’t seem as ‘shanty’ as initially thought; In fact, The
Taj View restaurant on the hotel roof, despite having a misleadingly close up picture in the advert poster, did have a detailed view of the well-known Taj Mahal in the distance when we headed up for a look, and I could even see the white, tit-shaped gem from the window of my hotel room. While waiting for dinner and playing cards in the evening, we couldn’t help but glance in awe every now and then at the transparent marble changing colour beyond the shabby, corrugated rooftops and shrubs, dimming under the setting sun.
After sacrificing sleep for a 4:30 am get-up so we could see close-up the oscillating colours of the Taj Mahal that come to life at dawn, we were slightly disappointed to find that it was daylight by the time we’d made it through the long security check at the gate. And it wasn’t just because of the large queue, as I’m sure we spent half the time trying to push our way past camera sellers on the street- A pointless business venture, since you’re hardly going to get many tourists visiting the Taj without a camera. Then again, the building, with its perfect symmetry, incredible attention to detail and warm, glowing marble exterior didn’t fail to impress. And, of course, as my Dad had insisted on before the expedition, I had to pose in front of the spectacle with my hand raised and pinching the top of the dome to capture the novel; ‘Tweaking the nipple’ impression, currently my laptop screensaver photo.
When we got up close and onto the platform of the Taj, I sat on the ledge on one of the back corner minarets, staring out at the sun’s reflection on the Yamuna River, the passing muck and debris staved off beyond the white, gleaming walls of the palace. After his wife died, Emperor Shah Jahan, the man who built, (or rather ordered thousands of slaves to build) the Taj, intended it to represent ‘paradise on earth’ in memory of his dead wife. But what about the thousands of workers forced to carry tonnes of gleaming white marble from the North of India down to Agra just to create the artificial beauty and statement of power for a dead woman? I
couldn’t help thinking about this, however impressive the building was with its symmetrical, geometric patterns and smooth domes. Some say slavery in India might’ve only existed hundreds of years ago under the Mughal rulers, but with the great social divide I’ve witnessed, over half a billion Indians under the poverty line, and labourers with little option but to work on the construction of flimsy, cheap sky-scrapers adorned with the political slogans; ‘Building India,’ the authorities now hardly seem more responsible with their power than Emporer Shah Jahan was, and he was put in prison for spending too much money on the Taj. Maybe they should do the same with the wealthy Indians today, to stop them from building their own palaces in memory of their dead wives.
Strategically, when we reached the bus station to leave Agra, the market vendors had set up row upon row of stalls in an attempt to sell souvenirs to passing tourists. Considering I hadn’t yet obtained any memoir of Agra yet except my photos, I thought it would be a good idea to
inquire about the price of a small model Taj Mahal on sale. But it really wasn’t; Indian market vendors are like wasps. Occasionally a few may venture out for their prey, such as when one attempted to sell us a small plastic toy for one rupee and Gabriel colourfully reminded him why it was worth that much. Yet most of the time they tend to remain in packs under the shelter of their stalls/nests, regularly attacking passers by. After foolishly interrupting the wasp’s nest myself, the only thing I gained was realizing that the model I’d seen was made of plastic and was worth an extortionate 250 rupees. So began my hasty farewell to Agra as I leaped onto the bus, the bus driver’s assistant having to physically force away the horde of vendors trying to squeeze through the door. The consequent screaming of; “Come, we arrange price!” was only just drowned out after having travelled a mile away from the bus stop.
The city of Jaipur lies northwest of Agra, and was our last stop before returning to Delhi and home. With the money we’d saved from strict rationing and budget control, we were able to afford a night in a five star hotel called the Chandragupt Hotel in a central area known as ‘The Pink City.’ The name given to this area wasn’t surprising when we reached it, as even after a hundred years since its first coat of paint for the Prince of Wales visit in the 1800’s, the buildings and arches along the long, straight streets still retained if not a darker shade of pink.
I couldn’t help but feel selfish that day from the moment we entered through the large iron gates of the Chandragupt. I knew we were dismissing third world when the hotel staff greeted us each on the shining stone floor with a reef of flowers while planting a red Hindu eye on our foreheads and the urinal sensed my presence on approaching it.
That said, the moment when I entered a bath that night was glorious, and my stomach couldn’t take any more when we had our celebratory meal in the hotel restaurant, which included enormous rounds of curry, spices and naan bread. I also can’t forget to mention the surprisingly strong Kingfisher beer, which Mr. Stuart was insistent on us not taking photos of drinking. Not surprisingly therefore, I began to feel slightly tipsy after the meal, and so I floated down to a clothes shop in the hotel lobby where a man was selling saris and male versions of saris known as pyjamas and scarves. I bought some pyjamas and a scarf…
The next morning, I fully realized I’d bought some pyjamas and a scarf. When trying them on, however, I noticed the trouser waist was twice as large as my waist, and so missed most of the banquet breakfast to return to the shop and be told by the owner that is was meant to be that big, telling me;
“You just need to put some rope through this hole here.”
“Oh right, do you have any rope?”
“No.”
What’s more, because I’d only discovered when buying them that the male versions weren’t actually called ‘saris,’ when I asked for a ‘sari,’ the shop owner brought out a multitude of various cloths to sew together, thinking I was buying one for my mother. He was starting to look irritated therefore when I told him I wanted something for myself and not a female relative.
The long, market streets of the pink city we visited around midday were one of the most vibrant and colourful we’d come across in India, with a comparatively average level of chaos. When I say ‘average level,’ I mean to say the time when we were leaving one of the dark, dingy covered markets that sold rotten vegetables, and I nearly stumbled into a chicken coop whilst attempting to dodge two squealing pigs running past. Either they’d escaped from a cage, or lived wild; probably the latter. What’s more, we had to squeeze through a noisy parade of Hindus in bright orange pyjamas and saris, and could only cross the road in the hope that we didn’t get run over.
It was after passing through a market where chains of flowers were being tied to make religious necklaces that we stopped outside a shoe shop, as some people had some money left they wanted to spend. My pockets, on the other hand, were looking comparatively thin, which wasn’t surprising as I’d spent most of money of such items as a drum, prayer gongs, pyjamas and a prayer hat back in Manali, which had got damp on the trek and shrunk to the extent that it would only fit me now if my head was the size of a golf ball. So as we waited outside the shoe shop, I looked around at the bustling street, which was a contrasting mixture of people rushing around (mostly men) as though their lives depended on it, and homeless families who took refuge under the arch shelters provided over the long, pink pathways. I continued to observe this until a flash of light from the alleyway to the left almost damaged my eye. Turning to left, I saw it was coming from the sparks created by two young children as they burnt a piece of metal, and despite the fact that the light was presumably enough to blind you if stared at it for longer than three seconds, they didn’t seem to care. They weren’t even wearing goggles. On the whole, it proves you simply can’t visit an Indian city like Jaipur and not discover something you’ve never seen before.
Heading Home
It was with the turbulent journey back to the airport and home that my journey in the wider sense, to India, came to an end. If there were three significant moments left to describe, two of them would concern India's road safety, and a lack of it. No better descriptions would be the overturned lorry in the middle of the motorway form Jaipur to Delhi, or the way our taxi driver, instead of driving round a motorcycle parked too far into the street, drove into it instead. But the third and final moment would have to be when I took a look at my passport and realized the ink on my photo inside had got damp on the trek and spread to make it seem as though I had a beard, like a terrorist. Not great when I was trying to travel by plane from Asia to the UK, and I’d decided to wear my white pyjamas on the day of departure. Then again, it turned out to be a happy ending when I made it through customs without a problem, but not a happy ending for my Dad who had to pay for my new passport when I got back.
What fascinated me most about India were the people, their attitude and outlook on life being like no other I’ve ever witnessed, or become part of in the world. I remember feeling fed up on the bus journey back to Delhi, the huge traffic jams and horns beeping making the time seem longer and more tedious. When I told Dave, who was sitting nearby, he gave me an unexpectedly prophetic reply;
"Life’s a journey. It’s not about getting from A to B, it’s about what happens, whether it’s good or bad, on each journey you take. Why worry about the future and the next step, when you’re always going to have to move on? It’s all about the here and now. The journey itself."
Now some may have viewed Dave as a bit of a hippy, to say the least. He even decided, instead of returning to the UK with us, to rent a van and drive up north to Vashisht and Manali, where you couldn’t help but bump into a long-haired, bearded traveller in love with peace. But beyond his 'at one with the mountains’ attitude, he was right, and I don’t blame him for living in a country of such squalid living conditions. Because most people there don’t live for the poverty, they live for the ‘here and now,’ and I could see it in their faces everyday
. In Pintu’s warm, glowing eyes, in the schoolchildren’s moustaches they’d painted on for fun after endless rounds of cricket. And, somehow, they seemed better of for it. Better off for not worrying about what they could have, but living with what they do have.
When the bus from Heathrow airport arrived back at school, I gave my parents a surprise as I hopped off wearing long white pyjamas and scarf. On meeting the headmaster, however, he looked at me as though I’d gone mad, forcing out the comment; “It’s nice to see you in the spirit of things, George…” Looking back it on though, I can’t but think that with the years spent saving up to journey through a country somewhere along the fine line between beauty and anarchy, I’d become part-spirited, part-mad, maybe even part-Indian.
What fascinated me most about India were the people, their attitude and outlook on life being like no other I’ve ever witnessed, or become part of in the world. I remember feeling fed up on the bus journey back to Delhi, the huge traffic jams and horns beeping making the time seem longer and more tedious. When I told Dave, who was sitting nearby, he gave me an unexpectedly prophetic reply;
"Life’s a journey. It’s not about getting from A to B, it’s about what happens, whether it’s good or bad, on each journey you take. Why worry about the future and the next step, when you’re always going to have to move on? It’s all about the here and now. The journey itself."
Now some may have viewed Dave as a bit of a hippy, to say the least. He even decided, instead of returning to the UK with us, to rent a van and drive up north to Vashisht and Manali, where you couldn’t help but bump into a long-haired, bearded traveller in love with peace. But beyond his 'at one with the mountains’ attitude, he was right, and I don’t blame him for living in a country of such squalid living conditions. Because most people there don’t live for the poverty, they live for the ‘here and now,’ and I could see it in their faces everyday
. In Pintu’s warm, glowing eyes, in the schoolchildren’s moustaches they’d painted on for fun after endless rounds of cricket. And, somehow, they seemed better of for it. Better off for not worrying about what they could have, but living with what they do have.
When the bus from Heathrow airport arrived back at school, I gave my parents a surprise as I hopped off wearing long white pyjamas and scarf. On meeting the headmaster, however, he looked at me as though I’d gone mad, forcing out the comment; “It’s nice to see you in the spirit of things, George…” Looking back it on though, I can’t but think that with the years spent saving up to journey through a country somewhere along the fine line between beauty and anarchy, I’d become part-spirited, part-mad, maybe even part-Indian.
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