kolkata

Kolkata (formerly known as Calcutta) has turned out to be a pleasant surprise, with much to see and do and something interesting happening on every street corner. It was once the main base of the British in India, and so - as you might expect - the city centre is well equipped with elegant, fading, old colonial buildings dwelling along streets and roads which have a slightly British feeling in terms of layout.

When I arrived four days ago I decided that I would not spend too much time in the museums and sites laid out in my guide book, and that I would try to tackle the city a little differently. So on each of my four days here I've spent the mornings just wandering around the city streets, the afternoons at the cinema watching Hindi films, and the evenings in my hotel room reading the autobiography of Mahatma Gandhi (my current book).

My wanderings have included some interesting places. I've walked all the way round the Maidan (the central park here). I've been to the Howrah Bridge which spans the river that divides Kolkata down the middle - it's similar in size to Sydney Harbour Bridge and supports a stream of 100 000 vehicles a day apparently making it the busiest road bridge in the world. I've had a look around the Park Street Cemetery, full of colonial graves and flamboyant (Gothic?) tombs for those who came in service of the British Empire but never returned. I noted how young most of the occupants were when they died, many of them younger than me. Most interesting though has been my walk to the Mission of Mother Teresa and the morning I spent there, visiting her grave, and reading about her life. Whilst I admire the selfless devotion she put into caring for the poor, I couldn't help but feel she would have been yet more productive if she had looked at tackling the causes of poverty in Kolkata rather than just allowing the unfortunate to be dependent on her and her Mission. Sat by her grave I was brought to mind of a passage I had read earlier in the Gandhi book and couldn't help but make comparison. He says, words to the effect, that whenever he is about to undertake a task on behalf of someone else he asks himself first: will my action help this person to increase their self-governance and self-reliance? If the answer was yes he should go ahead. If the answer is no he should decline. As I walked the surrounding streets of the Mission it was plain to me that little seems to have changed for the poor here. They're still here, in great numbers, still poor, dependent, and struggling to support themselves, no less self-reliant and with no more self-governance. Two streets away I saw three children bathing a toddler in a drain, no adult about as far as I could see. It was an unsettling image and clarified for me that despite Mother Teresa's best efforts poverty is still overwhelming in this part of the city.

On a lighter note, I've seen three more Hindi films thanks to my afternoon cinema visits, all of them at Inox, a shopping mall complex. It's funny how everyone outside the mall is dressed in fairly traditional Indian clothing, but inside everyone is in jeans and t-shirts. I even saw two Indian women in khaki mini-skirts and wearing enough make-up to sell out a Boots cosmetics counter. The cinema at Inox is air-conditioned which has provided me with a good secondary reason for going along there each afternoon. The films I watched are: 'Life in a Metro,' 'Cheeni Kum,' and 'Shootout at Lokhandwala.' The first of these stars England's very own Shilpa Shetty and the second two star Bollywood megastar Amitabh Bachchan. I thought all three were good films, well made, and with interesting plot lines. 'Cheeni Kum' was interesting because it is set in an Indian restaurant in Chelsea in London, and is filmed around the area I used to work. I'm pleased I've finally seen Amitabh Bachchan on screen. He's so hyped in India. My verdict: he's got great screen presence, there's a stern gravity about him. He's clearly a very talented actor. He's good in 'Shootout' where he has a fairly minor role. That film has some serious violence in it. Anyway, that brings my Hindi film count up to six.

Two nights ago it started to rain hard for about an hour. 'The monsoon will be coming soon,' said the old fellow sheltering beside me in a doorway, and indeed it will. I also saw in a newspaper yesterday the headline 'monsoon hits Kerala sooner than expected.' So a new weather system is beginning to hit India and will be my next challenge and experience. It can't really be worse than all this heat and humidity so I'm happy for it rain down even if that will create restrictions for me.

This evening I catch a night train south to Puri, an Indian seaside resort which looks out into the Bay of Bengal. It will be my first time by the coast in India. I'll probably stay there for about two days (Thursday and Friday) and will then move on to nearby Konark to see the famous Sun Temple. I'm having the rest of today off although later I do intend to wander down for another peak at the Victoria Memorial, which is on the south side of the Maidan. It was built by the British in colonial days, and is perhaps the finest building they constructed in India. It looks like a cross between the Taj Mahal and St Paul's Cathedral.

same old questions

I've been in India for 60 days now and on every single one of them I've been approached by large numbers of people in the street who routinely ask me exactly the same set of questions. It's beginning to drive me slightly mad. This is what I get asked roughly 50 times a day...

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1. Hello, which country?

Answer: England. I say England rather than Great Britain or United Kingdom as this term is in more popular usage due to our cricket and football teams.

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2. What is your 'good' name?

Answer: Charlie. I normally say 'Charlie' to keep it informal and easy although a few times I have said 'Charles Edward Bury.'

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3. First time India and how long India?

Answer: Yes. 4 months.

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4. How old are you?

Answer: 29 years old.

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5. How many people your family?

Answer: Six: mother, father, sister, niece, and grandmother.

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6. Are you married?

Answer: No. Are you OK? You look like you're going to faint.

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7. What is your profession?

Answer: I used to be an Education Welfare Officer until I started travelling.

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8. Salary?

Answer: Now: 0.

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Actually, there are a few questions I would like to ask back like: how come you all ask me the exact same set of questions using the exact same wording? And have you been on a course for this? Is there a textbook called How to question foreign tourists? How is it you all ask the same questions in the same order as well?!

Perhaps I should get a fact sheet printed up on myself if every one's so interested. It might save time.

I'm also reaching the point where I'm beginning to ponder giving fantasy answers: 'I used to be a ballerina but now I've retired and mould garden gnomes for a living. My country? I'm from Iceland.' That kind of thing.

bodhgaya: the land of enlightenment

I reached my current location, Bodhgaya, yesterday lunchtime following a delayed train ride which began in Varanasi. I'm here to visit a tree. A fairly ordinary looking banyan tree known as the Bodhi tree. Not a rare species or a record breaker in terms of height. But there is something special about it. For 26 centuries ago the man who was to become Buddha, and the father of Buddhism, sat under this tree and had a good hard think until he found enlightenment, or to use Buddhist terminology: nirvana. Actually he didn't. The tree he really sat under was cut down sometime after by the wife of the Emperor Ashoka and the tree that is there now was grown sometime later on the same spot from a cutting of a cutting of the original (which had been kept by a Sri Lankan Alan Titchmarsh). It's just a tree yes, but it's also the centre of the Buddhist universe and the most important place of pilgrimage for Buddhists around the world.

Next to the Bodhi tree is the tall Mahabodhi Temple which was built in the Sixth Century, but has been altered many times since. Other than that there is the Buddha Statue a few streets away and 25 metres high, and a collection of monasteries in the surrounding area representing most of the Buddhist world: Japanese, Thai, Chinese, Tibetan, Cambodian and Nepali to name but a few. That's really about the size of Bodhgaya - a tree, a temple, a statue, and several monasteries, not forgetting of course tourist hotels, restaurants and trinket shops.

The heat in Bodhgaya is overpowering and regular power cuts mean regular interruptions to the much needed circulation of ceiling fans and air conditioning. I just about coped during the day yesterday but after I went to bed an all night electricity cut meant that my ceiling fan was inoperable. I was unable to sleep and could only just about manage to breathe. I got up around 5am feeling tired but resigned to the fact that I wouldn't be getting any rest, and I decided to walk over to the gardens containing the Bodhi tree thinking it would feel cooler to get outside. It was getting light and I could sit and enjoy it before the heat of the morning really built up. I left my room near 6am and as I closed my hotel room door the electricity kicked back in and my fan finally thrust back into action. I was up and ready to go by then so I kept going. Situations of this kind are what swear words are made for. Being so early I had the gardens to myself save for a couple of Tibetan Monks. I wandered around the pathways and sat opposite the 'the tree.' I felt rather unmoved and a bit short changed, being in the knowledge that this was not the tree that Buddha sat under. More impressive for me was the adjacent Mahabodhi Temple. It looks better from a distance than close up - perhaps because it is 50 metres high and standing back helps you better take in the size and scale. The temple is a world heritage site visited by thousands of people every year.

Bodhgaya itself is located in Bihar 13 kilometres south of Gaya. To the north the Ganges runs eastwards towards the coast and nearby are the Barabar Caves. These are the 'Marabar' Caves in E M Forster's A Passage to India, a book which I have spent the last few weeks reading (prior to reading Are you experienced?). I found it an enlightening book, thoughtfully written: a fair handed account of the British Raj in India and the racial tension that was inevitable while such a humiliating arrangement existed. I timed my reading well for now here I find myself in the same area where the story takes place. Reading the book has helped me to think in more depth about India's semi-recent history, and what was happening here 80 years ago. The India of the novel is not the India I am visiting today, and the two share little resemblance. The British Raj are evident now only in colonial architecture and museum photographs.

I'm trying to look at the increasingly extreme heat here as a positive challenge. I'm trying to prove to myself that I can still operate in it, and with a little care not let it get to me. I've made progress on yesterday afternoon and evening, both of which I spent contemplating voluntary euthanasia. Today I've just felt really hot but pretty OK about it. Around Bodhgaya there are lots of roadside signs saying 'Bodhgaya: the land of enlightenment.' The heat and regular lack of my ceiling fan has given me something a of desire to add underneath '...but not electricity.'

My time in Bodhgaya follows on from my visit to Varanasi which was a very nourishing experience. Most interesting was my day long walk along the ghats by the river. I was able to stop at one of the cremation ghats and watch the public burning of bodies. I would have said that this marks the first time I have ever seen a dead body, if I had not been confronted by the sight of two policemen removing the corpse of a beggar from the street in Delhi last week, an experience which I found very disturbing. I only noticed the contorted and emaciated body at the last minute and almost tripped into it. The bodies at the ghats were wrapped in white linen and after being dipped in the Ganges were surrounded with fire wood which was then set alight. Lighting the fire is the duty of the elder son. I noted that women did not seem to be allowed to be present by ritual which rather annoyed me. The family members that were there didn't seem very outwardly emotional which also seemed rather strange. Bodies take three hours to burn, and once the process is complete they are shovelled from the shore into the water. Babies, pregnant women, and Sadhu's are not allowed to be cremated (I can't remember why) and are attached to stones and sunk in the middle of the river.

Changing subject - I must note, before I forget, that I visited the cinema again recently (in Delhi) and saw a Hindi film called, 'Good Boy, Bad Boy.' It was about two university students, one a nerd the other a rascal, whose identities and lives become switched for some reason I couldn't quite fathom. The upshot is that the nerd learns to relax a bit and gets a girlfriend whilst the rascal learns the value of study and applying himself. In the climax of the film the nerd wins a dance contest and the rascal wins a quiz. The result is that by the end of the film we learn that, in the words of the college principal, 'there are no good boys and bad boys just smart boys.' His statement didn't seem entirely coherent to me but I took it to mean that although both main characters were cut of different dhoti cloths they were both still alright.

varanasi

I'm in Varanasi, one of the holiest places in India, and a location most Indians will try to visit at least once in their lifetime. I had a good journey across here from Khajuraho which has somewhat restored my buoyancy and mood. My bus left on time (3pm) and during the journey the conductor kindly moved me to a seat with good leg room just to be nice. It also rained about four hours in which broke the heat and made things more bearable, and helped me to fall asleep periodically on the shoulder of a strapping Spanish backpacker. On arrival (at 5.30am) a cycle rickshaw driver offered me a competitive price to my hotel and took me straight there with no messing about. In recognition I gave him a hefty tip and was genuinely appreciative. There are, it seems, some reasonable people around after all. I hope he had a nice day today. The hotel I checked into, the Alka Hotel, is nice. I've spent most of the day asleep in it getting over last night. The hotel is located in one of the old alleyways of the old city and looks out over a broad stretch of the Ganges. The river below is full much of the time with the strange mixture of Indian bathers frolicking with rubber rings (bathing in the Ganges is a great honour) amongst the ashes of freshly cremated corpses (being cremated in the Ganges is an even greater honour).

I didn't mention in my last blog that I made a friend in Khajuraho called Meike (she is German and has been working in Nepal but has taken some time off to visit India). We kept each other company for a few days and she also gave me a short novel called Are you experienced? by a guy called William Sutcliffe which has utterly consumed me. It's about 'Dave' who goes travelling in India (on much the same route as me and even in some of the same hotels) on his gap year in pursuit of a girl. He soon finds he can't stand her, backpackers, or India, and sets his powers of sarcasm to work in describing and deconstructing it all. It's very, very funny. There are descriptions of backpacker hostels as prison cells, being so hot you feel like you are cooking slowly from the inside, chapters with titles like 'what do backpackers do all day?' and effective character assassinations of all the middle class young people who came out here to find 'the real India' and act all new age, plus a good knocking of all the tourist operators. Dave also struggles to cope with India itself and is not backward in coming forward on the subject: 'I had heard the old cliché about how when you arrive in India it's like stepping into an oven. But this hadn't prepared me for the fact, that when you arrive in India, it is like stepping into an oven.' Meike's gone back to Nepal now, but it was an enjoyable interlude and she was good company.

I'm going to chill and wander in Varanasi for a couple of days now (tomorrow I'm going to visit an Indian university!) and from here I will carry on to Bodhgaya, which is where the tree is that Buddha sat under to achieve enlightenment and nirvana. It's the most sacred site in the world for Buddhists. The hotel are booking me a train ticket onwards so I don't have to go down to the station and go through all the hassle of trying to queue up in a country where queuing roughly equates to a group of people charging at ticket booths in the manner of a cattle stampede. Reminds me of another quote from Are you experienced? in which Dave is questioned by a grumpy Indian journalist on what he does whilst backpacking: 'so basically once you arrive somewhere your main interest and priority is booking tickets to leave to the next place?' Dave: 'yeah.'

the journey to khajuraho

I'm in Khajuraho in Madhya Pradesh. The journey down here was a real pain in the arse. It had been supposed to be a seven hour train journey from Delhi to Jhansi and then a five hour bus ride from Jhansi to Kahjuraho. It turned into two trains, three buses, and a ride in a jeep, took 35 hours non-stop, and a near nervous breakdown on platform 1 at Kota station in Rajasthan. The problems began when my train, which left Delhi at 5.30am on Monday, was diverted west (it should have been going east) following a train derailment further down the line, and it was several hours before I realised it was going completely the wrong way and several more before I could actually get off.

I eventually got off at a place called Kota and went to the enquiries desk to ask how I could get back to my train destination (Jhansi). I was passed around six officials in different parts of the station all of whom gave me drastically different information. In the end, after losing it with station master, I just walked out of the station not caring anymore where the hell I went and got in an autorickshaw and asked to be taken to the bus station in the hope that (a) there was a bus station and (b) it might have buses to Jhansi. There was. It didn't. But they did have a bus to a small town called Shivpuri (about eight hours away), and the man selling tickets thought there might be another bus on from there on to Jhansi. It was my only option so I bought a ticket. The bus didn't leave until 9pm (it was now about 4.30pm) so I went and had my haircut opposite the station and then sat down until the bus came.

An uncomfortable night followed in the impressively hot and cramped bus. I sat next to a woman at the back who spent most of the journey puking out of the window, and the lack of leg room meant my leg were killing me all the way. All I saw through the night was darkness except for when we drove by a brightly lit pesticide factory.

We finally made it to Shivpuri in the early hours and I discovered to my relief that there was a bus on to Jhansi. I boarded this and it left at 6am. By now I was beginning to find it hard to stay awake but just about managed. This bus took about three hours and arrived at about 9am. The bus jerked to a halt as we arrived and I gashed my hand on a nail sticking out of the seat in front me. As I tried to get a couple of plasters across my knuckles a merciless tout came up to me and, unable to give me even a few seconds to try to stem the blood flow, tried to sell me a hotel room. I advised him to 'f*ck off.' He obliged.

Once no longer bleeding, I went into the ticket office and found that the first bus I could get to Khajuraho (my final destination) left at 11am and would take a final five hours. I bought a ticket and went and sat out it out on the bus station kerb now feeling completely numb. The bus got within 30 kilometres of Khajuraho and for no reason that I could discern I was transferred to an overfull 'share jeep' which finally got me to end point Khajuraho at 4.30pm. I'm not precisely sure of the time because I was mildly delirious. I checked into the Surya Hotel around 5pm and breathed a massive sigh of relief.

Really the time I've spent here has been spent recovering from getting here, and quietly wandering the temples. The temples at Khajuraho are famed for their erotic sculptures but in actual fact not many are erotic. They are attractive structures, not as large as I'd imagine they'd be, but really once you've seen one of them you've seen them all. Khajuraho is good in that it is sleepy and quiet, but there's been more hassle from tourist industry types than I'd expected and I just haven't been in the frame of mind to deal with it.

I'm moving on again to Varanasi this afternoon. This will be a long journey too. I'm going to see how I go but if I arrive as exhausted as I did to here I'm going to halt my itinerary for a few days just to rest, recover, and to become less irritable. We'll see - may be I'll be fine, there'll be good leg room on the bus, I'll meet someone nice, and I'll be ready to go when I arrive. Like I said, we'll see.

the british in india

Yesterday's anniversary has started me wondering about British/Indian conflict and how the British came to be involved in India in the first place. Rather than consult the history books like any reasonable person I've used my imagination instead to work out what happened. Maybe it all went a little something like this... picture it... the Royal Court at Windsor... 1600... everyone in wigs...

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Queen Elizabeth I: Hello. And what do you do?

Chairman of the East India Company: Hello. I am the Chairman of the East India Company.

Queen Elizabeth I: That's a bit presumptuous isn't it. You haven't even discovered India yet have you?

Chairman of the East India Company: No, err, but we're pretty sure that...

Queen Elizabeth I: Yes, yes. And you say you want to establish a presence in India?

Chairman of the East India Company: Yes Maam*.

Queen Elizabeth I: Why?

Chairman of the East India Company: We have intelligence suggesting they have weapons of mass destruction.

Queen Elizabeth I: Jolly good. Off you go. We've no option really. The rest will be history...

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* Maam as in farm not Mam as in ham. Yes, I've seen 'The Queen' with Helen Mirren.

meera nom charlie ha

On this day, 150 years ago, there was a mass uprising in India against the British. It began in Uttar Pradesh with the mishandling of a rumour that army bullets were to be greased with cow fat and soon turned into a full on army mutiny culminating in the four month siege of Delhi. It was the beginning of the movement that lead to full independence in 1947, and also the beginning of an intervening 90 years of tightened, tyrannical, and more oppressive British control (the East India Company, a private company which had previously informally run things in India, was dissolved and the British Government proper stepped in to become the formal masters of India). It's a sensitive piece of history and as I was leaving my hotel this morning the manager said to me half-jokingly, 'maybe you should tell people you are Australian today.'

I've survived the morning so far and thought I'd take a break and write down what I've been up to for the last few days. Following on from Manali, I spent last weekend in Dharamshala and McLeod Ganj, which for the last fifty years has been home to the Dalai Lama. I say 'home' - he travels the world so frequently (to raise publicity for Tibet) I wonder he can call anywhere his home. I was unsurprised, but still disappointed, to hear that he was in Chicago on my arrival. I did visit the monastery complex in which he lives though, and I also took a walk down to a lovely waterfall nearby and sat with my feet in a rock pool. McLeod Ganj is a tourist circus and I found being there a rather up and down experience. It was inspirational to visit the residence of such a compassionate, kind and good humoured man, but something seemed not right about wealthy Europeans and Americans wandering to and from their Yoga classes and DVD cafes in the village, dodging and ignoring the street beggars (of whom there are many) and Tibetan refugees as they went. Michael Palin came to Dharamshala and McLeod Ganj to interview the Dalai Lama during his Himalaya series. He also noted the uneasy contrast between the tourists and the unfortunate during his visit: 'passing these wraith-like figures are the substantial, muscular, Western backpackers who home in on these places, looking for cheap accommodation while sporting designer shades that would cost a street mender six months' wages. Poverty is corrosive, but it's always worse when it is found side by side with wealth.' It's the fact that no-one seemed uncomfortable that made me feel uncomfortable if that makes sense.

For the last few days I've been in the Punjab at Amritsar, location of the famous and beautiful Golden Temple. The Golden Temple is the most important Sikh Gurdwara in existence and a work of exquisite beauty. The Hari Mandir (God's Temple) sits in the middle of a huge tank of water ('nectar') filled with languishing fish. It has four entrances, one on each side - indicating that all are welcome and encouraged to visit. A Sikh teenager toured me round the complex and also took me to the large communal kitchens where free meals are churned out for hundreds of people twenty four hours a day. I saw - and touched! - the famous chapati making machine and conveyor belt and then was taken to eat with the Sikh worshippers. It was a terrific experience. You must cover your head whilst inside the complex and I wore a rather unflattering bright orange bandana throughout making me look like a pirate at a rave.

Today, I'm still in Amritsar, and I've just been to the Hindu Mata Temple, which is a strange combination of religious building and adventure playground. To process around the Gods you have to go up and down corridors, crawl through small tunnels, across a little stream, and through mirrored rooms. Crazy Indians.

tibetan monk

I recently had the below encounter with a Tibetan Monk I met whilst walking back to my hotel in McLeod Ganj. It was early evening and I was wandering home after my dinner when he emerged, with a big friendly smile on his face, from one of the many restaurants...

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Monk: Hello!

Me: Hello.

Monk: (Holding up a boiled egg) I've just bought this boiled egg.

Me: Oh really. Is that your dinner?

Monk: Yes. I want to get stronger. I also go swimming every morning. To get fitter.

Me: Really? At the little pool up by the waterfall?

Monk: Yes. If I can get good enough maybe I can make it to Beijing in 2008 and swim in the Olympics.

Me: That would be good. But you'll have to work hard.

Monk: Yes. Then maybe I win and they give me gold medal.

Me: Would you take it? From the Chinese Government?

Monk: (Chuckling) No I'd say, 'thank you very much, you can keep the medal, just give me back my Tibet!'

shimla and manali

I left Mussoorie for Shimla last Sunday morning at 8.30am. First I caught a bus down the hillside and on to the nearby city Dehra Dun, and from there I picked up the 10.15am bus to Shimla. Unfortunately there were no seats available on the small bus and initially I had to stand. About an hour in the conductor called to me to come and sit up front with him and the driver in their compartment, which was very kind of him, and this gave me a great view for the rest of the journey as we slowly climbed through the hills and mountains towards Shimla on the ten hour journey.

We arrived in Shimla a little after 7pm, and once away from the bus I began ascending the alleyways and narrow roads up from the bus stand on foot to the centre (which is known as the Ridge) and on to the YMCA, which is where I decided I would stay. On my climb up a group of men asked me if I would stop to be photographed with them and I duly obliged. The YMCA has bags of character and I knew I would stay the minute I walked into the reception. Massive, painted bright fireman red on the outside, and with two wings it had the feel of a Victorian boarding school out of term. I was shown to an enormous room on the top floor and told that an English style breakfast was included in my room cost. It was mid-evening by this stage so once I'd unpacked I nipped out for a quick mutton rogan josh with a side order of anti-malarial tablet and then got off to bed.

Shimla was taken over by the British in 1819 and so popular had it become with the Raj set by 1864 that it was officially made the summer capital of India. Every summer the entire apparatus of Indian government was transferred up to Shimla. Described sometimes as a little bit of Cheltenham in India, Shimla is strung along a 12 kilometre ridge 2205 metres above sea level and has a population today of 144 900 people. It is designed as though an idyllic English village with mock-Tudor buildings attempting to recreate Old England, an illusion somewhat spoiled by the the many monkeys jumping around the rooftops.

Next day I woke refreshed and after my complimentary breakfast I walked several kilometres across the ridge to the Vice-Regal Lodge, which was once the summer home of the Viceroy of India, and from which he ruled one fifth of the world population. It's a delightfully peaceful stately home, which was built in the 1880s in Scottish Baronial style, and is now a university of sorts called the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies, or as my friend Nitesh put it: 'the Hogwarts of India,' a place for postgraduate study in the humanities. I was taken on a tour of the interior and saw the actual conference room where Gandhi, Mountbatten and Jinnah discussed (or perhaps failed to discuss) the partition of India, and the actual table on which Mountbatten agreed the partition line between India and the new Pakistan. A significant place where significant history was made. It was sobering being there. I walked back after, visiting on my way Christ Church (the second oldest church in Northern India), and then I climbed up to the Jakhu Temple which at 2455 metres above sea level is the highest point in Shimla. This made my legs hurt so once I got back down to rest and relax I wandered into the Ritz Cineplex to watch the evening showing of 'Ta Ra Rum Pum.' Day two in Shimla saw me take a long walk down to the Glen and the Shimla polo field, and then in the afternoon I walked over to the Himachal State Museum where most of the exhibits bored me with the exceptions of the beautiful Parhari miniature paintings and some fascinating letters sent by Mahatma Gandhi to Adolf Hitler in the 1930s, in essence asking him to calm down and have a re-think on things. It seems Hitler did not respond and history suggests he did not take the advice. That evening I went to the Ritz Discotheque, where I found myself in an empty cavernous room save for a man a woman and their baby and two men sat at the bar drinking whiskey. I saw one of them the next morning as I was walking to the bus station and he shouted at me, 'eh discotheque!' even though we had not actually spoken the night before. I shouted back the same and we gave each other a smile.

I left Shimla at 9.30am on Tuesday morning and sat next to Nitesh from Solan with whom I chatted throughout most of the ten hour journey. He was only 17 but seemed much older than his years. He is on the verge of entering university to study engineering and we talked a lot about the education system in India and about Indian films. We were joined early on in the journey by a small boy from the aisle who came and sat on my lap and periodically vomited out of the open window by which I was sitting. After a while he fell asleep, and after about an hour he and his Mum (who stayed in the aisle) got off to his relief. We arrived in Manali at around 7.30pm but not before being delayed for nearly an hour by a sheep and goat herd making its way along the highway. I arrived to find a town in a power cut, but still managed to grope my way from the bus station to the Hotel Pawan.

Manali sits in the northern end of the Kullu Valley at an elevation of 2050 metres above sea level and has a population 4400 people. The small town is surrounded by mountain peaks (the higher ones snowcapped) and a fast running clean river (Beas River) runs through the middle.

I've been a little less active in Manali than Shimla, partly because I've felt tired, but more because it has rained a fair bit. However, yesterday I did manage to visit the Hadimba Temple above the town, and the Tibetan Gompa to the south. This is a Tibetan monastery. I was allowed to go in to the main hall and watch the monks chanting in unison - which was a wonderful experience. I also walked up to Old Manali and had a quick look around. It's set in a pretty location just outside of town, but like the northern side of Rishikesh it's a ghetto for Western tourists - full of English people talking about their love of India whilst eating cheese omelette or pasta. I soon descended back to the town proper to be with the Indians and have dinner at a Punjabi restaurant. Today, my second here, I've been on a 10 kilometre walk through the Kullu Valley and a bit closer to the snow capped peaks I am able to see at all times on the horizon. My walk took me through the Tibetan Colony, and re-emphasised what I had been thinking in Mussoorie - that the exiled Tibetan communities up here don't exactly seem to be thriving. In fact they seem to be very poor indeed. It's all reminded me of the hill tribes up in Northern Vietnam - women with wizened faces plodding around with babies tied to their backs, the baby looking like it needs a good bath.

Tomorrow I move to Dharamshala and McLeod Ganj which for the last fifty years has been home to the Dalai Lama and the headquarters of the Tibetan Government in exile. It will be 10 more hours of riding through the hill roads of the Himalaya which can be no bad thing. My ticket says the bus leaves at 8.23am which seems very precise.

ta ra rum pum

Rajveer (known as R.V.) is your typical Indian New York cabbie in a largely Indian populated Hindi speaking New York. He is mad about driving fast cars and dreams of being a famous Nascar driver. With the help of his friend Harry he gets a shot at the New York Speedway. He wins his race and is hired as a race driver. This marks the beginning of his career in Nascar and he is soon the best racing driver in the field. Simultaneously he meets Shona, they fall in love, marry, and have two children, a son and a daughter, to whom they allot typically Indian names: Princess and Champ.

After eight successful years at the top of the Nascar leagues R.V. is faced with a rival. A new driver called Rusty hits the scene. Rusty is evil because his car is black and he smiles whenever someone gets knocked off the track (usually they get knocked off by him). In their first race together Rusty knocks R.V. (spectacularly) off the road and R.V. is hospitalised. He recovers but loses his confidence as regards future racing. After a string of failures, and not having saved for a rainy day, R.V is sacked from the team. The family house in the suburbs is repossessed, the family are forced to move to the Bronx in reduced circumstances, and R.V has to resume his old job as a lowly cabbie. Rather than admit reduced circumstances to their children R.V. and Shona tell them they are moving to the Bronx to take part in a reality show and that they must be brave if it seems a little tough at first. Initially the children are stupid enough to buy this utter bollocks. But later they realise what's going on and rather than discuss it with their parents they elect to stop eating lunch at school in order to save their lunch money to help their Mum and Dad out.

Champ eventually collapses and is hospitalised. He needs an operation (for what?) if he is going to survive and it is going to cost 65 000 US dollars. R.V. has no medical insurance so there is only one thing for it - he must go back to Nascar and race again to save his son. His old team, Speeding Saddles, won't take him back but his taxi driver friends and Harry club together enough money to get hold of a race car and become his team instead. A comeback race follows and at the beginning Rusty (remember he is evil) says 'this time I'll take R.V. off the road for good' and then laughs (an evil laugh). The race begins and things go back and forward. Rusty tries some underhand tactics but they fail because R.V. is too sharp. He has to be. His son's life is on the line. Just before the finish line R.V. rams Rusty. Rusty's car flips into the air and he is killed in an ensuing inferno. R.V. crosses the finish line and victory is finally his again. Everyone cheers, Champ simultaneously comes out of his coma, nobody cares that Rusty is dead (because he was evil), and everything goes swiftly back to normal. R.V. regains his dignity and the life that once was his.

This is a brief summary of 'Ta Ra Rum Pum,' the film I went to see last night at the Ritz Cineplex in Shimla. There were only about three of us in the large cinema but I think we all enjoyed it. I certainly did. The film was in Hindi without subtitles although occasionally sentences like, 'hey chill out ok,' would pop out in English. This helped me understand what was going on better. For example, there was one scene between Shona and her wealthy disapproving father in which she was telling him that she planned to marry R.V. and he was saying he didn't approve. I was struggling to get the jist of this but then he blurted out, 'but no college education,' I knew then what was going on. R.V. was played by a slightly too 'buff' for my liking Saif Ali Khan, and Shona was played by the extremely attractive actress Rani Mukerji. Harry, the mate, was played by the Indian comedian Jaaved Jaffrey. I enjoyed watching Jaaved Jaffrey the most although he is not in a lot of the film.

On an uncharitable day I might discuss various holes I noticed in the plot, and the unclear morality of the some the characters, but this is not such a day so I'll point out instead that the interspersed music and dance routines were terrific, and the high gloss filming of New York was terrific.

My favourite bit of the film came towards the beginning when R.V. is given his big shot. Shona (who at this point is playing hard to get) reluctantly goes to watch him and takes a seat in the middle of the 100 000 plus Nascar stadium crowd. R.V. shouts across from the pit: 'you came' and with seemingly superhuman powers of hearing she distinguishes his voice and hears his two word comment. Coyly, she says back: 'good luck cabbie,' and he, also endowed with superhuman hearing gives her a thumbs up and then tears off in his car to the start line and to victory.

mussoorie

Mussoorie, the third town I've visited in the northern state of Uttranchal, sits at an elevation of 2000 metres above sea level, and is a popular holiday destination for well to do Indians during the heat of the summer. It was established by the British in 1823 as a holiday retreat, and their imprint is very evident in the local architecture and public buildings. It takes an hour and a half to slowly climb the zigzagging road up here. Once you reach the top the air feels fresh, crisp, clean, and invigorating.

Mussoorie is an affluent place, and there's very little evidence of poverty. The town's 300 hotels do good business, and tourism seems to provide well enough for the 29 000 residents who live up here. Judging by the steepness of the lanes and pathways I assume that brake pad salesmen are amongst the wealthiest individuals in this hill top society.

The views are sublime. The brown, wrinkled Himalayan hills stretch all around (in winter they're snow capped) and make for mesmerising viewing. Closer by the lower hills are covered in healthy dark green pine trees and other vegetation.

I've been here for two days now, staying at the Hotel Broadway, an elegant green and white house with a glass windowed gallery on the first floor. It was built back in the 1880s, and my room (decorated around the same time I think - but still very charming) looks out across the hills. An uninterrupted view. Hotel Broadway is tucked away in a quiet corner of the town, and has proved a very relaxing place to stay.

Most of the time I've been out walking, either up and down through the pedestrian streets of the town, or along the roads which stretch out into the surrounding hills where I can seek out magnificent views and vistas. Yesterday I walked up Gun Hill to the highest point in Mussoorie (2500 metres). I had a cup of tea at the top and tried to disguise my irritation when I realised there was a cable car I could have come up in rather than slowly puffing and wheezing my way up the steep footpath. And later, whilst wandering, I stumbled on the homes of the Tibetan community here.

On the food front: I've tried rasmalai (dumplings made from cottage or riccotta cheese soaked in sweetened, thickened milk delicately flavored with cardamom and served chilled), and also some more varied types of parantha (bread) for my breakfast. Mussoorie can cater for all tastes: there are Punjabi restaurants, South Indian restaurants, Bengali sweet shops, Tibetan cafes, and a Dominos Pizza parlour. There are also a couple of bars up here where you can buy cool bottles of Kingfisher Beer. I've taken advantage of this.

But all good things must come to an end, and with a heavy heart I will move on tomorrow morning to my next destination: Shimla. It's going to take at least 12 hours to get across to what was the summer capital of the British Raj, and I'm quietly not confident the journey will be smooth, but the effort will be worth it I'm sure.

more rishikesh

Being in Haridwar and Rishikesh over the last four or five days has had a restorative effect on my energy and attitude, even if I seem to have been suffering with my old enemy hay fever since arrival. Especially relaxing has been Rishikesh. The calm streets and lack of hassle from street sellers, combined with the beautiful valley location, can't help but make you feel better. My visit has come at an opportune moment as I was beginning to get a bit frazzled by the intensity (and the growing heat) of India and some of the areas I've visited so far. A little battery re-charge has been happily welcomed and appreciated.

I haven't really been up to much in the last day or two (there's not much to get up to) but have managed a bit of a wander around the locality. Rishikesh divides into several small areas (I am staying in Lakshman Jhula on the northern edge of town) and yesterday I walked south to the Swarg Ashram part of town. Swarg Ashram is where the real spiritual action is in Rishikesh, and contains a higher ratio of Indians to idealistic Westerners than Lakshman Jhula. I wandered round the yoga centres, ashrams, and ghats and stopped for a cup of tea in one of the cafes for a break and to watch the world go by. It was very pleasant. Some of the ashrams looked very serene environments. I imagine they would be very tranquil places to retreat to.

I've spent most of my time here quietly reading A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess (I finished The Case of the Buried Clock a while back). The book is very short so I've actually finished it already. A very interesting read although I thought Burgess struggled a bit to bring the story to a satisfactory conclusion. I've also been reflecting a little on what I plan to do when I return home and my 'travelling phase' finally ends. I think I'm getting my head round things, but I won't bore you with the details right now.

Tomorrow I leave for Mussoorie which is slightly further north into the foothills of the Himalaya. It shouldn't take too long getting up there although it will take two buses to reach. I hope without basis that the transfer from the first bus to the second will be painless, smooth, and not too prolonged. Mussoorie should be even cooler than here, perhaps even cooler than the UK from what I've been hearing.

rishikesh

If I keep eating Indian sweets at the same rate as I am now I'm going to come back to the UK as big as a mandir. It's hard not to when there's such a variety on offer and they all look so appetising. Laddu is becoming a particular favourite.

I went to the cinema in Haridwar yesterday to see a Bollywood film: 'Shakalaka Boom Boom.' I enjoyed the film, which is set in New York (a New York where everyone is Indian including the entire NYPD) and stars Bobby Deol, Upen Patel, Celina Jaitley and Kangana Ranaut. I managed to follow the plot most of the way through, and had bits and pieces explained to me by the people sitting around me as it went on, although it did get a little complicated at the end. The film is about the rivalry between two successful singer/composers called A.J. and Reggie and their competition to be number one in the cut-throat music industry. Hopefully it will be the first of many Bollywood films I go to see. One of the characters in the film was played by Dalip Tahil who was briefly in Eastenders a few years back (as character Dan Ferreira). I didn't like him in Eastenders, although frankly he didn't have much to work with, but he did do a good job in this film. I thought it funny that in the first film I go and see he should pop up. The atmosphere in the dirt floored cinema was great, but it could have done with air conditioning.

This was actually my second attempt to go to the cinema: last week I tried to go and see 'Namaste London' in Delhi but was refused admission to my seat because I had a camera. I'm glad I've got up and running now cinema-wise.

I've sent out some postcards to my family this morning. I've been finding it difficult to find any worth putting in the post, but have just about managed to buy some half decent ones. I'm not overly confident they'll arrive judging by the way the postmaster at the post office chucked them on his desk earlier today, but here's hoping and let it not be said that I didn't try.

I've left Haridwar now and moved on to nearby Rishikesh. I arrived this morning at 11am. A bus was leaving Haridwar station as I walked in and it only took an hour to get up here. It's in a prettier location than Haridwar (a lush tree lined valley through which runs the Ganges), but - rather than being a holiday spot for Indian tourists - it's full of Europeans/Americans with dreadlocks, acoustic guitars, and roll up cigarettes (types generally prone to annoy me). Rishikesh is often called the yoga capital of the world and is where The Beatles famously came in the 1960s to stay with the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Even though ultimately things didn't work out (in fact they turned r-r-rather sour) they were later followed by Mike Love of The Beach Boys, Donovan, more recently by Kate Winslet, and now most recently by me. In contrast to the late George Harrison, I'm going to steer clear of the ashrams and chanting and plan to spend my time admiring the view and watching the river flow by in the valley below.

My Mum might like to note that I haven't forgotten to take a single anti-malaria tablet since I arrived in India. I've made it a target to get all the way to 26 July without forgetting a single one. Keep also meaning to record that I had my haircut (in Bikaner) a couple of weeks ago including a head massage and the total bill was only 25p. The lad did a good job too.

more delhi and onwards north

I've used some quite varied forms of public transport since 26 March. I've been on buses, trains, in taxis, on the back of a motorcycle, around town in cycle-rickshaws, and through city streets in more than my fair share of auto-richshaws (or tuk tuks as they are known). On Thursday I added a ride in an HM Ambassador to the list. The HM Ambassador is an Indian manufactured vehicle based on the design of the 1948 Morris Oxford. Despite the British origin, the Ambassador is one of the transport emblems of India and until recently was even used as the official car of the Prime Minister and India's political glitterati. Ambassador's are mostly used as tourist carriers and government cars, are generally white, although some in Delhi are yellow and black, and have bouncy soft bench seats in both the front and the back. The one I rode in was gas powered. Check them out: http://www.hmambassador.com/

I travelled in a white Ambassador from the centre of Delhi out to Qutb Minar, a 73 metre high tower begun in 1193. It has a 15 metre diameter at the base tapering to just two and a half metres at the top. It looks like a big red chimney. After Qutb Minar I went on to Purana Qila (the Old Fort) and Humayan's Tomb (which predates the Taj Mahal and shares many of the same design features). I still have two more sights in Delhi I want to visit: Jama Masjid (the largest Mosque in India) and Raj Ghat (where Mahatma Gandhi was cremated), but I'll slot these in on my third and final visit to the capital in about three weeks time.

I arrived in Haridwar last night after a five hour train journey up from Delhi which for some reason I found a rather uncomfortable experience. I'm staying at the Krishna Guesthouse, and find myself a few hundred metres from the Ganges. It's a little bit cooler up here and there seems to be less hassle to endure from drivers and sellers which I find a great relief. This morning I had vada samba (Indian doughnuts) and tea for breakfast. My first time and I thought them very tasty. The street front chef who served them to me got quite exasperated whilst trying to teach me how to pronounce their name. The situation wasn't helped by his altering pronunciations...

Chef: wada!

Me: vada?

Chef: (louder) no, yada!!

Me: wada??

Chef: (louder) v-a-d-a!!!

Me: yada???

Chef: (louder) WADA!!!!

Me: vada????

Chef: (given up) ok, now you pay.

bikaner and back to delhi

Following on from my previous blog entry: I've left Jaisalmer, moved on to Bikaner, had a look round, and have now moved on from there by night train to Delhi. I'm in Delhi right now. Back where I started three and a half weeks ago.

I went to Bikaner primarily to visit the Karni Mata Temple which is also known as the Temple of Rats. It's a rather macabre place inhabited as the name suggests by hundreds and hundreds of rats. According to legend Karni Mata asked Yama (God of Death) to restore to life the son of a grieving storyteller. Yama refused and in revenge Karni Mata reincarnated all dead storytellers as rats, depriving Yama of human souls. Karni Mata Temple is a memorial to all this, and the rats are highly revered. Many Indians make pilgrimage to Deshnok the village where it is located. It's certainly different.

Visiting didn't prove as straightforward as I had hoped. Karni Mata is 30km outside of Bikaner and to get there you must catch a bus from an area called Goga Gate. Goga Gate was too far to walk from my hotel, and more importantly I didn't have a clue how to get there, so I decided to take a Tuk Tuk. We got about three quarters of the way when the driver pulled up and said he wasn't going any further. I'd had my nose in my Lonely Planet and asked him why on earth not? He pointed ahead of us. I looked up. Massive and fearsome plums of smoke billowed from what must of been enormous flames straight ahead of us. The stretch of town in front of us seemed to be an inferno, and people were fleeing the area. It was quite frightening and naturally I didn't want to go any further. 'Is there another way round to the bus station?' I asked him. 'Er, that is the bus station,' he replied.

I had no option but to give up for the day and went instead to see the sandstone Junagarh Fort (on the opposite side of town). When I arrived I was told it was compulsory that I tour the Fort with a free guide. The guide I had misheard when I said my name 'Charlie' and spent the tour referring to me as 'Jelly.' It got hard at some stages to keep my face straight.

The following day I did make it to Karni Mata. I took off my shoes and stepped into the domain of the rats. I'd imagined a floor seething with millions of rats (like a scene in an Indiana Jones film) but it wasn't quite that full on. Having said that though there were a lot of rats, and they were all pretty much immobilised by the hot weather except for a few feeding from large silver bowls of food that had been laid out for them. I didn't stay too long (not because I didn't like it but because the place was quite small) and waited for the bus back in a sweet shop opposite the temple. I made the wait an opportunity for an Indian sweet taste tester session.

Ultimately I didn't have a lot of time for Bikaner itself, particularly the poor quality roads and the congestion, but they do have a beautiful Fort/Palace - I'm happy to give them that. Whilst in town I stayed at the Hotel Deluxe. To my surprise my dingy room had a black and white television set, and on the first of my two evenings in town I relaxed and watched a re-run of the film 'Dick Tracy' starring Warren Beatty, Al Pacino, and Madonna plus half of the film 'Beethoven.'

I slept like a log on the train ride from Bikaner to Delhi last night and can't tell you how much I appreciated the cool air which flowed in from the open windows (my room in at the Hotel Deluxe was oppressively hot). I left Bikaner at 7.40pm on Tuesday evening and arrived at Old Delhi train station at about 8am on Wednesday morning. Not much of note happened during the evening except for one incident - a man approached me and asked me for my autograph. I was, of course, happy to oblige. After all, I wouldn't be where I am if it wasn't for all my fans.

My return to Delhi means I've concluded the first segment of my trip and now it is time to begin the second, which is to head north of Delhi and explore parts of Uttranchal, Himachel Pradesh, and the Punjab. On Wednesday I'm catching the train up to Haridwar which was recommended to me by my friend and former work colleague Celine. I'm very much looking forward to getting out of this extreme heat for a while and catching my first glimpse of the Ganges. This is the part of the trip I'm looking forward to the most because I'll be going towards the edge of the Himalayas and into a more hilly/mountainous environment which really is my favourite kind of location.

Check out the picture of me riding on top a camel in my photos section - that's another one off the checklist and a photo to prove it. The camel was called Bublo and he was pretty comfortable to ride on although when he got up off the ground it was kind of frightening - if you're not careful you could get tossed in the air like a pancake.

jaisalmer

Day 20. Jaisalmer. I'm still getting to grips with the idea of eating with my hands (or to be precise with my right hand) in India. As you may know the knife and fork is not part of traditional Indian culture. My friend's Dad has summed up the philosophy of this succinctly saying: 'eating with a knife and fork is like speaking through an interpreter.' I don't mind eating with my hands but I make such a hopeless mess each time I try. I've begun to wonder which is more culturally insensitive: asking for a knife and fork or throwing curry and rice all over the table, floors, walls, and sometimes even the staff of the restaurant. I'm going to keep trying for the moment. Perhaps it is an art which can be crafted.

It was another interesting bus journey getting here. I'm almost finding the journeys more interesting than the destinations at the moment. On the bus I sat next to Vini (Vinita) a detached female social worker and HIV counsellor working across the Punjab, Rajasthan, and Gujarat. We had a good chat and I was able to ask her lots of questions about her job and quite a bit about how people with HIV and AIDS are treated in India (she felt that they receive adequate medical treatment but are mostly treated as outcasts by society). Vini is one of the first women I've been able to talk with at length, and she held very progressive views on social issues. During the bus journey we overtook about fifty army trucks carrying tanks. I joked they must be on the way to attack Pakistan and got laughs back which were a bit too hearty for my liking.

In many ways being in Jaisalmer is like being in a fairytale. The old Fort rises out of the desert and contains most of the city. Jaisalmer is set just back from the Pakistan border, and sometimes it may not rain here for up to seven years at a time. There has been a castle here for almost a 1000 years, and it stands as one of the world's oldest 'living' forts. The people of Jaisalmer also have the South East Asian disease of mangling the English in their signs and advertising: amongst others I've seen a photography shop offering 'mammary cards' and a chilled beer shop advertising the sale of 'child beer.' Sadly the beautiful and romantic buildings are not being conserved with the care that they should be, and there has been a lot of pulling about of the brick and original features to incorporate Internet cafes, restaurants, and hotels. There are also more serious problems created by the inadequate and overworked drainage system which is causing the foundations of the Fort to gradually collapse. Jaisalmer has been placed on the World Monuments Watch list of the 100 most endangered sights of historical importance in the world. Since arrival I've spent a fair bit of time inside Jaisalmer Fort including visiting the Maharaja Palace and the wonderful but small complex of Jain Temples, and I've also been inside the Laxminath Hindu Temple. Outside the Fort I've been down to the Gadi Sagar, a lake just outside the city walls, and the Havelis - three sandstone houses built by wealthy Jaisalmer merchants in times of prosperity. I've been hanging out a bit with an English girl called Gemma (from Bristol) who I met back in Jodhpur. This afternoon I'm venturing out into the desert to ride a camel and to watch the sunset over the sand dunes.

I've been staying at the Mehrangarh Hotel which is just outside the Fort. It has good points and bad points. I'm sharing my room with an enormous but unsociable gecko.

I've been reviewing my budget this morning and am pleased to find that I've stuck with ease to my 10 pounds a day target. In fact I've been underspending a bit. I'm having no bother withdrawing money at ATM machines and have slowly acquired an idea of how much rupees are worth and what fair prices are for most things.

I've just finished reading Our Man in Havana and have moved on to reading The Case of the Buried Clock by Erle Stanley Gardner. You may well have heard of the main character in the book: Perry Mason. Recently I was helping my grandmother to clean out a cupboard in her spare bedroom and we found the old yellowed book at the bottom of a cardboard box. Like the rest of the useless crap Grandma had stored up she couldn't remember owning it and had no use for it either and so asked me if I wanted it to read. I thought I'd give it a go and have been really enjoying the detective tale so far. It was printed back in 1958 and inside the cover is written in pencil 'Mr St Bezant, 45 Melbourne Road, Ipswich.'

My next stop (and my last in Rajasthan) is Bikaner. I leave tomorrow morning at 6am and will make the seven hour journey by bus.