13th – 19th Dec 2010
We arrived in Varanasi late and clearly marked as the latest easy prey for the touts operating what’s known as The Varanasi Shakedown.
A lot of the traveller orientated accommodation is on the banks of the Ganges, a long way from the train station so if you don’t know the area and don’t have any electronic means to find your way there you’re knacked because rickshaws can’t get close enough.
It’s a warren; an ancient maze of shops, temples, hospices, workhouses and ashrams.
Luckily we wangled our way out of further entanglement with the guy who immediately latched onto us with the aid of a couple of cigarettes and a vague promise to see the silk wares he and wife apparently made, designed and sold. This proved to be utter fabrication of the other kind: he worked as a tout for a very large warehouse and his wife just happened to be one of the hundreds of weavers who working there. His story changed with every third telling of it and he most certainly didn’t “live just to help out guys like you who visit my city.”
We were excited to be there but also dreaded the stories that go around of the worst the place can be: it’s stinky, filthy, you’re sure to catch something nasty, see something awful, be harassed to death.
Some of these things did come to pass but like Mumbai, Varanasi now has my heart.
The streets are lined with human and animal excrement, but not everywhere.
It is dirty, yes, but also being constantly cleaned. There are untold people there and the streets are narrow; it looks worse than it is.
I did get ill but it wasn’t for long and it only set in after we left.
What some people say are awful sights on the burning ghats, we only saw as life-affirming Hinduism in the raw and people at the very end of their most recent life cycle.
And you can say no thank you to the touts…the thing is you do have to say it one hell of a lot.
The atmosphere in Varanasi makes up for all this. It seeps spirituality from every paving slab, life itself drifts by on the river; I don’t really know by what combination of elements it all comes from but Varanasi sings a song of humanity, one as old as civilisation itself.
This is just about the oldest continually inhabited city on this planet and I love it.
We had arrived not a week after a bombing attack on the Shitla ghat which was allegedly carried out by the Indian Mujahideen, at least it was they who claimed responsibility for it. As a result, many streets leading into the dense centre surrounding the numerous ghats (or stone stairs leading down to the river) were manned by soldiers with rather large guns. Most of them were also ensconced behind metal turrets bolstered with sandbags, just their barrels poking out.
But this was the only visible sign of tension. Otherwise, life went on at its normal pace.
Our days here were spent mainly on the ghats; watching cloth manufacturers lay out their wares to dry, laundries doing likewise with clothes, boat touts trying to convince people to book for dawn or dusk boatrides, laughing groups forcing themselves to roar with mirth for the good of their spirits.
With its source in the Himalayas, the river winds its way across the north of India to discharge into the Bay of Bengal. All along its path it is worshipped but also very much used. Common knowledge says that in Varanasi the bacterial and chemical load of the Ganges is thousands of times over acceptable levels for human health due to it acting as a sewer, a crematorium and a sink for industrial effluent all along its path.
None of this seems to bother or even effect the countless bathers who use it here every day. Many religious ceremonies attended by priests, sadus and armies of wholesale family conduct ceremonies through most of the day, marking innumerable lives and events.
A number of blissful hours were whiled away watching the city’s buffalo being led down to a washing station and getting scrubbed. These noble but somewhat lumpy and warty beasts amble their way through the narrow streets, navigate precarious steps and gambol with abandon down to the water’s edge. There they sit, up to their ears in the shallows, excitedly waiting to be scrubbed with a handful of rope by a young bloke in his underpants.
Successive herds of unbearably sweet (but also huge and scary) buffalo wait their turn on the banks, fighting with themselves and the more meek cattle. A buffalo stand-off is a lesson in diplomacy. What you do is pump up your already ample chops with indignant blood and thrust them in the general direction of your enemy. More often than not the posture is returned, allowing you to go to the next stage which involves erect tail-waving and pawing of the ground.
Your opponent can then gracefully bow out and you can claim your victory but if you get the come-on at this stage there’s nothing for it than to scrap. To get going you have to raise your massive front half and throw it forward. The back end will catch you up and then some, propelling your front half forward again, ad offensum.
Fear not, your incredibly thick skull will take the strain of the resulting multi-tonne collision. The guy in his underpants will probably come and whip you ineffectually with the wet end of his rope ball but this will nevertheless scare the wits out of you and you’ll stop.
Herd mentality eh? Tut, I don’t know…what I do know is that buffalo rule.
What to do in Varanasi? You’ll have to dedicate your life to the city to fit in but while you’re there on a trip you may as well explore the temples and churches in their narrow streets and eat sweets straight out of a window.
Watch monkeys seamlessly switch from grooming their neighbour to eating their own ejaculate and back again.
Get headbutted by a goat wearing a rip-off Adidas tracksuit top because you’re sitting on his steps and he wants some of your snack.
Crap yourself with fright on the terrace of your hostel as you drink chai and get bombed by sparrows who land on your table with an almighty thump, looking you straight in the eye as they raid your sugar bowl.
Furiously debate the fundamentals of supply, demand and business psychology with an 8 year old girl over a distance of at least 10 ghats. (This was sparked by trifling disagreements over the price of her wares – candles – when compared to those of her sister, in an open market environment you understand).
Take a boat ride at dawn with a young boatman who was bullied into an early shift by his brother and who is really glad that you don’t want him to parrot the standard tourist patter. It’s going to be far too early for both of you and watching Varanasi wake up is too beautiful to spoil. Even he will turn out to not take these mornings for granted even though he’s already been doing the job 10 years.
And while you’re there you must observe a funeral. Don’t watch a funeral, be a respectful attendee.
But also watch out for the scam.
We visited 2 of these burning ghats and for the sake of respect I’ll decline to name either. The first visit saw us playing the textbook role of bloody idiot tourists.
As we approached the ghat from the top of the riverbank, descending down and at right angles to the river, we became aware of an almighty row thundering down on top of us. Haring toward the river was a small band of male mourners bearing a corpse and chanting loudly.
Having ducked out of their way and they having passed us, we were now sure that we were in the correct area and started to follow them. We were immediately stopped and told that if we followed them down the street ahead, that street bristling with open-looking shops and with a clear run to the river, the mourning family would get angry and most likley beat us. Instead we should double back, take a left down an alley and through the next block up because there was a great spot up there out of the way.
That when we meekly arrived in this shooting gallery, a dozen men with glints in their eyes started from the shadows should have been no surprise really. We were respectfully herded to the described platform and set upon by the ghat’s priest. To give him his fair due, he did enlighten us greatly as to the process we were witnessing but he would never make it as a salesman because the mood then instantly changed as he tried quite hard to extract frighteningly large amounts of money from us.
The whole experience of being allowed to watch someone’s funeral pyre was soiled by the never-very-far-away taint of Hindu religious manipulation and the feeling that as a tourist you’re often viewed as a wallet with a tap in it as a tourist in India. I admire certain slices and angles of Hinduism and even allow myself to cast affection upon deities such as Ganesh. I’m the kind of agnostic soul that can appreciate faith, even envy it in some people, and I am not immune to spirituality in any way but I had to regularly swallow the fact that religion is more of a blatant hard cash industry in India.
Feeling slightly soiled, we managed to shake him off with a small donation, the magnitude of which caused the shadowy figures one street back much hilarity but also brought for us a small but noticable amount of respect. One couple we met later on in our journey confided to us that they were stung for Rs 5,000 when they were here. That’s a lot of dal fry boys n girls.
The next time we went to a less grand burning ghat and it was completely different. This time there was no restriction on where we could stand, no-one cared that we were there one way or the other. We were quiet and respectful, took no pictures and watched as the whole multi-caste operation unfolded. Wood selection and stacking gave way to the bringing of the body, its dipping in the river and its placement on the pyre.
The arrangement was lit following a ceremony conducted by a shaven-headed male mourner.
Lucy and I stood and watched someone’s mortal remains being burnt on a stone step in an Indian city and we felt at peace.
It was then that I really fell in love with India. I love the otherness and the way India is fighting itself on so many levels to ‘grow up’ in the world, both by its own standards but more often by those of others. I love that, in order to change the world, India has to change so much of itself and that conversely so much of India will not be changed.
That India is on that particular course as a world power is not in doubt. What interests me is when India does attain a position that will change the world in wider senses than it contributes at the moment, what’s left of this ‘otherness’, (or rather that of India which will not succumb to global homogeny), will have interesting effects on what changes India does bring. The fact that no-one can really tell, or at the least if they do ain’t telling, is what excites me. I really wish I could be part of it.
Whenever I think of Varanasi now, I end up daydreaming of studying Hindi at the University, then being a staff writer on a national English rag with an unmistakenly foreign yet sympathetic and respected pen. Perhaps with connections in Kolkatta…ah yes I can see it now…
Ahem…yes…
Go to Varanasi, it’s tops.
Lucknow 8th – 13th Dec 2010
“Right, when we get off the train Luce we’re going to do this right, yeah?”
“Yeah, totally.”
“We’ll ignore all mobbing from touts, just plough on through to the entrance and we’ll sit and get our bearings while I have a fag.”
“Let’s do it.”
Alighting from the train at Lucknow, we are allowed to follow our plan for all of, oh let’s estimate 30 seconds.
“Namaste! Kuli?”
“No thanks, we’re OK”
“Mine’s got wheels, see?”
“Kuli?”
“Er, no thank you. We know where we’re going.”
“Taxi, friend? Where are you going?”
Our new friend, remarkable for his tiny stature, was keeping abreast of our marching pace down the platform with ease.
“Porter?”
“Please, we said we’re OK.”
Stepping into the Lucknow sunshine outside we were suddenly beset by at least twenty of our pursuer’s brethren. Realising that we had no chance at all, we silently and simultaneously gave up the original plan and started to engage with the nearest couple of these guys.
This action only seemed to up the stakes as a bidding war began, but between them and not involving us directly at all.
“Where are you going?” (from at least 4 at once)
“The Manglam.” (this was me in my best neutral accent, a bit like my Brummy Grandmother’s affected standard pronunciation which she used when answering the phone)
“Where?” (everyone else, craning their necks, as if that would improve matters)
“The Manglam.” (this was Lucy in her somewhat immutable north London accent)
“What?” (everyone else)
“The Munglum.” (me trying out what I feared had to be the worst Hindi pronunciation ever)
Everyone – “AAAAHHHHH, THE MANGLAM!!!”
Now the stakes seemed to have been raised further as prices were bashed out in the air around us. What I didn’t observe for a while, because of the chaos around us, was the increasing purple colouration of our original friend’s face.
Suddenly he had had enough. A concentrated burst of expletives burst from his diminutive frame, along with accusing jabs of his finger and blows to his own chest with an open palm. I couldn’t shake the feeling that most of it involved references to incest.
The whole crowd stepped back in unison, as if a small bomb had gone off, and everyone’s eyebrows shot up into their hairlines.
“Bloody hell!”, I shared with the nearest; “Yep, he’s crazy”, he replied.
With that, he snatched my bag from me and marched towards the rank of rickshaws with me calling to him to at least take Lucy’s bag and not mine. He was having none of this either and stuffed it and us into a rickshaw seemingly chosen at random.
Welcome to Lucknow, thought I, it must be a tough town.
We were here only to break up the long journey across the Gangetic Plain towards Varanasi but there was quite a lot to see here too. For starters, it’s the birthplace of everyone’s favourite popstrel Sir Cliff Richard.
Lucknow is an historically rich city, in terms of both money and power. But a history lesson with this post you won’t get.
Arriving at the Manglam, we were vehemently turned away at the steps by a gang of leather-sporting hoods: “No room! Go away!”
Our kidnapper looked to me for an explanation and I gave it directly to the goondahs: “We have a reservation, thank you!”
They begrudgingly parted to allow us to pass but the reception from Reception itself was little better and I had to talk the chap behind the counter into admitting he had received our online booking plus monetary deposit. It really did feel like we had stumbled into an elaborate front business for a large criminal outfit, an impression compounded by the fact most of the staff spent most of their time lounging around, snoring or eating.
Lucknow felt very strange from start to finish. Returning from our first jaunt out into the town for supplies and miscellany, we got back to our room to find it in a very odd state.
Several of our items had obviously been moved around – our (to this point) uncredited but faithful and ever-present travelling companion (a small plastic statue of R2D2) was not where we left him but elsewhere and turned on his side. The television channel had been switched from BBC World to the cricket.
My precious laptop had been taken out of its sleeve but left next to it on the bed. A compartment of my bag had been gingerly opened and prodded at, but strange of all was that the intruder had seen fit to practice his own signature all over the margins of the complimentary but previously virgin local paper. I felt the urge to sniff the corners of the room to see if they had been marked in some way…
With nothing missing or damaged we nevertheless kept our guard slightly higher from there on.
Lucknow has a teeming commercial centre and The Book recommends several hotels for refreshments and relaxation. Off we went, one afternoon.
Approaching a bar in a basement, I was stopped at the door by a fierce looking bouncer.
“Sorry, no.”
“Why? We just want a drink!”
His attitude softened a little and he took me to one side and whispered, “you’re OK but I’m afraid the woman can’t come in”, and looked sheepishly over at Lucy.
I protested, Lucy huffed and he disappeared downstairs to have a word with the gaffer. He came back up beaming and informed us that it was OK but we would have to take our own private room.
As baffled by this as the refusal and not being able to think of a strong enough cultural or religious reason why it would be so at all, especially as the place was working from hard from the outside to look like any western bar, we accepted and gave ourselves up to the madness
The function room was just at the bottom of the stairs and we were treated to lavish attention from who we took to be the head barman. The room itself was obviously the kind of thing let out to families for weddings as a full cutlery service was removed from each cover to make us feel more at home. A frosted window separated us from the main bar itself and through tiny slits in the frosting I could see that nothing more special was happening next door than a small group of westernised-looking young men watching the cricket on TV.
The barman kept poking his head round the door at 5 minute intervals to check that we were OK. The concern for our welfare was so great that for most of our visit, the entire staff contingent camped out on the stairs outside to watch us through a narrow window in the door. Whenever the barman came through, necks were craned and eyes boggled to see more of what we soon realised was the spectacle of Lucy drinking alcohol.
So we decided to treat them to a good long view and proceeded to get very pissed indeed.
About half-way through our visit the resident mouse also came out for a look, but each time he clocked that we were looking at him, he threw the same trick as railway mice and somersaulted his way out of danger.
Thoroughly refreshed, we finally staggered back up the stairs into a late Lucknow evening.
Some way from the hotel, we had to catch a rickshaw. Waiting in vain for a motorised one we had little choice but to take a cycle-powered vehicle. We’re not keen on these for obvious reasons of misplaced colonial guilt but the young lad who stopped for us seemed to be business-like and gave every impression of knowing where to take us forthwith.
A good while later, his sheepish grin and increasingly panicked look told the tale that he could not understand a word we were saying. We finally got near our road but he insisted on taking us the wrong way down it. By this time we were crying out to be let off as we could easily walk but fierce pride seemed not to allow him to think of such a thing.
In the end he pulled over and consulted someone on the pavement. We took the opportunity to jump out, explain we knew roughly where we were and started to pay him the agreed price. He suddenly demanded 4 times that but that only greatly angered the guy on the pavement who yelled at us not to ‘pay this dog any more than he was due’ and proceeded to roughly smack him around the head while still shouting at us. I slipped him 10 Rs more than he originally asked and we slunk away in the company of 3 young lads who were wetting themselves with laughter and asking us how long we had been in Lucknow. They happily escorted us to the hotel, jokingly asked for 50 Rs of their own and trotted onwards, still roaring.
Attentions of a wholly different kind awaited us at The Residency. This spooky complex of ruined houses, temples and mosques was the scene of a pivotal point in the Anglo-Indian colonial story.
The day was bright, the sky blue and we arrived with the full intention of getting away from any craziness and having a calm day. Yes but no.
The Residency is now Lucknow’s number one make-out spot for young Indian couples. In absolutely every nook and cranny you’ll find two pairs of eyes nervously staring back, you having ruined their privacy. India is a country where public displays of affection, even between married couples, is just about outlawed by convention. And the Residency, we felt, wasn’t really on the tourist trail as much as it should be so of course, it being fairly cut off from the rest of town, the youth are going to use it. We even busted a not-so-young couple of gay men who weren’t happy at all about us going about our business.
Our course there were plenty of tourists but they were all Indian and we made for much better photo opps than any of the surrounding ruins. One gent even followed us around with what he thought was cunning stealth but how many of his shots could we possibly have coincidentally walked through?
We did find a pleasant tourist experience in the Bara Imambara, found in the large Muslim area of the city and which I thoroughly recommend. We were accosted at the gates by a bunch of very chatty students who asked us to complete questionnaires about our culture and how it compares with India. We had some great discussions and they craftily tracked me down on Facebook afterwards. Hello guys.
The shame is that Lucknow gave me too many weirdo things to write about so you’ll just have to go there, gird your loins for strangeness and hunt it all out for yourself. It is all there and more.
Do what we didn’t and throw a rickshaw driver a few hundred rupes to take you round. But if you don’t want to buy any embroidery, throw in another hundred or so or you’ll find yourself doing just that.
In the next episode: death, life and the Ganges, as we finally get to the centre of the Hindu universe – Varanasi.
Amritsar 3rd- 8th Dec 2010
In general, I’ve always admired Sikhs (more here).
They invariably look natty, with their turbans and smart dress-sense, and unless their country of residence forbids it they get to run around with huge ceremonial daggers.
These daggers, along with steel bracelets, uncut hair and combs are all outward signs of their faith (men only), which was founded as a reaction against the Hindu caste system. Additional special underwear complete the five Ks required to be worn by baptised male Sikhs.
Inwardly they are peace-loving warriors who embrace the ideals of charity and humanity.
They make cracking soldiers and cricket players too. If only they’d step away from the Tories in the UK…
Unfortunately, historically opposing Brahminical Hinduism and other regimes also means they have more than their fair share of martyrs but we’ll come to that.
Still moving as a team, Lucy, Gill, Val and myself arrived in Amritsar via Pathankot. We took a Jeep down from McCleod Ganj to Pathankot train station and this was a journey in itself. First there are the hairpins and the green haze of motion sickness to get through but then, before the gradients level out entirely, the road itself straightens out and like re-entry into a planet’s atmosphere, you hurtle from the serene rarefaction of the Himalayas into the honking, sweating, shouty, dusty madness of Hindusthan.
Arriving in Pathankot we seamlessly hopped onto the train and thereafter pulled into Amritsar in the late evening. We stayed at Lucky’s, just around the corner from the main attraction here – the Golden Temple or more formally the Harimandir Sahib. Sikh places of worship are called gurdwaras and this is on the very top shelf.
We visited it twice, once at night and again during the day. It is open 24 hours and much goes on.
On our first visit it was late evening and we were lucky enough to see the Sikh holy book, the Adi Granth (which is housed here), be taken for its nightly journey on a huge golden vehicle to the golden sanctum in the middle of the enormous water tank that was the original structure on the site and still dominates it. Much ritualistic bathing is done here to the background sound of live musicians and the Adi Granth being read aloud by priests, all pumped out over a sweet-sounding Bose system.
On the second visit it was daytime so we could see a great deal more of it. Arriving, you have to cover your head and remove your shoes, although the free shoe repository is a bit niffy. Entering the temple itself you have to be free of tobacco, drugs and other naughties but you can leave your valuables with another free booth. Lastly you have to wash your feet in a bath before entering the complex proper.
Around the outside of this are a fair few shops, reflecting a general Sikh philosophy of commerce and wealth alongside religious practice that’s actually humble and not in your face.
The whole thing is made of shining marble and is constantly being washed by the huge army of volunteers. Most parts of it bear inscriptions declaring the identity of the individual (or often military regiment) who donated each particular section.
In the daylight the sanctum gleams extremely brightly in the middle of the tank, gilded as it is with tonnes of pure gold. Around the outside are various buildings dedicated to free food and lodgings, administration, charitable donations and a museum to name but a few.
You can volunteer time in the kitchen for preparation and clearing up; you get the feeling that if you pulled your weight here you could live on site for free but that’s an idle observation – I wouldn’t recommend pushing your luck with your hosts. Security consists of very large men with very large spears but they don’t ever seem threatening at all…
We didn’t visit the sanctum itself because it was packed with bona fide pilgrims and we really don’t think that tourists should intrude in such matters.
Our visit to the Sikh museum on site brought home the history of martyrdom within the faith. Most of this long space is devoted to describing how warriors over time have defended their religion or lost their lives because of it, mostly at the hands of Hindu overlords or Muslim invaders. There’s no pretence of balance here; each pictorial exhibit is an oil painting (even the photos of 19th-20th C death-masks are translated onto canvas) and many describe in brutal detail the cruel and unusual punishments dealt to famous Sikh martyrs. It’s quite grisly at times.
That evening in a restaurant we came across our first Caucasian Sikh, a very striking looking young American lady with her Indian husband. The question of white Sikhs seems to a controversial one; this post on Sikhphilosophy.net illustrates the questions involved but also points out that, although it involves a relatively tiny number of people, it’s nothing new.
I’ve come across other writing that highlight differences of opinion between on-the-ground Sikhs and the priesthood, some of the former regarding non-Indian conversion as highly suspicious (even heretical) and the latter being much more sanguine about it. The Sikh faith, though it never actively practices missionary activity, is now finding converts in Latino and African-descent peoples especially in North America. Folk will always look for salvation and ways to live that they regard as ‘better’ than those they already know, I guess.
Our dose of Sikhism done with we turned to the other ‘attraction’ in Amritsar; the site of the Jallianwala Bagh massacre. Here on April the 13th 1919, a gathering of Sikhs plus a handful of Hindus and Muslims were celebrating the Sikh festival of Baisakhi despite a British ban on political association following a recent period of unrest and violence.
Step forward the particularly rabid British Brigadier General Reginald Dyer who ordered heavy gunfire on the crowd and did not stop until he ran out of rounds. Estimates of the death toll range from the British official 379 to a more believable tally of over 1000.
Among the gruesome relics are a well in which hundreds of people fell to their deaths while trying to get out of the way and walls still covered with bullet-holes. An eternal flame and a quite informative room of wall displays hold the memory and tell the story in detail.
None of this seem to matter to the cheery crowds of Punjabi schoolkids who rushed Lucy and me for chats and photos instead of getting some of their own history down them…sheepish teachers, trying to herd this mob, apologised and hugged us instead.
While in Amritsar there’s another sight to see but it’s out of town. Independence from British rule resulted in the partition of Hindu majority India and Muslim Pakistan. Just down the road is the Indo-Pak border crossing at Waggah.
Arriving by taxi one is searched for guns and then let loose into a running frenzy for the best seats. “Oh shit, here we go” thought I, never having luck with neo-Darwinian events in India. But no! Here was the first time in India that waving our beautiful burgundy British passports got us the best deal! Sadly for the adult Indian spectators who looked to be nastily tucked in a corner, we goras were given front-n-centre spots, trumped only by the VIPs.
The border ceremony is world famous but if you haven’t ever been there or seen it on TV, each day the dual gates between India and Pakistan are slammed shut in a wonderful show of mock aggression reflecting the actual tension between two ratty nuclear states.
Firstly the kids are allowed onto the road to bust major moves to a pumping India Bollywood/chart soundtrack while an MC winds them up something chronic. The kids have the best view of all the India seats. They then have to take their seats while the MC turns to winding up and introducing a group of Indian soldiers.
On the other side it’s all a lot more austere. Men and women take their places in separate terraces and the music is far from ‘popular’. Of what happens there I can’t say much but they do have their own MC who may just out-gun the Indian one.
To start, all kinds of belligerence is expressed via trumpets over the loudspeakers.
On our side two female soldiers march extremely briskly down the road to the gates and brandish their military accoutrements all up in the faces of their counterparts on the other side while the crowd goes wild. They then smash and crash the gates about and stand in attendance on either side.
An enormous Sikh (who is the best of the Indian team if you ask me) thunders down the tarmac and throws angry shapes around, followed by commanders (I may have got this order wrong) and the rest of the brigade.
A highly choreographed display lasting over an hour then follows consisting of retreats, more trumpets, foot-stamping, plume-waggling and further trumpet competitions. Each soldier (and his counterpart) bellow and yell also but the Pakistani guys seemed to have the upper hand here too with some blood-curdling finales to their screaming.
Finally the national flags on either side are approached and the ropes are ritualistically folded then thrown up in the air, then folded again. The flags are excruciatingly lowered, then whipped down in close synchrony, folded and the gates are slammed shut.
All the while both crowds are baying for blood, the MCs are fanning the flames and jingoistic slogans fly everywhere.
It was absolutely bloody brilliant and I’m very privileged to have seen it especially as both sides have given notice that it is to be toned down.
If you ask me, yes relations need to be normalised for the good of the world and these two countries, but I think it’s a great shame that the ceremony isn’t regarded more like sport – a much-needed release of tension between rivals, for rivals they always shall be. Rivals don’t always have to be enemies…
With this over, it was time to look to move on; next stop was the centre of the universe according to Sir Cliff Richard.
We were going to Lucknow.
Careful readers would have noted that Lucy and I wrestled a plan out of our Indian jolly whilst in the Himalayas; that being to get around the outside edge of the country by train in an unbroken circle. I’ve now realised that I’ve not written much about this very important part of our trip; let’s remedy that now but I’ll begin by saying whatever you read next, the Indian Railways are mighty indeed and we love them dearly with all our shared heart.
I’m loathe to promote anything on India Mike because they banned me for advertising (their accusation) before I had even logged in as a user or posted a single word (with no comeback at all) but this link here is actually an excellent article on Indian Railway ticketing.
By the wonder of the internet, we found booking trains not to be the trauma it once may have been for previous generations of travellers. As long as you have a reasonably long head in this regard and book with some foresight, there are a few 3rd party online agents such as ClearTrip who make the job quite easy. If you have a cash or credit card recognised by them you can even book direct with Indian Railways online.
You have to have your wits about you though; deciding the day before you want to go somewhere very rarely works out in your favour. Be mindful of festivals both in your current location and in your destination, for example.
Aside from these methods, sharpening your elbows and going to the booking office is still an option but remember that Indian queuing is no such thing – it’s more a fight for survival. Many large urban areas also have offices just for tourists to claim the small number of tickets per train that are reserved (until the last possible moment) for them. Not all destinations have these, however.
Now you must know of the kind of ticket you will book. If the seat is free and you have the rupes, it’s yours and all will be well. But there’s also a Waitlist that, if you’re a gambler, you can buy into just in case someone cancels. If they don’t you’ll get most of your money back. If they do, you’ll be on your way as long as that means you’re off the list. Remember though that many travel agents bulk-buy tickets just to throw the odds (for their own business purposes really).
If you’re a fool-hardy gambler you can wait until the last last minute before the train sets off when the aftermath of the waiting list, shaken down into reality, is sold off in an event called Tatkal, but to confuse you even more you can book this 6 days in advance but only for the whole train’s journey. Reserved Against Cancellation or RAC is another option at this late stage but you may just find yourself standing in the sink area without a seat.
With me so far? Good, let’s talk about class then. Do you want to go 1st Class? Good luck, these are often the most sought after by middle class Indians, are often booked out and are the priciest. If you’re expecting Orient Express type-service here you’ll probably be disappointed too.
Below that is AC Chair which is basically airplane layout with bucket-seated chairs and fold-back tables under air-conditioning. This is not good for long or overnight journeys unless you love travelling, or more importantly sleeping, sitting upright.
Next is 2AC or Air-Conditioned 2nd Class. These carriages consist of two-tier benches and come with curtains plus bedding such as blankets, sheets and pillows. Only very slightly scratchy but they always come to you clean, sometimes in brown paper parcels. Very often you get power sockets for laptops and mobiles in these cars too.
Below this class is 3AC which are almost exactly the same as 2AC but they are three-tiered, the middle ones folding up from their day-time position as the backs of the lower benches and are held up by whacking great chains. Bedding in these cars can be rare in my experience, I never saw curtains, rarely saw power points and unless you do the Indian thing and bring your own you’re going to be sliding around in your nylon sleeping bag or getting any exposed skin welded to the blue vinyl coverings that are found on all classes below 1st.
Generally, the cleanliness of each class decreases as the number goes up, the floor especially. Putting shod feet on the benches is taboo by the way but the cleanliness of your feet is nobody’s business but your own – go figure.
Next is Sleeper which is the same as 3AC but without bedding (without exception) and the cleanliness is several notches below. Oh and they lack the AC too. Ventilation is provided by the open windows which have 4 or 5 bars across them and a slotted blind that can come down in front to keep the worst of the weather out.
The best bet if you’re travelling as a pair, unless you’re over 5 feet 10 inches tall, is to always try and book the side compartments because they are only two tier in whatever class. Then you can hoof your bags on the top bunk in the day and you’ll not have to share the space with anyone else. They are shorter in length than the other options though.
The non-human fauna of all of the above classes can and will include cockroaches of various sizes, mosquitoes, crickets plus a few times we saw mice. These rodents will also see you and if you both recognise each other at the same time they will try and confuse by leaping up into the air, doing a somersault (really!) and scooting in the direction opposite to which they came.
Each of these kinds of carriage have two toilets and a sink at each end. The toilets, as you might imagine, descend into more of a resemblance of a circle of The Inferno according to Dante with each reduction in class; i.e. do not go in barefoot under any circumstances after the 2nd hour of the journey, but they will be clean if you get on at a starting terminus. You might not want to chance it then either…
Many are just keyholes with very slippery stainless steel footpads to crouch on but some have ‘western-style’ seats. There’s not much to choose between them in terms of facility.
The sinks are mainly used for the very Indian habit of hawking and spitting. Best to leave them to that function really.
I can tell you nothing of the Seating class which is below all of these – the reservation system I speak of above does not apply here and they are always packed to the gunwales with locals whom I feared would not appreciate backpackers and their bags. I never saw a ‘traveller’ on one of these but no doubt they are braved by some.
The trains themselves are huge and mostly blue in colour, much larger than British trains in width/gauge and carry thousands of passengers. Unless you have a zealous ticket inspector you’re more or less allowed to sit in the door area with the door open, open to the outside world; they close and lock only by means of clips at the top and bottom.
When you get on, the fight begins. You’ll fight the people coming out (and the people getting on will fight you when you get off), you’ll fight moving down the carriage to your seat and there is generally no quarter given in these periods of transit. If you don’t quickly claim the space under your own seat then other people will claim it for themselves. If you stop or hesitate for any reason you’re likely to get a bag rammed into your back as encouragement. After all is settled though, and the train is on its way, then everything is much different, nay calmer; the panic only really concerns claiming your space.
Be prepared for long strange stops, very often associated with your train being late out of the station. If this happens then your progress is secondary to any other trains on the line and if you have to sit in a sidings in the middle of nowhere for an hour then that’s what happens. Many was a time that most of the (mostly male) passengers would be sat out on the banks, smoking, preparing chewing tobacco and/or generally shooting the breeze.
So what of your fellow passengers? The best experiences (applicable to all classes) can consist of being given some of their home-made food, their Indian knowledge and their good conversation. The worst (applicable to all classes) can be along any or all of the following lines – being stared at without remorse for hours on end; being awoken by their screaming, gnashing nightmares; having stand-up rows about your seat which they swear is theirs (against all obvious proof to the contrary); having their kids fight and squeal and shout in your ear or all over you yourself; being smacked about by their luggage or having their finished food accoutrements thrown past your face out of the window.
This last point is the saddest thing about the whole experience. On each side of every railway track in India are two almost unbroken streaks of plastic chai cups, silvered paper plates, plastic bags, half-eaten chapati/samosi/biryani, still in their foil containers. It really is awful and absolutely everyone does it. I’m deeply ashamed to say that, on a particularly long journey on a carriage with no bin whatsoever and no hope at all of any other kind of disposal of left-over food, Lucy and I were forced to do it too. But it was only that once.
When a glimmer of shame about this terrible habit dawns in the Indian psyche, India will take a giant step towards being a much better place than the current garbage situation makes it seem to be.
On an overnight journey, be prepared to be forced to go to bed/sleep very early indeed. The Indian habit of early nights doesn’t end just because they’re on the hoof. 7 or even 8pm was common. But then they’ll be up at 5, brushing their teeth and making a racket, just as your insomniac self was getting some shut-eye.
You’ll have to deal with non-passengers too. These mainly take the form of beggars; low-level lepers, ex-working men who’ve had accidents leaving them without limbs or with s-bends in their upper arms, sadus, eunuchs, transvestites or self-employed floor cleaners who will wipe the deck beneath your feet with their own shirt (some will try and dip their hands into your bag too so watch out).
By far the best human aspect of the train experience are the food vendors. Mostly Indian Railway employees (but many self-employed chancers too who have to get on and off either at the same station or within a reasonable timeframe), these guys bring you hot drinks and snacks but, for Lucy and me at least, they also bring hilarity. They seem to have accents and diction peculiar only to them.
They call out their wares in Hindi, English or if you’re down south in Tamil, too.
Losing the specifics and subtleties for the sake of my story, tea is called chai in India and coffee is often ‘instant’ and referred to as ‘Nes’ coffee (an obvious corruption of Nescafe). Both will come in a 50 ml paper or plastic cup.
Chai will either be straight from an urn as is or sweet watered down milk will be poured into a cup with a teabag in it, always with the urn held between the knees while pouring. Some vendors (or wallahs) do both, some just one. On some trains there will be 8 of them but they will always come like buses; it’s all or nothing.
The most common calls as they thunder down the ailse are “chaichaichaichaichaichaichaichai” or “chaicoffychaicoffychaicoffy” or “chaichai, garram chai, chaichai, garram chai” or “chai-nescoffy”.
(Garram is Hindi for ‘hot’.)
Food is even better! To get an idea of how to pronounce the following correctly, try to imagine saying them both nasally and gutterally at the same time (wrinkle your nose and have a wee bit of phlegm in your throat). Try pulling your head into your shoulders a bit too.
“breed omlit” – an omelette with a slice of buttered bread
“veej cutlit” – a kind of spicy veggie burger patty, often shaped like a love-heart
“samosi garram” – hot (in both senses) samosas
“chicken lollypop” – we never worked out what this was
“veej/chicken birriuni” – Veg or chicken biryani
“panee bottel” – bottled water or Coke, Fanta, Miranda mango juice, 7Up etc but “pani” usually just means water…
Plus ice cream, doughnuts (but they are not sweet), chaat (onions, puffed rice, lemon juice, masala spices and other stuff in a newspaper cone) and much more besides in terms of food.
Then there were tracksuits, spidermen throwing dolls that stuck to and travelled down the window, keyrings, bedsheets, stuffed parrots, electric keyboards, newspapers and trashy books.
All this, and much more, awaits anyone travelling on the mighty Indian Railways.
Long may they streak stinky lines across mighty India; they’ll get you and millions of others where you want to go.
McCleod Ganj 29th Nov – 3rd Dec 2010
Not only were we finding it hard to get out of Manali due to the winter shut-down, we were also finding it difficult to forward-book accommodation in McCleod Ganj, our next destination.
This was because the Dalai Lama was in residence, giving teachings. Last year, the exiled Tibetan Buddhist spiritual leader gave notice of his intention to retire from public life and so any of his teachings are ram-packed with Buddhists from across the planet (more so than usual) and these pilgrims also pack all available digs. With four of us now putting in the effort on research we still couldn’t find much above Roach Hotel status going begging so we were forced to get into our taxi jeep with nothing booked.
Luckily the lads at the wheel were using their mobiles, nous and contacts as we went along. The journey from Manali was good when compared to the coach trip in but the precipitous mountain roads still made at least two of us (yes, me included) feel a bit crook.
It wasn’t that the vehicle’s wheels were sometimes 6 inches from certain death, it was more the hairpins and resulting slingshot gee forces which did the damage.
Arriving in the area, we viewed a couple of hideous dives before driving straight through McCleod and up into Bhagsu, the village above it, but in reality only separated by an empty stretch of road half a mile long, if that.
Our final destination was clean, friendly and yet another victory for going ‘Off Book’.
McC G is itself barely separable from Dharamsala, the seat of the Tibetan Government in exile. Seeing the writing on the wall for his office and Buddhism generally in China, 1959 saw the young Lama crossed the Himalayas from Tibet into India, seeking asylum. He was granted this and permission to perform his role in full and has since built a huge complex for study, teaching, prayer and to receive other Tibetan exiles. McC G therefore feels more like Tibet than India.
Despite our difficulties in getting digs at the time, we were actually privileged and lucky indeed to be able to witness what will surely be one of his last teachings. This took place over several days and if you didn’t have a radio receiver to tune into him live or via one of several simulcast language translations, his voice was pumped out over a reasonably loud tannoy system. Of course you could book and pay to attend officially but the boat had long since sailed for that.
I’m not a Buddhist, which may be obvious, but I was impressed by what I heard; this is not a man who thumps tubs for his cause or beliefs, nor are his words polished to the nth degree. He stumbled, he coughed; he sounded human.
His followers were all around us. The were mostly Eastern Buddhist monks, for sure, but few of these actually looked aesthetic aside from their robes. Many sported designer footwear and watches and had mobile phones. A significant number were Caucasian, American or British mostly, with the same shorn heads and deep burgundy robes as the rest. DL has expressed as much as he dare about these folk, saying that he’s not entirely sure that people should change their given religion…
Having said all that, the atmosphere was good – everyone looked happy to be there and focussed on their spiritual development. We even got in on the event; those who hadn’t booked and paid to be in attendance in the main temple itself could sit just outside in a kind of overspill area but not before going through a security check for weapons, tobacco, drugs and other such naughty things.
The heavies at this checkpoint were friendly enough but really did gave us the shakedown. My male pride and Lucy’s bra contents were thoroughly scoped out and bruised in the name of enlightenment…
Inside was a very mixed bunch of genuine Buddhists, curious backpackers and proper fairy-chasing ashram addicts, many of of this last type constantly mumbled under their breath and looked very far away… We stayed for but a short while; because we couldn’t understand the DL himself and couldn’t pick up any of the broadcasts on our phones for some reason, we gave up and contented ourselves with just having been there.
Another notable from our visit here was unfortunately the Tibetan Museum. I say unfortunate because it is a very sad building indeed. Written with a sure knowledge of the two way street which is propaganda, I nevertheless came away with the distinct impression the Tibetan people have had more than enough from the Chinese, if everything in this well put together exhibition is to be anywhere near believed. The Tibetan Museum paints a picture of the systematic destruction, over decades, of a complete way of life; from its currency to its shrines and not least the wholesale suppression and displacement of its people.
I’ll certainly pay more attention to the Tibetan cause once this bout of travelling is done with.
It was at this point of the trip that two matters came to be resolved. The first was of photography. I have posted before now on my desire to pick up a digital SLR camera in Delhi. My HTC Desire smartphone and Lucy’s point-n-shoot simply weren’t picking up what we were seeing, especially at distances or at night.
But here’s the thing. I shall post more on this subject as time goes on and I’m sorry but I writes it as I sees it; one of the biggest problems with travelling is other travellers. I’ve seen so many people stood in front of beautiful things and places being more obsessed with the settings on their huge and expensive bits of kits than the here and now. I’ve also seen cameras pushed into the faces of poor working people, without so much as a hello, too many times.
Many other times I have been unceremoniously pushed out the way of someone else’s shot or have not had a chance to get anywhere near the best viewing point of a sight and the constant whirr and click in either ear is frankly hideous. I would really rather like to get into photography, to learn its art and to capture beautiful and striking images. But I will not do it at the expense of the rest of my experiences or those of other people, not least those for whom the bit of kit being shoved in their faces may represent a lifetime’s earnings. Do you think some of the shots I post here on my site are rubbish? Tough shit, sorry – there are more important things in life and I’m not being paid to do this.
One day, who knows, perhaps I’ll be in a different situation but if so I pledge not to behave the way I’ve seen others do, like they come from a different planet to their ‘subjects’.
The second matter was between Lucy and me; what were we actually doing in India? The place is so huge that without a plan of some sort, one can spend a large amount of money simply getting about. There’s so much to see and the distances between areas can be so large, many modern travellers think nothing of jumping on planes.
We decided this wasn’t for us because a) we’re already flying a great deal on this whole trip and that doesn’t sit entirely well with our ‘light footstep’ way of thinking and b) flights are relatively expensive between Indian domestic destinations.
Looking at the country as a whole, the interior contains fewer of the ‘big hit’ or must-see places but that’s not to say that there’s nothing there. The heart of the country contains the heart of the people but it’s a much tougher place to be a tourist. You ideally need languages we simply do not have and an appreciation of the culture that requires taking on experiences that Lucy at least was quite nervous about, at that stage of our journey,
India is epic in many ways and many tourist experiences of the country are likewise. We decided, all things considered, that we would set ourselves this challenge; from here on we would circumnavigate India by train.
We’d already done a big chunk of the west coast, dipped into Rajasthan and had a large part of the mountainous north under our belts, albeit counter-clockwise. Discounting Kashmir etc (because Lucy’s mother would have killed me if we’d have gone there), before we could head east again there was one glittering target; Amritsar.
Now we were heading for the centre of the Sikh universe.
