alleppey and kovalam

Still in Kerala. On Saturday I travelled south from Fort Cochin to Alappuzha, which is more commonly known as 'Alleppey.' It took about three and a half hours by bus. It was raining at the beginning of the journey, but by the time we arrived the rain had stopped and I was able to make my way to my hotel without getting drenched. Alleppey is the gateway to the Kerala backwaters. The town itself is unremarkable with little of note to see or do, but that's not why you go there. You go there to board the boat of your choice, and chug off into the serene network of canals and rivers which stretch for miles around. I stayed at the KTC Homestay Guesthouse, which was located on a footpath by the north canal and not far from the bus station. It was a quiet place and they provided me with a clean nicely decorated room. On Sunday I boarded my boat, a small passenger ferry, and spent the day on the water, travelling from Alleppey to Kottayam and back again. This took about six hours in total. Lucky for me the weather was good and it didn't rain at all. The sun was even out. Shiva, it seems, decided to spare me. The scenery was wonderful and so peaceful - calm rivers and green banks covered in palm trees and other vegetation. Little or no noise except the chugging of the boat and the noise of the wildlife in the undergrowth. Some of the island villages we rode through were quite seriously flooded following recent heavy rainfall, but nobody on shore seemed to be bothered about it. I suspect it happens every year, and is just part of the cycle of life.

Yesterday I left Alleppey and travelled further south by bus to the coast and Kovalam. I could have stayed longer on the waterways and backwaters if I'd hired a private boat for myself but I wagered that the weather wouldn't hold, and thought that I'd had a lovely day already - having seen some lovely scenery on the passenger ferry - and that I'd leave it at that. I also thought I would feel a prat on a private boat by myself all day, or that I'd get bored. So it was on to Kovalam. Kovalam is at the very bottom of Kerala (and also the very bottom of India). It's the most popular beach resort in the state. I'm staying at the Seaview Palace Hotel on the beach front and my room has a balcony which looks out on to the Arabian Sea. It's a lovely hotel, a marvellous location, and the room tariffs have been slashed by two thirds because it is 'off season.' The weather is still holding out and I'm enjoying being by the warm beach and the pleasant sunshine. The small beach is very developed and has very dark (almost black) sand but the place retains great charm in spite of this. It's just me and a few other tourists down here. We give each other smiles and looks smugly indicating: 'see - everyone said not to come down here at this time of year but we knew better.' Actually, it hasn't all been good. Last night at 8.20pm I found a massive cockroach (about three inches long) in my room. Following initial combat manoeuvres I eventually managed to spirit him out of my hotel room door using a complimentary bath towel as a weapon. Not before half an hour of buggering about though. I've passed a security resolution in my mind allowing me to use extreme force where necessary in future circumstances of this type and I'll issue a warning now: cockroach; if you decide to come back a second time:

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THERE WILL BE NO MERCY

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So what next? On my way down to Kovalam I stopped off in Thiruvananthapuram (Trivandrum) and bought a train ticket to Madurai in Tamil Nadu for the evening of 28 June. I'll sleep on the train and arrive in Madurai around breakfast time. This will be the next place that I visit.

This will mark the beginning of my fifth and final section of travel in India. If you've been following this blog you may remember that in Delhi, just after I arrived, I sat down and worked out the route through India for myself, and came up with a plan which divided my journey into five separate sections. These were:

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(1) starting in Delhi to make a circuit west through Rajasthan eventually returning to Delhi,

(2) to then make an anti-clockwise circuit of the states north of Delhi (Uttranchal, Himachal Pradesh, and the Punjab) again eventually returning to Delhi,

(3) to travel east from Delhi all the way to Kolkata and the east coast calling at a number of places along the way,

(4) to travel southwest down the length of the country eventually reaching Kerala and ultimately Kovalam,

(5) and finally, to travel from Kovalam northeastwards to Chennai (formerly Madras) and then from there northwest until Mumbai (formerly Bombay) from which I will return to the UK.

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So the first four are now all finished and it just remains to complete section five over the next four weeks before my flight home on 26 July 2007. The end is almost in sight.

only in india

Two recent and bizarre stories in the Indian news...

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(1) 14 May 2007: right-wing Hindu activists illegally break in to a university art gallery and vandalise Gujarati student Chandra Mohan's art work. They claim that Mohan's work is 'obscene and distasteful' because it shows images of naked men. The police act swiftly and arrest... the artist Chandra Mohan. Mohan is finally released on bail after being imprisoned for four days. The dean of the arts faculty at the university is also suspended for opposing the arrest.

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(2) 21 June 2007: The 15-year-old son of two doctors performs a filmed Caesarean section birth under his parents’ watch in southern India in an apparent bid to gain a spot in the Guinness Book of World Records as the youngest ever person to perform surgery. His father, Dr Murugesan, says this is not the first surgery performed by his son and that he has been 'training him for the last three years' because he wants to see his son’s name in the Guinness Book of World Records.

indian bars

Like many people, whilst travelling abroad I like to take the occasional break for a relaxing cold beer and this practice has led me to discover a rather unique Indian institution during the last three months: the provincial Indian bar.

Most provincial Indian bars are down at heel places located on the ground floors, or basements, of small to moderate sized hotels. Typically they are dark and dingy places with no natural light and a depressing air. The bar room itself will either be purposefully windowless or, if there are windows, they will have been boarded up. To add to the effect the lighting will be low and dim. Sometimes ridiculously low. I went into a bar in Bhubaneswar (the Park Inn) and was told I could only sit at the table by the glass entry door because if I sat anywhere else it would be impossible for me to read the drinks menu or see my drink. Air conditioning is compulsory and it is set at temperatures which would make a penguin shiver and a brass monkey cry. The amount of time you can spend in the bar is always limited by concern of catching frostbite. Just visible on the floors, walls, and the table you sit at, will be small cockroaches scurrying up and down, and now and again - inevitably - across your hand. They will be present no matter how clean or modern the bar seems to be.

An Indian bar may or may not be busy. Whatever, the clientele will be male only. The men seem always to congregate in a party of three. They generally have moustaches and look a bit shifty (Roald Dahl said never to trust men with facial hair: 'what are they trying to hide?'). Often the men in the bar will sit opposite one another in silence. The main noise comes from the Hindi film on the television mounted behind the bar, and the drone of the air conditioning unit on full power.

The drink of choice in the bar will be whiskey and water (a plastic bottle of water shared). 'Teachers' and 'Black Label' seem popular whiskey brands. I will be the only person present drinking a beer. There will be a lot of cigarette smoking and the air will be thick with smoke. Snacks like bombay mix and nuts will be distributed amongst the tables free of charge, and if your hand can grope its way blindly to the plate these will be a tasty treat.

You do not really order drinks at the bar. You sit at a table and waiters serve you. There will be about five waiters, even in small bars, and the place will have the feeling of being overstaffed. If you are British, like me, they will probably all want to talk to you about David Beckham or possibly cricket.

The Lonely Planet sums Indian bars up by saying: 'the typical drinking hole is a seedy affair and not the kind of place thirsty female travellers should venture into alone.' Yes this is true, and seedy they may be, but I must confess that I've grown rather attached to them somewhere along the line, due I think to familiarity, and I look forward to drinking a few more dimly lit Kingfisher Light beers before I return to the UK and the brash glare of 'Edwards' or 'Bar 38.'

For the record, probably my favourite bar in India has been The Tavern in Mussoorie.

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NB: you can also drink alcohol in posh five star hotel bars of course, and sometimes also restaurants have alcohol licences. I have generally avoided both as drinking venues in favour of the local bars described above.

ooty and onwards to kerala

I meant to update the blog yesterday but I was drunk on coconut beer so judged it best to leave it. More of that in a moment.

On Monday I left Mysore by bus and made the five hour journey south to Udghagamandalam, more commonly known as 'Ooty,' a hill station in the Nilgiri Hills which sits at an elevation of 2240 metres above sea level. Ooty turned out to be rather a disappointment and I stayed only one full day. It lacks the beauty and magnificent views of the Himalayan hill stations in the north, and the pretty old Raj-era buildings which made the place famous have given way to a rather dirty and unplanned modern urban sprawl. It also rained most of the time I was there, which contributed to the atmosphere being rather glum and gloomy. Whilst in town I visited the Botanical Gardens, St Stephen's Church, the Centenary Rose Park, the Thread Garden, and the Boathouse and Lake. I also met a local farmer in the Sanjay Hotel Bar during the evening (I never caught his name) and he invited me to the cinema with him. I agreed and we went to see the newly released 'Sivaji' starring Tamil superstar Rajini. The film has been all over the news during the last couple of weeks, because it has the honour of being the most expensive Indian movie ever made. It has taken Rajini almost two years to produce it. It took me almost as long to watch it, and it was brilliant. Rajini is quite a piece of work, and deserves a separate blog entry (which I will write at a later date).

On Wednesday I moved, again by bus, into Kerala arriving at my destination, Fort Cochin, after an eleven hour journey involving two buses, an autorickshaw, and a cross harbour ferry. The journey down through the hills and then into the wonderful lush green overgrowth and waterways of Kerala was stunning. Kerala is packed solid with tall palm trees which make way only for clean looking rivers of all sizes or odd clearings for rice fields. It's a very beautiful part of the country, and I am already pondering whether this might be one of the most beautiful areas I've ever been to. It's also a very progressive area of India: Kerala had the first democratically elected communist government in the world, the land is distributed with some equality, infant mortality rates are low, and there is a healthy arts and painting tradition here combined with a 91% literacy rate (the highest in India). It's an eclectic place very unlike the rest of India: one of India's only synagogues is to be found here, as are Chinese fishing nets, mosques, Dutch palaces, and Hindu temples. Fort Cochin itself is a small island just a few hundred metres off the Keralan coastline, an unlikely blend of medieval Portugal (Portugese traders have played a big part in Keralan history), Holland, and an English country village. Most people traverse the narrow streets either on foot or by bicycle, and the atmosphere is peaceful and quiet (more so because it is off season) and rich with history. I am staying at the Elite Hotel. The hotel is nice but the staff have marred this by treating me with obvious indifference (perhaps because it is off season?). Since my arrival I've visited the Pardesi Synagogue, Jew Town, Mattancherry Palace, St Francis Church, Santa Cruz Basilica, and the Chinese fishing nets. Fort Cochin is one of the only places in India to have a Jewish community. Alan Whicker came here 30 years ago and filmed a documentary about them which I watched just before I left the UK for India. He remarked at the time that they were dying out and few in number. Well, they're still here 30 years later, still holding on in India, although today in 2007 the community numbers only seven people and the Pardesi Synagogue does not have an attached Rabbi.

On the ferry over to Fort Cochin I met a man called Pai who struck up a conversation by asking me about the Beatles. He walked me to my hotel from the ferry and I visited him at his family home yesterday afternoon. We both got drunk on toddy (the famous Keralan alcoholic drink made from sap tapped from coconut palm trees). Pai gave me my first glass of the stuff saying, 'yours is the freshest, you've got the fly.' I looked down to see a dead fly in my drink. Pai smiled. I braced myself, and drank. It's potent stuff with a bit of a burning after taste. I had a lovely afternoon chatting with him amongst other things about his love of Mr Bean. His mother and grandmother were also at home but they spoke no English so Pai either translated for me or we communicated more simply through gurning facial gestures. They seemed delighted that I had visited them in their two room, blue, tin roofed, village home. I scored points with Pai's Mum by asking whether or not she liked Rajini - she turned out to be a massive fan. I retired back to my hotel around 5pm before I drank too much and couldn't find my way back, and pleased that I had finally visited a 'real' Indian home.

The monsoon has hit Kerala hard and I have been quite amazed at the amount of rain that has fallen since my arrival here. It's rained and rained and rained. I've had to make my visits and investigations during the breaks and recesses. It can go two or three hours before it buckets down which is sufficient time for me to get about, and so far it has all worked fine. While it is raining I watch from a cafe or read in my hotel. Just watching and witnessing this level of rainfall is in itself an interesting experience.
Tomorrow I will move an hour south to Allappuzha, which is better known as Alleppey, and then after a day or two there south to one of the Keralan beaches - most probably Kovalam.

mysore

Before leaving for Mysore I saw another film at the cinema called, 'The Train.' It's set in Bangkok and is about a man called Vishal (played by Emraan Hashmi). He is married with a child (who needs a kidney transplant) and works in advertising. His life has become intolerably dull and mundane, and he's bored and listless. He meets a woman called Roma Kapoor on the Bangkok Skytrain (she's played by Geeta Basra) and they embark on an affair. He is then blackmailed by a third party psychopath (played by Aseem Merchant) who has caught on to their adultery. The end has a twist which I didn't see coming - it turns out that Roma and the psychopath are in cahoots and have conned Vishal. I thought it was a very good film although the reviews I've read online unanimously disagree with me. The film is a re-working of the Clive Owen film 'Derailed.' I sat on the edge of the aisle in the cinema. About half way through the movie a black cat casually wandered by me, continuing to the screen where it sat down and went to sleep.

So, anyway, I'm in Mysore now. It's much smaller than Bangalore or Hyderabad, with a population of around 750 000, but it has a big history to delve into. The big attraction is the Maharajah's Palace which must be one of the most beautiful in India. The city streets are well planned tree lined boulevards and there's plenty of feeling of space. The climate is easy but the sky is rather grey today. Rain has been forecast but has not come.

Curiously people keep coming up to me on the street here to ask if I have been to, or heard of, Glastonbury. I must have been asked about the Somerset village by at least ten different individuals. Why!? I suppose there has to be some connection, but I can't fathom what it might be. Perhaps Michael Eavis, the event organiser, has a second home in Mysore? Or maybe the Glastonbury Festival donates to charitable works in the area and has a high profile amongst the local community? Maybe there's no connection and it's all a coincidence? Who knows?

I've visited the Maharajah's Palace, the Jaganmohan Palace (which is an art gallery) and the Devaraja Market since I arrived yesterday morning. The Maharajah's Palace, which was built between 1897 and 1912 (the previous palace burnt down), was designed by an Englishman, Henry Irwin, in Indo-Saracenic style. The design is a blend of Hindu, Islamic, and European styles, and the building is vast. It is without doubt my favourite palace so far and one of the most spectacular buildings I think I've ever seen.

This morning I also finished reading Mahatma Gandhi's autobiography. It gives you a good outline of his philosophy of life and an interesting account of his early life. There's a lot to admire and I can't fault most of his rigorous logic. I think he was a sincere and fair minded man who contributed greatly to India and the world through his public work. I'd like to read a critical biography of him now though as I suspect there was more to the Mahatma than met the eye. I've noticed he's been referred to as 'cunning as a fox,' 'politically shrewd,' and 'ruthless' by various commentators and I'd like to research into this further. But for now I'll move on to my next book The Nehrus and the Gandhis by Tariq Ali.

inventory of my backpack/possessions

1. MAIN BACKPACK

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Clothing: 1 pair of running shoes, 1 pair of sandals, 1 towel, 3 shirts, 4 t-shirts, 2 pairs of cargo shorts, 5 pairs of boxer shorts, 2 pairs of cotton 'trunk' underpants (for extra comfort), 7 handkerchiefs, 1 pair of jeans, 1 jumper, 1 pair of swimming trunks, 1 pair of running shorts, 3 pairs of socks, 1 sarong, and 1 rain coat.

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Misc. articles: 1 medical pack, 1 sewing kit, 2 spare batteries, 1 battery charger, 1 plug adapter, 1 torch, 1 bottle of travel wash, 1 eye mask, 2 bottles of suntan lotion, 2 pens (1 black and 1 blue), 1 packet of dioralyte tablets, 1 packet of Imodium tablets, 1 wash bag, 1 bottle of shower gel, 1 bottle of shampoo, 1 roll on deodorant, 1 bottle of shaving gel, 1 Gillette Mach 3 razor (the best a man can get), 4 spare razor blades, 1 toothbrush, 1 tube of toothpaste (ayurvedic), 1 container of dental floss, 1 tube of mosquito lotion, and 1 mosquito net.

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2. AUXILIARY 'HOLLYOAKS' SMALL BAG

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1 camera (Fujifilm Finepix 5.1 mega pixel), 1 USB cable, 1 notebook for recording day to day tasks, 1 bottle of anti-malarial tablets, 1 Lonely Planet, 4 more books: An Autobiography by Mahatma Gandhi, The Nehrus and the Gandhis by Tariq Ali, Milosevic by Adam LeBor, and Improve Your Grammar by John Seely, 1 calculator, and 1 purple plastic folder containing the following: 1 vaccinations book, 1 photocopy of my passport, 10 spare passport photos, 1 set of Barclays Bank cardholder protection documents, 1 set of personal insurance details, 1 copy of my flights details, and there is also 1 smaller transparent pouch in which I have been collecting my ticket stubs and the like.

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3. MONEY BELT

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1 passport, my current withdrawn rupees, all ATM receipts, some pounds sterling, some US dollars, some travellers cheques, and my most recent bus or train ticket (at the moment a train ticket to Mysore).

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4. WALLET

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Money for the day, 1 Barclays debit card, 1 UK driving licence, 1 Citizencard ID, and a 1 bit of paper with emergency contact details for Barclays Bank.

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5. MISC OBJECTS

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1 wristwatch (a Casio F-91W made in Malaysia) and a partridge in a pear tree.

bangalore

Bangalore is the capital of Karnataka. It's populated by almost six million people, sits at an elevation of 920 metres above sea level, and according to the Lonely Planet, 'is regarded as one of India's most progressive cities - fast food joints, yuppie bars, sophisticated lounges and high end malls are the ever-changing flavours of the day. Things that are taboo elsewhere are increasingly seen here.' Bangalore's wealth stems from the 1960s when telecommunications industries were established here. In the intervening 50 years it has built a reputation as a science and technology centre and is now known as India's 'Silicon Valley.' I arrived yesterday following a 12 hour night train down from Hyderabad. I'm staying at the Royal Lodge on Subedar Chatram Road, not far from the train station. It's more modest than it sounds but still perfectly acceptable. I like Bangalore a lot. It has similarities to Hyderabad but more greenery: more parks and more tree lined avenues. The weather here is good too. While Delhi sizzles, Bangalore feels pleasantly warm and for the moment the sky is clear.

This morning I went out sightseeing. The first place I went to was the Tipu Sultan Palace. This was the summer home of Tipu Sultan (also known as 'the Tiger of Mysore') who, if ITV is to be believed, was killed by none other than Private Richard Sharpe (also known as Sean Bean) in 1799. I'm not sure things really happened that way but it is true that Tipu Sultan was subject to constant aggravation from the British in real life. In fact it is a matter of public record that he developed quite a hatred of us: he even had a life size wooden toy made of a tiger eating a British soldier. When you wind it up it the arms of the soldier flail up and down as if in pain while the tiger bites down on his neck and makes growling noises.

After the Palace I went on to see the Fort, Central Market, the Bull Temple, and Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. I got some interesting photos at the Central Market. Aside from the colourful tikka powder which is on display in large conical piles, it seems every stall holder in the market is an aspiring photographic model and I had people begging me take photos of them at every turn. I got some interesting shots which I will upload as soon as I get a chance.

Tomorrow I will visit Cubbon Park which has on site several museums, and MG (Mahatma Gandhi) Road which is where all the upmarket coffee shops, bars, and malls are. This will conclude my 'work' in Bangalore. The following morning (Friday) I catch the 6.30am train to Mysore.

A note on housekeeping: I've had to use the sewing kit my Auntie Margaret bought me for the fourth time in as many weeks today. My shorts are showing considerable signs of fatigue and holes keep emerging in various areas, most annoyingly in the pockets. But my handiwork seems to have done the trick for the time being, so let's hope they can make it to the end. I do hope they are able to make it to the end.

hyderabad

If the rest of India was more like Hyderabad it would be doing very well for itself indeed. From the moment my train pulled into Secunderabad Station I've liked it here. Hyderabad is somehow cleaner and better organised than any other town or city I've visited so far in India, and there's a more laid back and relaxed feeling despite the fact that it's a city of over five million people. After I arrived I checked in to Hotel Suhail near Abids Circle which has proved an excellent deal and is also ideally placed.

On Saturday I spent the day at Ramoji Film City, the largest film studio in India, which is located about an hour outside of Hyderabad. It was a fascinating experience. The complex occupies 800 hectares and has all kinds of film sets ranging from a London street (which looks nothing like a London street) to a fake Taj Mahal. All the big Indian film stars have made movies here and many of the big blockbuster movies feature scenes shot on Ramoji film sets. I went on a bus tour of the lots which included stopping off at the fake airport, the hospital just behind it, and a mock up train station complete with train. I also watched a stunt show, and an interactive show about how movies are made. As the only non-Indian in the 500 strong audience I was singled out for special attention by the compere during the show: 'I'd also like to point out on behalf of our international friend over there that many movies are also made in Hollywood of course and have been since the 1960s.'

The following day I went on a tour of Hyderabad itself with two Catholic Priests. Yes you did read that right. Father Linson and Father Paul got chatting to me on the coach and we ended up spending the day together. They are both from Kerala but Father Paul is doing some training in Hyderabad and Father Linson has been posted in Italy for the past three years (he's met both recent Popes). On our trip we visited Charminar, Mecca Masjid, Salar Jung Museum, Golconda Fort, Birla Mandir Temple, Nehru Zoological Park and Chowmahalla Palace. The tour was pretty rapid - you had to be back at the bus exactly when the tour guide told you or it went without you. Several people got left behind over the course of the day and by the end quite a few previously occupied bus seats were left empty. It was especially interesting talking with Father Linson because, having spent so much time in Europe, he could discuss with me the differences he's seen between the European and Indian ways of life and how our collective behaviours differ.

Aside from all these sights I also went along by myself a few days ago to see the large Buddha Statue in the middle of Hussain Sagar, the big lake in the centre of the city. The Buddha Statue was completed in 1990 and is 17.5 metres high. When they were dragging it out to the plinth in the middle of Hussain Sagar the barge carrying it sank (dragging down and killing eight people) and it remained under water for two years until it was finally re-raised. When it was finally in place it was opened and blessed by the Dalai Lama, and has since become a mutual/neutral place of enjoyment and reflection for the Hindu and Muslim communities which predominate here.

Today I'm really waiting to carry on to Bangalore but my train doesn't leave until 7pm this evening so I've been trying to fill my time constructively. I've been to the Rama Krishna Cinema to see a Telugu film (Telugu is the language of Andra Pradesh) called 'Dubai Seenu' about a guy called Seenu who is obsessed with going to Dubai to make money (but never gets there). It was quite good but more of a struggle to understand than some of the other recent films I've seen because the plot jumped around a bit. I asked the man sitting next to me what was going on during the intermission and he said, 'I don't know either,' so it wasn't just down to language. I think I recognised some of the back drops from Ramoji Film City on screen.

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Check out Ramoji Film City at:

http://www.ramojifilmcity.com/

puri and bhubaneswar

On my last day in Puri I hired a moped (for a pound) and rode 20 kilometres north to the village of Konark where the famous Hindu Sun Temple, another of India's signature buildings, is located. The small red two wheeler was clearly a few years in service but it seemed to be in good working order and I had no qualms about riding off on it. It was a lovely journey up to Konark: the sun was shining, the sea was lapping the shore to my right, and tall green palm trees were waving in the breeze to my left. The road was quiet save for a few other mopeds and the odd bus.

I spent a few hours at the Sun Temple and found it not quite so pretty in person as in the photographs in my Lonely Planet. Once you see it up close you realise how much damage (mainly from cyclones) and unavoidable rebuilding of the original structure there has been. No-one has been able to do much about this, and it has gone some way to spoiling the integrity of the building. It's still very beautiful though considering, and I'd highly recommend a visit to anyone who finds themselves in the area.

On the way back things went not so well. The moped broke down half way back in the middle of nowhere and in the mid-afternoon heat. Luckily for me just before I set off I had agreed to give a lift to a local guy called Kalu, who I had met in a cafe in Konark, and he was with me to help me try to get it going again. I was useless (I know nothing about engines despite my Dad having been a mechanic for over forty years), and I let Kalu get on with his wire tugging, spark plug blowing, and intermittent frowning. I assumed my usual role as an assistant. It took about 30 minutes of fiddling before he managed to get the bike to a spluttering start. We set off again, relieved, but it broke down again about a hundred metres down the road. An autorickshaw driver then stopped and attempted to come to our rescue. But all we achieved was proof that you cannot fit a moped in the back of an autorickshaw, and if you try you will likely smash one of the front indicators. The two of them fiddled away some more and the bike eventually started up again. We slowly limped back to Puri with about three more break downs on the way, giving up about 500 metres from the rental shop and just pushing it from there. Frustratingly, when I got back to the shop and told the rental guy what had happened he jumped on the moped and it kick started first time, and it looked like there was nothing wrong. This made me feel temporarily furious. I was so annoyed that I insisted he ride it down the road to test it further and to my satisfaction it did duly break down after he got about 200 metres and my story was proved true. He agreed that it should go to the workshop before it was rented to anyone else, and I left it at that. I didn't have a go at him because these things just happen sometimes and he could of made a fuss that we had smashed his indicator light which he didn't. Also I had rather enjoyed the whole thing in a way because Kalu and the autorickshaw driver had helped me out so graciously and wanted nothing in return for their labours other than to try to work out my name and which country I came from. The incident reminded me that people can be kind and helpful when the chips are down and won't necessarily leave you in the lurch.

Anyway, moving on, I've relocated to Bhubaneswar now and am waiting to catch the train from here south to Hyderabad. My train leaves tomorrow morning (7 June) at 8.30am and the journey down is approximately 23 hours. There's not much of interest to see and do here for the non-Hindu and the place is really only notable for its rather hard to pronounce name. There are some interesting Hindu temples but only Hindus are allowed to visit them so they've passed me by completely. I have been to the Khandagiri and Udayagiri Jain caves just outside the town though (I wasn't impressed) and this morning to the State Museum which has some nice Orissan painting on display. Whilst in the entrance lobby I noticed that the museum was opened by, then Prime Minister, Indira Gandhi on 30 October 1984. Something seemed funny about that date, and I decided I would check it out later. I have, and it is a funny date, because Indira Gandhi was murdered by her Sikh bodyguards the following day on 31 October 1984 in retaliation for her ill-judged 'Operation Blue Star' (she sent tanks into the Golden Temple to flush out Sikh militants and in doing so defiled one of the most sacred places of worship in India and outraged the Sikh community). So her last day was in Bhubaneswar, Orissa, cutting the ribbon at the door of the State Museum.

Bhubaneswar is in the national news today. This morning the five year old child marathon runner Buddhia Singh was due to begin a 500 kilometre run to Kolkata from here, but the Indian Child Welfare Committee (CWC) has ordered the run be stopped and he and his supporters have been restrained. There's been talk of human rights and whether or not a child should be permitted to do such a thing in the summer heat. The CWC feel it will be potential harmful to his well being, and I am inclined to agree with them. Buddhia Singh has previously been on the international news, including in the UK, for his apparently remarkable and unexplainable ability to run massive distances.

relaxing in puri

The train from Kolkata to Puri was very hot and rather uncomfortable. It was a night train due to leave at 10.35pm and my second class sleeper ticket entitled me to a place on a lower bunk. The train left Howrah Station, one of Kolkata's delightful colonial buildings, around 11pm arriving in Puri nine and a half hours later at 8.30am the following morning. It was too hot to sleep through the night but all in all the journey could have been worse. As the sun rose I noticed the landscape outside had changed. As we had reached into Orissa the corn fields of North India had given way to healthy green rice fields and a higher occurrence of palm trees.

When we reached Puri I got a cycle rickshaw straight to the Gandhara Hotel which sits just back from the beach itself. I knew I was going there because I'd researched it on the Internet in Kolkata having decided it time to take a break from all the cheap hotels and cockroaches in favour of a few nights somewhere 'mid-range' as my Lonely Planet would put it. It's a lovely hotel, five floors high, with pretty gardens and a roof top restaurant. Because it's out of season I've turned out to be the only guest, and the efficient staff are waiting on me almost hand and foot. My room on the third floor has views out from three sides, there's cable television and even hot water in the bathroom (not that I need it in this heat). It's a sanitised world away from most of the recent hotels I've stayed in.

The beach at Puri is quite pretty, more so than I'd expected, and looks out over the Bay of Bengal. As I stood on the beach this morning I remembered that the last time I saw this water was from the other side over in Thailand last July. I needed to keep my eyes on the sea because, it being early morning, the beach was strewn with locals defecating on the sand (one side of India I still find hard to cope with). The part of town I'm staying in is sleepy and quiet at the moment and bereft of foreign tourists. There's just me. There's little traffic and little hassle, just the calm sea breeze. There aren't any sights to see either and so I don't need to feel any guilt over spending a few days relaxing and doing next to nothing. The only thing to do here is chill out.

I spent most of yesterday just pottering about: checking my emails, sorting my laundry, enjoying the local seafood, and I plan to have a similar type of day today. I feel good being here and that my batteries are being re-charged ready for an assault on South India.

communications

About a month ago I found myself in the Delhi branch of TGI Friday's. It was early evening and I was sitting at the busy bar drinking a Kingfisher Light beer. I was there because it was the first place I could find with air conditioning, comfortable seating, and alcohol, and I needed respite from the heat.

'You must really love cricket,' said the man sat next to me.

'Sorry?' I replied.

'You must really love cricket,' he repeated, 'I've been watching you. The way you've been looking so hard at the television screen. So... so concentrated.' He pointed at the television behind the bar which was showing one of the latter matches of the cricket world cup. I hadn't noticed it until that point. I'd actually been looking blankly at the drinks cabinet just to the left. My mind had been empty.

'Errr... yes,' I said back waiting to be rumbled, but thankfully he moved on to 'which country?' before my true lack of knowledge was revealed. We got chatting. Rather stocky, and wearing a suit and discreet glasses, his name was Swarup and he came from Kolkata. He said he was a deputy manager in a multi-national company selling mainly beer and cigarettes, and in Delhi for business. I'd only planned on staying for one beer before retiring to my hotel, but I liked him a lot and he seemed very genuine so I ended up staying out late and we both became a little drunk. When the bill came he absolutely insisted on paying, and asked me if I was going to venture towards Kolkata on my trip? If so, he said, it would be his pleasure if I would stay with him and his family. I said that I would be in Kolkata in about a month and that I would love to. I took his email address and said good night.

I was delighted and really looked forward to the idea of this. I liked him and thought meeting up again might help me on my mission to get to know India better. I emailed him the next day to say thank you for his company, and that I would email him again as I approached Kolkata. He replied briefly but affirmatively. A few weeks went by and I emailed him again from Khajuraho, letting him know that I would be in the city in about a week and half and asking, if it was convenient, would he like to meet up again? This time I got no response. I waited a few days - perhaps he was busy? - and still no response. Then I checked my message had been sent. It had. And still no response. I then arrived in Kolkata. No response. Needless to say we didn't end up meeting up and I didn't meet his family. Swarup appears to have bottled out on the idea.

This incident about typifies the extent to which I have been successful in forming relationships with 'real' Indian people over the last ten weeks, and the depth I have got to in my personal relationships. I feel like I have talked to nearly the entire billion person population, every one is so outwardly talkative and friendly, and yet I haven't got anywhere in knowing anyone with any real complexity. I've always been at arms length, and with people for only short periods: an afternoon, an evening, an hour.

Why is this? I've got a few ideas I'm bouncing around...

(1) Part of the trouble is that I move on so quickly. Consequently I'm always with new faces.

(2) Also, nine out of ten of the people who approach me are drawn to me purely because they are con-artists after my money. If you're visiting areas popular with tourists (which I am) con-artists and tourist touts swamp you and your time and this makes it difficult to get to your average Indian. It's a constant pain. Con-artists have to be detected (it gets easy after a while) and weeded out before they can lead you into trouble. They're usually young, overly cocky men, who until you walked along were leaning against a wall watching the street for, well, people like you. You have to use sentences like, 'hello, yes I'm from England actually. Please don't think I'm rude but if you have a shop or want to sell me something I'm not interested and I'm not coming.' This rarely gets rid of them completely and usually leads on to an additional, 'OK, well how about an astrologer then?' or 'I could buy you train tickets?' or 'could I buy you a cup of tea?' An additional, and this time more stern, 'no,' usually finishes it. Basically, my point is, most of the people I meet are people I don't want to meet, and they take up so much of my time they prevent me from meeting more of the people I do want to meet.

(3) On my part, there's also the issue of having to face those same eight bloody questions I get asked again and again (see blog entry 'same old questions' from 24 May) and it becomes inevitable sometimes that I just switch off and can't face it anymore even when nice and well meaning people approach me. I'm always polite but not always fully engaged.

(4) Finally, and, I suppose, quite reasonably, when I do get to meet 'real' Indians they often just want to have a ten minute or hour long chat and prefer to leave it at that. They don't want me snooping into their homes or families or lives etc just because I might find it somehow educational and I can't really blame them. Perhaps this is how Swarup felt ultimately?

Actually, perhaps I'm being a little hard on myself. Even if I haven't formed any lasting friendships I have had some nice extended chats with down to earth, kind, and thoughtful people. And perhaps that is the most I can really expect on a trip of this nature. You might be interested to learn that the most successful interactions I've had have all taken place on either the bus or the train. Never in the actual towns or cities that I've stayed in. This has surprised me and I've thought a lot about why this has been so? I'm still not really sure but I think it is partly because public transport is a zone where the con-artist isn't really present (and so you can't get swamped), there are just 'normal' everyday people going about their business. I also think it's partly because you are also thrown into close quarters with others for hours on end, and there is nothing else to do except eventually strike up a conversation and get to know each other. One or two of these encounters have led on to some light emailing after, mostly notably with Nitesh from Solan and Ida from Pune, both of whom I met in Shimla, but in most cases the contact has started and finished on the bus or train.

I'm going to keep trying, but I must admit that this is one aspect of this journey that hasn't worked out quite as I'd hoped it would, at least so far anyway, and I'm beginning to reassess my idea of myself as some kind of amateur social anthropologist as rather stupidly naive and ill-thought out. Still I'm always learning.

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.