Chapter 16

Namaste - Heat and Dust

Here’s a question.

‘If you could only make one more trip outside Europe where would you go?’

Here’s the answer.

‘India.  Plus Nepal, if that’s okay, as it’s just a short bus ride across the border.’

‘Why?  You’ve been there before, haven’t you?’

‘Yeah, several times.  Let me try to explain.’

Anybody who flies into one of India’s international airports on an economy ticket will know the instant they emerge from the air-conditioned cocoon of the baggage collection, their passport bludgeoned by numerous immigration stamps, and step out into the arrivals hall, that they’ve been transported to another world.  A world where, unless you’re being whisked away to a western chain hotel in chauffeur-driven limo, it’s necessary to adapt pretty quickly or risk being swamped by sensory overload.  So many people, so much noise, so much colour, so chaotic, so warm … and it smells a bit different too.  And you’re not even outside yet.  I thought my visits to Cairo would have prepared me for all this, but what I wasn’t ready for was the semi-organised chaos involved in trying to get anything done.  Hardly surprising really.  In Egypt, Dad, Mavis or their ’Mr Fix it’ usually sorted things out for us

In 1983, I arrived in Delhi after a 12 hour flight via Paris, lugging a huge rucksack and naively planning on rendezvousing with my travelling companion, Nigel Baylis, in a cafe in Connaught Place, the central hub of the city with its bars, bazaars and restaurants. (Think Trafalgar Square and multiply the numbers by 1000).  He’d arrived a week earlier and, fortunately for me, had been submitted to a crash-course in the art of backpacker-survival in the subcontinent of the 1980s.  Forget the Times or Collins guide-books you’d found in the Bristol Library or WH Smith’s; their information wasn’t for you; the hotels are too expensive and you can’t afford a taxi.  Nigel had quickly realised that our proposed daily budget wouldn’t stretch for two weeks let alone two months, and been forced to rapidly discover the hidden world of hostels and rickshaws; hidden, that is, until he got his hands on a tatty tenth-hand version of the backpackers bible, a relatively new publication aptly named ‘The Lonely Planet Guide.’  In the pre-internet days, a time before gap-years, adventure holidays, and Japanese tour buses, everything you needed to know depended on the LPG or word-of-mouth advice and suggestions from others who inhabited this sub-world of latter-day hippies and new-generation backpackers.

Nigel had also realised that the only sure-fire way of meeting up was to intercept me at the airport, which explained why I could see a young white guy in a t-shirt waving a yellow bedroll over the heads of the crowd in front of him, pressed several deep up against the barrier.

‘It’s crazy.  Just follow me.  It’s too long a ride to the city for a rickshaw so we need to catch a tuk-tuk!’

He’d not been there long but was already street-wise, arguing the price with the driver, whilst fending off the attention of a gaggle of others offering accommodation, tours and taxis.  I slept off the jet-lag at Ringo’s Guest House.  Their ‘Men’s Dormitory’ had the flimsiest of mattresses and a single fan, barely effective in the 35 degree heat, but at 14 rupees a night, it was a bargain. (It still is!  These days at the same hotel its 200 rupees a night, about 25p, but at least it offers a double room and Wifi at this price.)

The beauty of a tight budget is that there’s no choice other than to mix it with the locals. Taking a chance with hygiene at the numerous roadside stalls, we experimented with pakoras, bhajis and chai drunk from small clay cups.  Avoiding ice and unsterilised water, (guaranteed upset stomach), was difficult but the predominance of vegetarian food meant giving meat a miss wasn’t an ordeal, especially having seen the fly-ridden state of the butcher shops.  Eating and sleeping cheap was just one part of the backpacker armoury.  Bargain rail travel meant queuing all morning at the Central Station ticket office, then finding the station master to validate our tourist status (for a baksheesh of course) before being allocated a seat in a 3-tier, 2nd class, no A/C sleeper, somehow finding the right platform and carriage, and then persuading the fat begum or perspiring businessman already occupying your seat that they really did have to move.  The chance of finding a place on the luggage shelf for your rucksack would be zero.  The buses were easier; it only needed an hour or two of queuing before then trying to decipher and match destinations with vehicles.  Nigel would join the scramble to secure seats whilst I would try to ensure our bags made it onto the roof and looked vaguely secure.  By copying our fellow third-class companions, we rapidly perfected the techniques required to replenish food and drink stocks whenever the train trundled to a halt at one of the numerous stations along the way.  One of us would stay in the carriage keeping an eye on our bags and buy the packets of biscuits and cups of chai offered through the barred window.  The other would clamber down onto the platform and buy a handful of pakoras, samosas or bananas from one of the numerous enterprising vendors.  The variable involved in this role was that no-one knew how long the train would actually be stopped; on several occasions we found ourselves joining the others laughing and shouting noisily as everyone suddenly had to scramble back on board as the train slowly resumed its journey.

Crammed into our seats on the slow trains and bumpy buses, we were inevitably a source of curiosity.  The long journeys were eased by constant conversations with students, salesmen, mothers and kids all keen to practise their English.  Kindly sharing their food, we’d be interrogated about our opinions on Maggie Thatcher or why we weren’t married or getting on with pursuing a career.  We, on the other hand, slowly built a picture of how Indians viewed both their own society and their former colonial masters.  We bounced from Delhi to Agra where we had the chance to spend an unhurried few hours appreciating the splendour of the Taj Mahal, the mausoleum a seventeenth century Mughal built for his wife.  Then onward across the border at Gorakhpur and back onto the bus to Kathmandu, stopping frequently at chai service stations, popular temples or Government bazaars.  The plan was to spend a month in Nepal.

Something changes when you enter the Kingdom of Nepal; even when the rural, steady-pace of life, gives way to the hurly-burly of the city, it’s not quite as manic and overwhelming as India.  And the people smile more, seemingly less worn-down; perhaps it’s a religious thing.  Predominantly Buddhist, the Nepalese appear less fatalistic than their neighbours in Hindu-dominated India.

From the appropriately named Sherpa Cottage, we made forays around the city, a fascinating kaleidoscope of temples, squares, tiny streets and tiny shops.  Smart little school kids in uniform, elegant sari-clad women, smiling stall-owners, sinewy rickshaw-riders, burnt-out-spaced-out hippies, fit-looking mountaineers all rubbing shoulders together along with the odd sacred cow, the dust and the dirt. 

And once into the countryside, ascending through baking hot, humid paddy-fields, through the terraces of wheat, barley and vegetables, through the cooler pine forests, alongside the rushing glacier-fed rivers, crossing the dodgy wooden bridges, to the high plateaus and passes, it was the smiles of the people that stick in the memory.  ‘Namaste.  Namaste.’  Huge rucksacks, iodised water, camping out by the river, a canopy of stars, butterflies, waterfalls, prayer flags and stupas, Annapurna I, II and III.  What day was it?  Did it matter?  Tea shops, little ramshackle restaurants and villages provided the chance to recharge and watch for an hour or two the constant stream of pedestrian traffic, yak trains, and the occasional trekking group.  There were no roads, no phones, no internet; it was a hard existence where the most important thing was to secure life’s basics rather than an excess of luxuries.  The locals toiled in the fields, worked as porters, or cooked dal baht, noodles or rice over wood fires.  The dirty kids played, cheekily demanding pens or sweets.  The trekkers chatted, read, and wrote diaries, trying to savour the bottle of ‘campa-cola’ they’d splashed out 10 rupees on.  Further up, it was colder at night, fresh in the morning and pleasantly warm during the day, the sky was darker blue, the eagles soared higher, the mountains and glaciers were immense and the locals, more weathered, looked noticeably more Asian.   Tibet was just a few days walk to the east over a high pass.  Few westerners really understood or cared how close we now were to the huge human-rights abuses underway there after China, unopposed, annexed the highest country on earth.  And for all its smiles Nepal was not without its own political problems; a traditional monarchy and corrupt government in conflict with Marxist groups that made life for most normal Nepalese uncertain.

Nothing could be rushed, especially for westerners unused to life in the higher altitudes.  It is a unique, stunning environment.  Too soon we crossed the snowy Thorang La at 5000m and headed back down another valley, the Kali Gandaki, the deepest valley on earth, and a week later arrived in Pokhara, the city nestling on the banks of the tranquil Lake Phewa.  

I needed a few days recovery having contracted a heavy cold and giardia; a seriously unpleasant experience when the nearest loo is just a hole in the floor of a wooden outhouse.  Luckily I was armed with some nuclear-powered antibiotics that I’d been given by a medical rep in the canoe club and it cleared up quite quickly, but not before I’d relied on an overdose of Imodium to survive another epic bus ride back to Kathmandu, the driver dicing with death as the road followed the snaking Trisuli river gorge hundreds of feet below.  We celebrated with a splash-out meal at a western-style restaurant in the bustling Thamel area, and found the world’s cheapest barber and tailor to get us in shape for our return to India.

Goodbye Nepal, land of mountains, rivers and smiles.  See you again soon.   Actually in another twenty-five years.

Already one month off the grid, we then embarked on a two month Indian odyssey.  A chance to sample the culture, the way of life, the religion, the wildlife, the climate.  Another dip into the memory banks, the photo archives and the diary allows a recall of some of the experiences and observations that struck me at the time. 

If you want one city that sums up Hindu India it's Varanasi (Benares).

The bus from the border to Varanasi didn’t leave until the following morning so we were forced to share a room with a million whining mosquitoes; my uncovered arms were a mass of itchy bites that tormented me for a week. (The diary reveals there were 150 plus; on each arm!) After ten hours of bumping across the Indian plains, knees rubbed, backside aching, we unfurled ourselves and, starving, walked the short distance to the railway station restaurant.  A useful tip: the best meal, dirt cheap and big portions, to be found across India is the ‘railway thali’: a couple of rupees for a large aluminium tray loaded with chapattis, dhal, rice and several curries.

On full stomachs, we were ready for the fray and stepped outside into the usual battle for our custom.  Surrounded, pestered, pulled, we determinedly strode in the direction of the budget hotels, politely refusing or ignoring the numerous entreaties.  Slowly the crowd around us thinned out as they realised we were intent on finding our own accommodation and avoiding unnecessary baksheesh, all apart from one little chap, limping alongside us and refusing to give up.  I can’t remember if it was coincidence or his persistency but five minutes later, we turned a corner and walked right into the Blue Star Hotel he’d been trying to recommend.  We stayed a week in their dormitory room and every day the little guy visited and made a point of checking if everything was okay; he attempted to introduce us to the owners, a couple of well-to-do sisters, who, unusually for some in Indian society, spoke to him pleasantly.  In fact, once we’d spruced ourselves up a bit, they were pleasant to us as well and took the time to explain, from their perspective, some of the pros and cons of Indian society, its caste system and secular approach to religion.  More about the Blue Star later.

We couldn’t have picked a better time to visit this holy city situated on the banks of the sacred River Ganges.  I’d never heard of Diwali but our time there coincided with this Festival of Light.  For several nights, it was mayhem! Bonfire Night is not remotely on the same scale. Firecrackers, fireworks, flares, flaming torches, incessant loud music, street food by candlelight, everyone on the streets, the chill of the evening offset by braziers.  It’s a big family event, the best clothes come out and they really know how to party. 

In complete contrast is the daily ritual performed on the bathing Ghats, the series of steps and platforms that flank Mother Ganges as it flows through the City.  Dawn, with the red sun rising over the far bank, is the time to witness a unique Indian phenomenon; the old, the young, the devout, the carefree, the local or the pilgrim, the sadhu or the beggar, descend the steps to bathe in the shallows, to pray, or to launch little paper or leaf boats with candles or other offerings, out onto the brown flowing water.  It’s a colourful spectacle; against the backdrop of painted temples and sandstone steps the vibrant saris are bathed in the pink light of early morning.  A quiet, spiritual time before the coming heat, dust and hustle of the day.  A little further upstream, the wispy smoke from the funeral pyres on burning ghats hung in the air, the fires tended by white-robed, shaven-headed relatives.  There were just a few of us westerners, observing, hopefully respectfully, from a little rowing vessel we’d been persuaded to board by an insistent boatman.  I suspect we were the forerunners of what is now a ‘guided tour must-see’ on the Indian experience; a quick search on the internet reveals that, these days, the daily rituals might be as much for the tourist boat fleet as they are for good karma.

Ever heard of Bodh Gaya?

No?  Neither had we.  

It was our next port of call and had been suggested to us by a couple of saffron-clad, shaven-headed Hare Krishna Canadian girls.  Bodh Gaya is a village in the northeast Indian state of Bihar, just another bumpy 200 mile bus ride from Varanasi.  Considered one of the most important Buddhist sites, it's dominated by the ancient brick Mahabodhi Temple Complex, built to mark the site where the Buddha attained enlightenment beneath a sacred Bodhi Tree.  It’s a mecca for the pilgrims and the associated hawkers of religious paraphernalia, happily fleecing the visitors of their rupees in exchange for an increased chance of a better life next time round.  The local monks had also got it sussed, shamelessly charging for entry. Like most religions, they were the custodians of the artefacts and treasures housed in the temples that exhibited exquisite ancient carvings in the terraced stonework akin to those found in Cambodia, or were clad in shining gold-leaf similar to the style found in Thailand - a real contrast to the basic white-washed stone stupas of the Himalaya, with their painted eyes and fluttering prayer-flags.  It’s now a busy world heritage site but back then, once inside the complex, it was an oasis of calm, the ancient temples and gardens a peaceful contrast to the heat, dust and noise of the surrounding streets.

We free-loaded behind a government tour and picked up a bit more knowledge on Buddhism; enough to realise it’s just another story that wraps up a particular approach to life and death for those that want to believe.  And there were a lot of believers there, not to mention the other 500 million elsewhere, who actually thought the famous tree we filed past was the same that Buddha himself was sitting under 2500 years ago when he received his so-called ‘enlightenment.’

’We need a holiday.’

A chance to recover from the trek, the dodgy stomachs, the numerous mosquito bites, and the weariness of the daily engagement with the heat, bureaucracy and chaos.

‘Let’s go to Goa.’  It was only a 24 hour train journey over to Bombay (Mumbai) on the west coast, a night kipping on the railway station waiting-room floor, and then 20 hours aboard a tramp steamer, sailing down the Arabian Sea coast.  We’d paid for a seat but it was so stiflingly hot we ended up on deck, finding just enough room to spread out a bed roll.  Again we were an object of friendly curiosity from fellow passengers as we steamed south in the company of dolphins and a starry night sky.  Four decades earlier, Grandad Dud had passed this way aboard a troop ship, no doubt relieved that he was finally out of range of German U-Boats.

Goa was just what the doctor ordered.  Endless beach, swaying palms, beautiful sunsets, warm sea, cheap tiny beachfront cafes and shack-restaurants.  We found a room in a little bungalow, tucked amongst the palm trees, just back from the beach and chilled for a week, reading, writing and living on bananas, coconuts, fish curries and ‘three-egg-chilli omelettes’.  It was a haven; predominantly catholic, the result of its recent history as a Portuguese colony, the people seemed calmer and in less of a battle for their daily existence.  It hadn’t yet been discovered as a mass tourist destination; the only holidaymakers were a few middle-class Indian families, a handful of backpackers, and some scattered enclaves of thin, long-haired European hippies who seemed to have lost their bearings, spending their days in paradise in a drug-fuelled haze.  Today you can fly direct from London and stay in any of the 5-star hotels that have sprung up, stretching for miles along the beach like an Indian Costa Brava, the hinterland of palm trees and banana groves replaced by tarmac and shops. 

Nigel flew home to start a new job.  I clambered back on the buses, travelling further south to Bangalore and Mysore. More different landscapes, an interior of dry plateaus, terraced tea plantations and hill stations, the summer refuges of those serving the British Raj until the Union Jack was finally lowered in 1948.  A group of local students invited me to join their tour of the stunning Maharaja’s Palace in Mysore.  Something of an Indian equivalent to Windsor Castle or a grand stately home, it was a labyrinth of rooms housing exquisite sandalwood furniture, ornate carvings, ornaments, paintings and a huge collection of arms and armour.  I was impressed but I doubt I’d have guessed that, 36 years later, I’d return to the Palace for another visit, this time on a bike.

The two months were up: it was time to move on.  I’d pretty much run out of enthusiasm for budget travel, scraping along on a few rupees a day, continually waging war against mosquitoes in cheap hotel rooms, continually dusty and dirty, continually on guard for stomach trouble, continually trying to figure out who could actually be helpful rather than just wanting to help or a seeking a baksheesh, and with no idea what was going on in the rest of the world or at home.  In Bombay, on my last day, I wandered along Chow Patty Beach, watched the world go by at the Gateway to India and spent the night at the Salvation Army Hostel before catching the bus in the morning to the airport.  It’s the reverse experience.  In a matter of moments, the world of noise, heat and dust, transforms into the air-conditioned order of the international departure hall.

Ten hours later, I was back in more hospitable surroundings.  In Bangkok, Uncle Roland (see Family) and his partner, Somchit, played host for a week and by Christmas I’d arrived in Sydney and been given the warmest of welcomes from the Sydney branch of the family.  Time in Australia, New Zealand, the USA and then home five months later to pick up with a career and a waiting girlfriend.  India, however, had left a mark, and not just from the incessantly-itching mosquito bites.

‘How about a trek in Kashmir?'

 Five years later, in 1988, just married and with a rare chance to grab a four week holiday from work, we looked eastwards for somewhere suitable.  I’d convinced Sue that India was somewhere she just had to see, and before we knew it we’d persuaded Mike and Bridget to join us.  I suggested Kashmir rather than Nepal for a trek knowing it would be different, less popular and more remote; all things we felt naively confident we could deal with.  After all we were members of the Avon Outdoor Activities Club so a 10-day walk in the Karakoram foothills should be well within our capabilities.

We nearly didn’t get out of England!  A postal strike caused a last minute panic with the tickets.  And we nearly didn’t make it to Kashmir!  An outbreak of rioting and armed skirmishes meant that the main town of Srinagar was under curfew.  These days, the Foreign Office would be telling people not to go and publishing advice on the Web but back then you relied on a diligent travel agent or spotting a relevant paragraph in a newspaper.  We flew into Delhi and onward to Srinagar, unsure of what situation we’d be facing.  I’d warned Mike, Bridget and Sue what to expect at the airport but the scrum of attention that greeted us must still have been a shock.  However, there’s always one auto-rickshaw driver more persistent or honest looking than the rest and, once selected, he whisked us down to the lakeside jetty where we hoped to find a suitable house-boat for our stay in the city.  Of course, inevitably, the driver knew of a house boat that would be ‘Just perfect for the Memsahib’s.’

He wasn’t wrong.  The ‘Happy Valley’, moored a short 10 minute shikira (a water taxi that resembles a poor-man’s gondola) ride from the jetty, was just one of many similar vessels, brightly decorated and all bearing imaginative names.  These former residences, where the British would go to escape the searing summer heat of the plains, provided a pleasant, peaceful, option from which to view the surrounding mountains, the flashing kingfishers, and the general activity on the lake as a continual flow of shikiras transported people and provisions to and fro. Comfortably furnished, they also came with a housekeeper who happily kept us fed and watered with tea served in delicate china cups and meals cooked over a smoky wooden stove on an adjacent boat where his family lived.  A trekking agency in the town gave us the contact name of a guide they sometimes used who was based at Sonmarg, the mountain village where we planned to start our eight-day circuit of Mount Haramukh and, after a day of stocking up on provisions, we boarded the local bus, rucksacks on the roof and chickens on the seat in front.

Kashmir had a different vibe; neither the happy, tooth-missing smile of Nepal, nor the frenetic, sometimes worn-down, looks of India.  Here in the villages, the feel was more suspicious, bordering on shifty, the local dress code a more traditional Muslim style seen in newsreels of mujahedeen fighters and their families.  As the only westerners getting off the bus five hours later in Sonmarg, a one street town at the foot of the Zhoja-La Pass, a key point on the ancient Silk Road that leads to Leh in Ladakh, we were suckers for the small group of men drinking tea at the only cafe which appeared to double as the only hotel.

‘Which way to the campsite please, and can you tell us where to find Asif Masood?’

‘The campsite is closed and Asif is not here.  Maybe he will be back later.’

We weren’t in a strong position.  The guidebook said there was a field where it was possible to camp but we couldn’t see any sign of tents and we ended up agreeing to take a couple of tiny rooms in the hotel.  Luckily the single bulbs gave out so little light that we couldn’t see the little creatures we were sharing with but we could certainly hear the scurrying and scuttling.  Needless to say, the only option for food was the same hotel; somewhat concerning because the world’s most unhygienic butcher was literally next door. On a more encouraging note, Asif, our contact eventually turned up, and after a lengthy discussion that involved much sucking of breath, shaking of heads and mutterings about ‘it being late in the season’ he settled on a price for his brother, Latif, to guide us along with a pony to carry some of the gear.

The following day we set off, walking northwards through rugged alpine scenery, crossing rickety bridges, wandering through high meadows and pine forest, not to mention the occasional fields of naturally-growing cannabis. The only people we met were young shepherds and, already at over 3000m, it was chilly and we were wearing fleeces, although Latif, wrapped in a woollen shawl and wearing just plastic sandals didn’t seem to notice.  After a couple of days, we crossed a high pass and camped by our first objective, a turquoise lake nestling in the shadow of Haramukh.  Not fully acclimatised, it had been tough walking and, despite the fatigue, the thin air, muggy heads, and dry throats made it was hard to sleep easily.  It was an unwelcome scene that greeted us early the following morning.  Woken by the tent fabric pressing on our noses, we looked out on white landscape as snow continued to fall out of a dark sky.

It didn’t take much discussion.  Latif wanted to go back; he didn’t have any winter gear and was worried about the pony and we reluctantly agreed it was the sensible decision.  Back across the Pass, a real struggle in slippery, difficult conditions, before eventually we dropped low enough for the snow to turn to torrential rain.  Latif eventually led us to a stone shepherd’s hut that offered some shelter and we called it a day, actually pitching the tents up inside the three-walled building.  It was a miserable night.  Next morning it was still raining.  Damp and deflated, we retraced our route back down to the road, and said a grateful farewell to Latif, leaving him with a bonus of some surplus western walking kit.  After an increasingly nervous wait for any form of Srinigar-bound transport, we managed to squeeze into what must have been the last taxi to make it before the road was closed by flood and landslips.

The houseboat family was relieved to see us safely back, hopefully not just because they’d get a few more days’ income, and we licked our wounds and tried to dry out.  The whole Srinagar Valley was cut off; no road transport could make it through from either Pakistan or the rest of India. Within a couple of days there were shortages of bananas and fuel and huge queues at the airport.

We conjured up a Plan B once the storms had cleared and the floods receded: a taxi-ride to Pahalgam, a hill station town about 60 miles to the south-east, and a six day trek up the Lidder Valley to the Kolohoi Glacier.  We didn’t feel the need for a guide and managed a stunning, isolated walk with only the odd local, goats, sheep and birdlife for company, surrounded once again by forest, mountain streams and snowy peaks.  Most nights we camped although in one village, the option to take a room proved too tempting. It was a mistake. The cockroaches, midges and mice ensured a sleepless night.  Back in Pahalgam, we celebrated success with a slap-up curry and cappuccinos, between the intermittent power-cuts that plunged the restaurant into darkness.  Returning to Srinagar for a final few days, we rode bone-shaker bikes around the lake, browsed the back-streets and enjoyed a leisurely shikara cruise across the lake to visit a temple and floating market.  Back in Delhi, Bridget and Mike managed a day-trip to Agra before catching their flight home, whilst Sue and I, with an extra week at our disposal, headed for Varanasi.

Kashmir is stunningly beautiful region, protected from rampant tourism by geographical barriers and political instability.  Sadly the consequence of a British diplomatic failure to grasp the nettle when India and Pakistan were granted independence in 1947 has led to sporadic war and unrest. Clearly, the region’s majority Muslim population (77%) felt that they should be on the Pakistan side of the Partition.  Mountbatten and his advisors were swayed otherwise by the region’s Hindu maharaja leader and as violence flared, and the British walked away, the mediating UN brokered a ceasefire that called for a binding referendum.  India has, despite its commitment, subsequently refused to conduct one, arguing that it cannot be held fairly whilst Muslim terrorist groups continue to operate.  Seventy-five years later, the people still await the chance to express a preference.

I had a week to show Sue some of the highlights of my India experience from five years before: a few days in Varanasi and then onto Agra seemed a good option.  We travelled in relative luxury on the train: air-conditioned second-class, and wandered out of the station in the direction of the Blue Star, surrounded as ever by eager hotel touts and rickshaw riders.  It had been five years since Nigel and I were guests in the dormitory room so I was hugely surprised to receive a smiling response when we asked the man behind the reception desk if they had a double room available.  ‘Mister Peter you have bought your lady wife to visit us.’  Looking closer I recognised the little persistent chap who had hassled us all the way from the station on that first occasion and he’d remembered me immediately.  Later, as we drank complimentary banana lassi, he produced the ledger where I’d signed with Nigel, and proudly told us, in much-improved English, how he’d been promoted from tout to doorman to reception and now was the proud father of children and grandchildren.  A nice story.

It was almost inevitable that Sue would be won over by the sights, sounds and people.  If the temples and ghats along the Ganges, the deserted city of Fatehpur Sikri and the Taj Mahal don’t do it for you, nothing else in that part of the world will either.

‘We’ll have to come back one day.’ 

It would be another thirty-one years, although we did manage a two-week trip to Nepal with the boys during Christmas 2010 (see Holiday chapter); another chance to positively engage with the people and scenery of that wonderful mountain kingdom.

‘Let’s do an India trip on bikes.’

 Retired, and enthusiastic for more after a successful cycling adventure in Cambodia and Vietnam, we flicked through the Exodus brochure and considered the options for India.  The coast, the hills, the forts, the temples, the north, the south, hard, moderate, easy?  In the end we mixed and matched and in January 2019 flew into Bangalore to rendezvous with the group of fellow like-minded cyclists.  We’re generally not big fans of organised tours but the Exodus model works well in regions where bureaucracy is rife and local knowledge useful, especially when it comes to visiting ‘unspoilt’ communities and ‘unknown’ places.   Cycling on Indian roads is not for the faint-hearted but it wasn’t long before we were confident enough, snaking along the potholed backroads, dodging the wandering cows, avoiding the dogs and rubbish, waving to the villagers, and sharing ‘hellos’ with the excited kids.  It was hairier in the cities but the rules were simple; the bigger and faster you are, the more priority you have.  Lorries and buses are at the apex, cyclists and cycle-rickshaws are down the pecking order but easily trump pedestrians.  Nothing moves particularly fast so it wasn’t difficult, albeit with 360 degree vision switched on, to pick our way through the congestion. 

We had committed to a full-on itinerary: the first fortnight was in the south, riding from the palaces and hill stations around Mysore, down through the tea plantations to the coast and then south along the palm-fringed beaches, the serene backwater channels and fishing villages of Kerala.  By way of contrast, we then flew north and picked up with another group for a further two weeks in the north; a ride that combined the cities of Udaipur, Jodhpur and Jaipur with their historical forts, temples and lakes, with out-of-the-way rural villages and wildlife parks, before finally we wound up once again in Agra with an obligatory visit to reacquaint ourselves with the Taj.  Exodus tried hard to make us feel less like the ‘tourists’ we really were.  We’d visit popular sites before the main rush of tour buses arrived; we’d eat at local restaurants; visit rural schools and markets; buy snacks at roadside shack cafes, all the time gaining an insight on the views, opinions, aspirations and frustrations of the people we met along the way. It was a strange blend of accommodation; basic hostel one night with just a cup of tea and egg for breakfast to a luxurious converted palace in the hills another that offered everything you could possibly want.

Cycling tours over, we tagged on a week, flying further north from Delhi to Amritsar to get a brief experience of the Punjab region.  The area is the spiritual home of the Sikh religion, and boasts the famous Golden Temple complex.  It really is something; the spectacular temple itself situated at the centre of a man-made lake and surrounded on all sides by promenades, shrines, and covered walkways.  Anyone can partake of room and board, bathe in the holy water and soak in the serene ambiance of the marble and gilded complex.  The Sikhs are so welcoming in their invitation that they actually offer free accommodation and round-the-clock meals to all visitors.  Behind the scenes is the huge kitchen which, largely staffed by volunteers, is capable of feeding around, get this, 50,000 daily visitors.  It’s quite a plateful.  Compare this with the daily 5,000 who visit Westminster Abbey or St Paul’s and get charged over £20 for a look around and a further £8 for a coffee and cake.  I wonder what God makes of this contrast?

On a more sombre note, the area was pivotal to the darker side of the Raj.  Protests against exploitation that spawned a fledgling independence movement during the early decades of the twentieth century were brutally suppressed.  The nadir occurred in 1918 in Amritsar when British troops fired on a peaceful protest gathering in a park and killed over 300 men, women and children. Sporadic violence, mixed with articulate campaigning for independence, was a feature of the next few decades and, in a bid to resolve the issue, especially with the huge post-war rebuilding challenges facing Britain at home, the government rushed to agree a withdrawal arrangement.  Men with rulers and pencils drew lines on maps, often ignoring the local population characteristics, sometimes swayed by lobbying politicians, religious leaders and regional power-brokers. The decision to split into broadly Hindu India and broadly Muslim West and East Pakistan's (East became Bangladesh) was a compromise that saw religious differences triumph over sensible geography, equitable resource allocation and shared heritage. The final ‘partition’ arrangements that accompanied independence were hurried and flawed but the deal was done and Mountbatten, Viceroy of India, lowered the flag, and sailed home, along with the administrators and soldiers who, clearly, the government should have required to stay on for a while to smooth and police the transition.  It was a humanitarian disaster as millions attempted to relocate; civil order quickly broke down and was replaced by fear and opportunism.  Over a million died and 15 million were displaced and the Punjab bore a large share of the pain.  It’s not something that we learnt in British schools but a wander around the museums of Amritsar gives a different perspective on the British Raj - two hundred years of occupation, resource plunder, and suppression. Fortunately, most Indians have adopted a ‘let bygones be bygones’ approach and acknowledge the errors of the past alongside what can be argued as some beneficial legacies; a functioning democracy and judicial system and an impressive rail network just a few examples.

We flew home, once again uplifted, energised and exhausted by one of the most vibrant, intriguing, stunning regions on the planet.

The home of chai-wallahs, dobi-wallahs, rickshaw-wallahs, punka-wallahs and more.

The home of Shiva, Parvati, Ganesh, Vishnu, Krishna, Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus.  All living as secular neighbours, their temples, mosques and churches intermingled along the high streets.  Sadly they still occasionally fall out as local politicians or religious leaders spot an opportunity for advancement by stirring up ignorant prejudices and fears.

The home of purple-turbaned camel herders, orange-cloaked Krishna's, burgundy-robed monks, waist-coated dhoti-clad Brahmins, loin-clothed wild-haired sadhus.

A place where the growing middle-class youth, dressed in western suits or dresses, hurry to their office jobs on scooters, bikes, rickshaws and buses past the millions of other matchstick men and women wandering around, all desperately trying to grab a piece of the action at the market, in their tiny shop, or on an errand for someone else, one notch higher in the food-chain.

A place where poverty and begging, albeit much less noticeable than four decades earlier, still exist alongside all the high-tech, wealth and privilege. The Bahamians, less comfortable in their superiority, the Untouchables and Dalits less downtrodden at the bottom of the heap as the caste system dilutes.

A place where a walk through the town will take you past spice sellers, the fragrances overwhelming the more pungent odours of the piles of dung or refuse, past the haberdasheries displaying rolls of coloured bright and embroidered cloth, just waiting to be sewn into the beautiful saris and pashminas worn by both elegant well-heeled ladies and the more humble masses of women and girls.

A place where turning any street corner might bring an encounter with a parade; perhaps a decorated elephant and a tuneless, uniformed, brass band leading a string of floats, on the back of trucks or pulled by a haggard ponies, decorated in flowers and carrying garishly painted life-sized models of any number of deities.

A place where kids, in their smart uniforms, carrying their one exercise book and one pen, emerge from tiny shack homes or dusty village huts and actually look as if they want to go to school. They walk or ride, two or three-up on robust sit-up and beg bikes.  No school runs here.

The home of hooting traffic, amplified booming-banga, screechy singing, whispered ‘Om mani padre hums.’

The land of jagged snowy mountains, red-stony deserts and scrub, palm-fringed beaches, misty meandering rivers, swampy jungle, endless green hills and fields.

The lair of the snow leopard, the sky of vultures and eagles, the forest of the tiger and elephant, the river of the crocodile, the streets of dogs, the trees and temples of monkeys, the roads where the cows are the kings and queens.

The stalls offering pakoras, samosas, bhajees, chapattis, nans and the restaurants with their rich regional variety of curry, biryani, tandoori and more.

The place where everyone loves cricket, where everything takes longer than it should, where the people greet with a ‘Namaste’, seemingly pleased to stop and chat, where the mosquitoes are the ever present enemy.

The Land of Heat and Dust.