Photos pending...

Due to our computer incompetence, we have no photos to show at present. We'll put some on in the next few days. For now though, we have four new written sections to be getting on with.

Day 123: Our final day...

That's it. All done. Complete. It feels like an eternity has passed since we arrived here in Kolkata and it has made such a difference finishing this trip where we started it, allowing us to reflect on the time, places and experiences in-between. The city almost feels comforting now, like an old friend and it feels right that we should return and give her one last handshake before we leave. After all, it was she who gave us our deepest insight into the extremes and contradictions of Indian life.

It's difficult for me to try and sum up our time in India. I think when you're travelling in a topsy-turvy country that is home to twenty-two states, one billion people, several of the world's great faiths, eighteen major languages and more than one thousand minor languages and dialects it's pretty hard to come to an all-inclusive conclusion. We've only seen a fingernail scraping of the country and we've only seen it in a fingernail scraping of time but already I feel packed full of contradictory images, emotions and thoughts.

India: one of the most materialistic and power-hungry societies on the planet and yet a timeless and compelling wonderland. India: a nation wrought with irreversible corruption and deceit yet a holy and peaceful country where the Buddah lived and taught. India: the second-largest producer of computer software in the world, with it's own satellites and nuclear weapons yet home to the worlds biggest slum settlements, the largest number of malnourished children, uneducated women and homes without access to clean water and waste disposal.

I've felt frustrated, amazed, harassed, inspired, belittled, overwhelmed, in awe, deeply saddened,
deeply privileged and a little like I've been tugged at from every limb and now it's time to go home and try to make sense of it all. I can only hope that India and all of it's experiences will stay with me for years to come and colour my life along the way. (And Jonny's)

As I've found it hard to come up with an ideal sum-up of the country, I shall leave you with a quote from one of the travel writers in our guidebook. Thank you for listening.

"Intricate and worn, it's distinctive patina - the stream of life in it's crowded bazaars, the ubiquitous music, the pungent mélange of beedi smoke, cooking spices, dust and cow dung - casts a spell that few forget from the moment they step off a plane. Love it or hate it, India will shift the way you see the world..."

Chilika Lake

On our east-coast dash home from Hampi to Kolkata, we decided to make a brief stop at one of the few places described in our guidebook that attracted our interest: Chilika lake. At 1100 sq km, it is Asia’s largest lagoon and home to great biodiversity, especially its migratory bird populations that, between the months of November and March, number over a million. Flamingoes, ospreys, painted storks, eagles, pelicans and kites fly from Siberia, Iran and the Himalayas and join the indigenous population of egrets, herons and gulls to subsist on the abundance of fish found in the brackish waters. The lagoon is also home to a peculiar looking and widely advertised endangered marine mammal: the Irrawaddy dolphin.

When bringing to mind a dolphin, the image that immediately springs up is of the bottlenose- that swift, playful fellow from Flipper. The Irrawaddy however is markedly different. It has no beak- only a blunt, rounded head; its movement is slow and deliberate, rising slowly to the surface where it rolls, whale-like, to take its breath, then diving deep, its tail fluke coming clean out of the water; and its mature adult size is around a third more than that of an average adult human. Unfortunately for the Irrawaddy, they are adapted to inhabit the resource-rich rivers and shallow coastal marine waters such as Chilika. This means that they come into contact with humans far more than species found in oceans and, in much the same way as the Indus, Ganges and Yangtze dolphins, are consequently on the front line of the battle being waged between man and the natural world. Their demise has been attributed to: water contaminants from industry- heavy metals, etc; agricultural chemicals and industrial fertilizers; fishing that uses drag- and gillnets (or explosives in Vietnam and Thailand where they are also found); collisions with propellers; capture for transfer to oceanariums; and poaching for their oil which is considered aphrodisiacal. They now, after our sustained assault on their population, number about 2,000 in the world. The lake is home to, from the last approximate estimates, a mere 50.

The morning after our arrival, accompanied by one of the hotel staff, we hired a small, paint-flaking blue boat with an outboard motor to venture out into the lake and see if we could find any. The boat was one of many moored to a large jetty. The majority of these crammed vessels, unlike our spacious minnow, were old fishing boats adapted to accommodate up to 40 tourists at a time. Even though it was still early morning, many of these boats were filled with excitable Indian school children and teachers, all of them inexplicably ululating like some warring tribe at the sight of our passing white faces.

We made our way steadily out into the open water- a measure that has evidently been encouraged or imposed upon the tourist boats and fishermen so as to avoid propeller collision- and squinted hard against the reflected sunlight to catch sight of a breaching back. Within a few focused minutes, Lucy squealed as if she’d been bitten and pointed (bloody typical) 180 degrees from where I’d been staring. If it hadn’t been for the passion of her response, I’d swear she was lying.

Ten or so minutes later, a finger pointed across the water to a descending dorsal fin and we altered our course to run alongside its path. Suddenly, two, then three more backs broke clear of the water and spouted their expulsive breaths. It looked as if we’d come across a pod of perhaps four or five. The motor was switched off and we sat in rapt silence as the slow, graceful rolling and watery sputters were repeated mere metres from where we sat. Though practically blind, the dolphins’ echolocation would have sensed the boats presence. The fact that they calmly passed us by without panicking made the sighting all the more meaningful; a touching mutual trust that made the decimation we’d wrought on their species all the more shaming.

Overall, during the course of the 90 minutes, we made at least twenty sightings (there must have been a number of repeat ones) and returned to the jetty, elated at the fact that we’d glimpsed a fragment of these unassuming creatures’ lives and heartened at the certainty of their continued existence. Our elation soon turned to perturbation as we chugged up to the jetty. Several of the big boats bobbed in our wake. We glanced along the line of cheering Indian passengers, some of them, in some instances, screaming and flailing uncontrollably, and wondered at their reasons for coming out here at all. Admittedly, many were school kids and the excursion would have offered the same sort of thrill as any school trip would. The intentions of the teachers may be admirable- perhaps to draw their students’ attention to their natural heritage and encourage its conservation. But this tourist traffic: round-tripping, day-in, day-out, propeller blades driving deep into the water, oil being dribbled from every motor, plastic drinks cartons floating colourfully by- is the ‘awareness’ it provides of any real benefit? Is it, in the long-term, actually benefiting this now critically endangered species? Or is it just one more way for the local human population to extort a few quid from another natural resource that will, in time, be driven ever closer to extinction?

Day 106 to 114: Mysore to Chilika Lake

The city of Mysore was next on the list and once again we hired bicycles to get the most out of the place and to get the least out of the hassling rickshaw and taxi drivers. Mysore had a different feel to most of the other cities that we had visited, more like a large and relaxed town as opposed to a non-stop, hectic and racy metropolis and therefore riding around on our two-wheelers proved as easy as ever.

Bright and early on our first morning we visited the dominating Maharaja’s Palace which, from a distance, resembles Buckingham Palace as it has a similar shape and layout. However, after a closer inspection I decided that no Queen of England would allow her home to fall prey to damp walls and crumbling concrete in dire need of a whitewash. The palace was completed in 1912 for the twenty-fourth Maharaja of Karnataka on the site of the old wooden palace which had been destroyed by a fire in 1897 but it seems that since partition when, all over India, most of the properties of Indias Maharajas were handed over to the state Government, the royal palaces, holiday homes and gardens have fallen into decay.

During the time of the Empire, the Maharajas of India were kept sweet by the British in order to gain and keep a certain amount of rule over a state. Money, niceties and the honour of mingling amongst the finest of British aristocrats kept the Indian princes happy and the British in command. Each of the palaces usually stood upon vast tracts of green and untouched land teeming with wildlife but after the hunting-obsessed British introduced the sport to the Maharajas and they took it up with just as much (if not more) vigour, the once animal-filled grasses, green plains and jungles of India began to show little signs of life. Many of India’s species were disappearing fast and the old photographs displayed in the Mysore Palace gave us little reason to wonder why.

The Maharaja (usually stood in the centre of the picture) would be dresssed in the most ridiculously fancy and pompous hunting outfit (which appeared to be stifling him from his toes upwards) with three or four little men to his right and another three or four little men to his left. I say ‘little’ men because standing next to this Maharaja, the last ruling prince of Kartanaka, that is what they were. He was massive. Absolutely mammoth in size. The tell-tale signs of him becoming such a whale were even apparent in the childhood photographs; with a rippling belly, jowly chin, greedy eyes and an ever-giving and doting mother lovingly standing by his side- he was set to be a big boy. Anything that little prince wanted, he got. And he (along with most of the Indian princes) wanted to hunt. Infront of the line of men, splayed out on the ground were (in some photographs) upto 200 tiger carcasses piled high like mini, striped mountains. All from one days hunting. It wasn’t uncommon for a ruler to notch up a disgusting tally of 4,000 birds in one day either; the bigger the pile, the bigger the prince’s fat head. Photographs of a days catch, stuffed animals and mounted tusks, horns, antlers and teeth covered the many walls in the many rooms of the palace and gave us no doubt as to the fact that this Prince really liked his ‘sport’. Of course hunting is not only to blame for the depletion of many Indian species, more recently poaching and the increase of human population in rural districts have greatly added to the problem but the trigger-happy British and Maharajas certainly played their part. They completely eradicated the Indian cheetah and brought the Asiatic lion to the brink of extinction. Only recently, off the back of the lions decline, a Maharaja in one of the northern states (as if to redeem himself) turned his land into a conservation park for the animal. It’s still teetering on the edge but numbers are slowly rising. Elephants, rhinos, snow leopards, swamp deer, spotted deer, musk deer, barking deer, the Himalayan hog deer, the Kashmir stag and the wild Ass of the Rann of Kutch are all living on the edge but don’t worry, if they do disappear from this land forever you can always visit one of the royal palaces to see a stuffed one. But the saddest story of all has to be that of the tiger. Maybe it’s because of the mystery surrounding the tiger, the fear, the respect, the myths or the adoration that commands such universal fascination, but few other animals seem to hold such power over man and as a Maharaja, bagging yourself a few hundred deer with the odd cheetah thrown in bares no comparison to tiger hunting; the “sport of kings”. As recently as the turn of the last century, up to 100,000 tigers still roamed wild around India but after decades of hunting, poaching (a whole tiger can fetch up to $100,000 on the black market) and forest clearing for farming- depriving the large carnivores of their main source of game and the cover they need to hunt- the numbers have dropped dramatically to around 1,000. Experts today claim that at the current rate of depletion, India’s most exotic animal could be extinct by the end of the decade.

After a one-night-boozey-stop-off in Bangalore our path took us to the old ruins of Hampi. This is the name of the main local village but the whole settlement spills out over twenty six square kilometres of surreal landscape littered with giant, golden-brown granite boulders and leafy banana fields; somewhat similar to a ‘Flintstones’ movie set. The weird rocks (some balanced in perilous arches, others heaped in colossal, hill-sized piles) are said to have been flung down by the armies of the age-old monkey kings (Bali and Sugriva) who ruled Hampi when time began. Between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries, this was the most powerful Hindu capital in the land and travellers reported tales of markets full of silks and precious gems, beautiful bejewelled courtesans, ornate palaces and joyous festivities. However, in the latter half of the sixteenth century, the wealthy and dazzling city was devestated by a six-month Muslim seige. Only stone and brick survived the attack so all that’s left to see now is monolithic deities, crumbling houses and an abundance of abandoned temples. What remains is simply extaordianary.

The ruins of Hampi transported us to another time in another world. Granted, the Muslim onslaught left the monuments in disappointingly poor shape, seemingly much older than their four or five- hundred years but the serene setting and the unbelievable vastness of the site; home to palaces, royal baths, public baths, elephant stables, pavilions, guardhouses, countless temples, and halls of justice, each intricately carved out of stone, left me feeling slightly bewitched. I couldn’t even begin to imagine this magical place in it’s hey-day; queens taking a dip in the royal baths, people worshipping the god’s in the spookily eerie underground temples, elephants housing the long and beautiful stables and kings parading around the palaces, looking down from their many towers on the magnificent and monumental Hampi. Walking around the site I felt like time had stopped. It really was one of the most unusual places we’d visited.

Day 94 to 105: Mangalore to Mysore

Well, we’ve finally come full circle and here we find ourselves back in the grip of the almighty and intoxicating Kolkata. With only eight days to go till our feet are once again placed firm on English soil, I’m starting to feel giddier than your average kipper. Our train pulled into Howrah station this morning at five o’clock and we haven’t really done too much since but (although I never thought I’d say it) it’s really nice to be back in this city. Just being in a familiar place where we know the streets, the restaurants, the hotels and even some of the people is a huge relief and allows for a little, well-needed breathing space. So, to pick up from where we left off...

After fleeing from Goa and all of its delights we found ourselves racing south on a train to Mangalore, a coastal city in the state of Karnataka. Although we spent three days in Mangalore, I’m unable to say much about the place as we spent all of our time there writing and updating the blog and only ventured out of the internet shop at feeding times. Now I could have just jumped straight to our next stop, the Coorg, and overlooked Mangalore but I do have one tale to tell, a little story which will enable me to remember the city in years to come.

We spent the three nights in a rather nice hotel, probably the nicest hotel of the trip and the staff were exceptionally friendly and helpful. On the second morning we gave the young and eager laundry lads our bag of washing to deal with which was full of stinky and sandy clothes from the Goan beaches and on the morning of our departure the bag was brought back with each item fresh smelling, spotless and ironed.

Once we were at the bus station and wearing his now gleaming trousers, Jonny had a feel in his back pockets in search of his wallet so that he could pay the conductor. He pulled the wallet out of his right back pocket but said that he couldn’t get his hand in the left one as it seemed closed. After we’d got onto the bus I had a look and sure enough it was sewn tight. Jonny started yelping and saying that someone had, ridiculously, sewn up his back pocket. I told him not to be silly as it had probably always been like that and was supposed to be more of a fashion accessory rather than an actual, practical pocket.

We arrived in the Coorg (our next and a most enjoyable stop) later that evening and once we were in our hotel Jonny took of his trousers and turned them inside out. Where Jonny insisted there should have been a pocket, only the fringes of a hacked-at piece of material could be found. Amazingly, he was right! Not only had someone sewn the pocket up but they’d chopped it off aswell! This caused great amusement: who would want to steal a pocket? And why!? We had visions of one of the hotel staff running around waving the pocket in the air, shouting to everyone that he had managed to pinch a pocket made from special, breathable material (the theft was from his all-weather North Face walking trousers) and laughing at how the white man had never even noticed.

As no explanation could be found, after a few days the incident started to blur into the background and we had to leave the case unsolved. Then one morning, Jonny noticed that the bottom of each of his trouser legs looked different from one another; the right leg was definitely made from slightly lighter material. On closer inspection we realised that the bottom part of the right leg was actually made up of a seperate piece of material from the rest. A kind of patch- a pocket patch! There was the missing pocket! Sewn onto the bottom of his right leg! But once again, why? We only had to turn the trouser leg up to find for ourselves the incriminating evidence and a pocket pinching explanation. The original part of the trouser leg was in tatters, a shred of which was scorched...with the tip of an iron print. So, whilst ensuring that we got our washing back in the cleanest and crispest of fashoins, the young laundry lads from the hotel must have had the iron turned up a little too hot and burnt right through Jonny’s trouser leg. Then to make sure that they wouldn’t get a beating from their boss and to make sure that they got their money, they must have ran to a tailors (I like to imagine them running) where he would have chopped off the left back pocket and proceeded to sew it over the evidence AND probably recieved a handsome sum himself. Very clever. So the mystery of the missing pocket was explained and we could get back to our travels.

We were then in the green and mountainous Coorg. The Coorg is a vast area of steep hills and valleys and home to coffee, tea and cardomom plantations, pepper vines and ginger roots. The best way to appreciate the beauty of the place is on foot so we hired a guide and experienced a two day trek in the south Indian countryside, spending our nights with a farming family in their home in one of the remote villages. It is a shame that with these sorts of ventures you have to hire someone else to come along and show you the way; it would be ideal to be able to just set off and find your own path but it just doesn’t seem to work like that out here. Our guide was quite young and he talked incessantly, pausing only to point out and name every single thing from each and every “spider” to each and every “aeroplane” flying overhead. This was as annoying as it sounds so two days with him was definitely enough but the countryside itself provided a lush and tranquil escape and I could have happily stayed with the family and their many animals just a little longer. If only for some more of that homemade lime and mango pickle.

Outcastes

A few people have asked about the caste system here in India: does it still exist? If so, to what extent is it enforced? Are the reports of brutality at all founded? Well, we came across this article a couple of months ago and thought it a good example of what we’d read and heard elsewhere. We were keen to write up a brief summary right away but it was a little too close to the festive season and we didn’t want to depress people with the heavy content. Seeing as we’re well clear of all that, now is as good a time as any.

The publication Tehelka is the hard-hitting, self-proclaimed People’s Paper of India. It aims, as far as I can gather, for a progressive, liberal sort of readership and seems, from its articles, to specialize in muckraking. Other topics included in the issue are: excessive administering of WHO live polio vaccines to rural children; the new defense minister’s agenda for the coming year; and the shortcomings of the juvenile criminal system.

The article stands beneath the banner: India Outraged and has, as its title, DALITS, LIKE FLIES TO FEUDAL LORDS and beneath that, in bold type: A Maharashtra village serves up ‘moral justice’ by gang-raping and lynching a Dalit family. That didn’t merit front page news in 21st-Century-10-percent-growth-rate-India. (A Dalit, by the by, is the substitute term for an Untouchable, or a person of the lowest caste. Maharashtra is a central state of India.)

In essence, the story is as follows…

One day, ‘two acres [of Dalit farmland] had been taken away’ in order ‘to build a road so that neighbouring farmers, who belong to the Powar and Kalar upper castes, could take their tractors across to other villages’. A local police officer, Siddarth Gabjhiye, who was, unusually, also a Dalit, was resisting further attempts made by the village’s upper castes to forcefully appropriate Dalit land for a ‘water pathway’ and applied to appropriate authorities. The villagers spread ‘allegations that he was doing so’ because of his 'sexual relations' with a married Dalit woman Surekha Bhotmange, 45, who tilled a threatened five-acre plot of cotton and rice with her husband, Bhaiyyal.

‘On September 3’ it is written, ‘a mob beat up officer Gajbhiye, the ostensible reason being his alleged illicit relationship with Surekha Bhotmange. Officer Gabjhiye filed a police complaint against 15 of the men, 12 of whom were arrested.’ He identified each of them in a police parade.

A month later, the men were released, ‘taken away in a tractor by their relatives', 'got drunk’ and went looking for the officer and his brother, threatening revenge. Unable to find the man that indicted them, they then went to the Bhotmange’s house.

‘The drunken group…broke down the door’ at 5:40pm as Surekha ‘was preparing the evening meal’. Her husband was not at home but her children were- 17 year-old daughter Priyanka, 23 year-old Roshan and 21 year-old Sudhir. ‘Although Roshan was blind and Sudhir a graduate, they not only helped with the farming’ he writes ‘they also worked as labourers to bring home extra money.’

The mob dragged the four from their hut, not realizing that the husband and his brother were ‘a stone’s throw’ away, watching helplessly. They were taken to the chaupal (village square) to be brought before the village sarpanch (locally elected leader). The details are best left now to the journalist.

‘By now, allegedly 150 men and women [from the upper castes] had collected. Some shouted to the sarpanch to allow them to sexually assault the women. They raped the women and killed all four, even as their women-folk looked on, mute spectators to a form of justice reserved for castes lower than theirs. One woman…reportedly did protest but was slapped into silence. She now says she was never there.

‘Surekha and Priyanka were stripped, paraded naked, beaten black and blue by bicycle chains, axes and bullock cart pokers. They were publicly gang raped until they died. Some raped them even after that, and finally, sticks and rods were shoved into their genitals…’

‘Roshan and Sudhir were beaten up, their genitals mutilated, faces disfigured and their bodies tossed in the air, before they lay dead on the ground.’

‘An hour later, a village meeting was called and a diktat issued: no one was to say a word about the massacre’.

The husband fled to the nearest village to report the incident and see the perpetrators punished but when finally he found a police officer and described the incident, he was not believed. ‘It was only the following day when the police patrol started flashing reports of the discovery of the mutilated dead bodies’ that proper protocol was finally followed.

After many months of corruption in which ‘doctors were managed and the police bribed’, investigations finally found thirty-eight men in jail, as accused. However, ‘some of the main perpetrators are still free due to political pressure’.

This unspeakably brutal act is, you’d imagine, a story from some deeply distant and primitive time. But you’d be wrong. These murders took place in 1996- a mere ten years ago. One can only imagine that incidents such as this continue to take place in rural India, away from the supervising eye of civilization.

Baga Beach

What a topsy-turvy country of staggering extremes! What impossibly opposite lives are led, often one within arm’s reach of the other, and without a single person stopping mid-stride to scream out at the absurdity of it all.

First, to consider a life in the city where we began this trip: Kolkata. We were thrown into the thick of commonplace destitution, shocked at the level and extent of people’s penury and stunned at their ability to endure such a bleak existence in the face of such crushing futility. Many of the people we met who slept and begged at Sealdah station for example, will never venture further than that filthy city’s limits, perhaps, for the most part, never daring to roam outside of their known territory: the station’s crowded platforms and dusty concourse. Perhaps entire lives may be spent, of sixty or more years (the results of which we witnessed at Mother Theresa’s house for the dying destitute), without ever escaping that hellish, loveless and unforgiving struggle. Each and every night spent sleeping in corners or doorways on the cold, hard and grubby ground, among dashing feet, open drains and skeletal mutts; waking to the dismal prospect of having to depend on passing strangers’ arbitrary acts of charity in order to buy a meager and never-changing meal of rice and dhal. Never having an opportunity to better your situation and perhaps knowing that this punishing daily cycle may well be your lot until the day you die. An entire life. It’s inconceivable! Even if it was possible for a person born into relative privilege to come close to conceiving this sort of life, I don’t suppose words could ever adequately describe its perspectives.

Lives like this are led by countless people not only in the streets of Kolkata but also in every other major Indian city. An entire third of the citizens of Mumbai, for example, live in slums. Everyone who lives in India is aware of their existence; they all must have an inkling of the suffering borne by so many of their countrymen. It’s this that makes the scene that confronts us now so hard to swallow.

Baga is located on a central area of the Goan coastline famous for its exceptional beauty. Its beaches are enormous: deep and blessed with a soft white-sand and bordered by the swaying fronds of coconut palms that, with their thick, nestled clusters of green fruit, teeter improbably on wiry, lichen-spotted trunks. The lazy waves never roll in at anything over a foot high and, breaking into foamy lines maybe ten or twenty metres before their retreat, crawl forward at a constant, leisurely rush that’s soothing to the ear. In the ocean itself, the marine life is as abundant as it is varied. Small wooden fishing boats bob in the flickering waves as the sun sets over the Arabian Sea. It is as idyllic a beach as one could imagine, the sort of place someone might envisage as their paradisal resting place; or at least they might have done, that is, until the mighty, exploitative forces of commercialism decided to set up camp and render this unassuming little spot into a veritable hell.

All along its vast, nearly 20km length, sun beds, 3, 4 or even 5 deep are spaced at intervals of a metre or so, each with its own multi-coloured parasol, in a manner to rival even the most established European package-holiday resort. The beds, sparsely occupied in the morning whilst tourists sleep off the previous evenings sousing, slowly are filled from noon until they are saturated by cajoling crowds swigging from wine and beer bottles. The seas teem with hundreds if not thousands of bodies: women and young girls bobbing tentatively over the waves, gasping at each rising swell as they venture further out to sea; men and young lads diving into the breaks, shouting and boisterously splashing one another. There’s an almost permanently audible background buzz and aggressive irregular slap from the many jet skis that dart in amongst pleasure boats brimming with orange life-jacketed excursionists expectantly awaiting a glimpse of their promised rarely-seen marine-life in some nearby cove. Banana boats bounce comically between numerous slow-moving floating billboards that parade advertisements for local nightclubs, bars and beer whilst pounding out indiscernible dance music; far off in the distance a parachute lingers in the air like a giant jellyfish, silently suspending the silhouette of a small insect by invisible threads.

Behind the beds, again for the entire 20km stretch, lie a line of bamboo shacks that act as food and drink dispensers to the masses; some the diminutive size deserving of the name ‘shack’ and others better described as something like ‘bamboo complexes’. Most of these are topped or are immediately neighboured by vast, garishly-coloured signs sponsored by large multinationals like Coca-Cola or Smirnoff. Above the thin strip of white that quietly announces the shacks’ name in plain black type, the dominating faces of cosmetically flawless models, grasping their bottle of whatever, laugh and smile with supernatural glee and are accompanied by vague and meaningless slogans exploding through the centre, stating rubbish such as: ‘Life is Calling! Where are you?’

Inside these consistently busy shacks, bodies sit well back and strain the flimsy form of the ever-present, white plastic, all-in-one chairs. They sip at colourful, iced cocktails, chilled white wines and towering bottles of beer dripping with condensation. Most have been lured by the blackboards that are propped outside each and every shack that promise an apparently endless supply of world-famous (and wonderfully cheap!) Goan seafood: Lobster! King Prawn! Baby Shark! Tiger Prawn! Kingfish! Green-Lipped Mussels the Size of Your Fist! In the distance, on the horizon, barely distinguishable in the haze, I count fifteen industrial fishing trawlers, each with four or five cranes poised to drag in the indiscriminate haul that will (mostly) go to feeding all those demanding mouths clamouring on the shore.

Just in case you hadn’t been alerted to these shacks’ ubiquity over the course of the morning and early afternoon, then have no fear: when four o’ clock strikes, you’ll be left in no doubt. Soaring stacks of speakers are brought to the forward corners of each of the bamboo structures, like reinforcements against the swelling crowds, and blast out music; often, in eagerness to outdo their neighbours, at volumes which distort the sound deafeningly. Each of these hundreds of shacks thumps out its own inimitable flavour in the hope of acquiring a particular crowd and the resultant effect is one of utter aural chaos; a messy hotchpotch of beats and swirl of instrument and style: here the latest Indian Bollywood song; there Shania Twain; here now some hard-pumping techno.

For anyone reading this at home and imagining the inhabitants of this scene, it’s possible that you may well be imagining swathes of pasty or lobster-red Brits with ‘I Love Goa’ t-shirts straining over their bloated bellies, or maybe tight-briefed, leathery-looking Germans all enjoying their cut-price break in the Christmas sun. If you are, I’m afraid you’ll have to scrap the imagined mob and replace at least four-fifths of them with an entirely different breed altogether. Let’s call them, for want of an official title: ‘The Newly Affluent Indians’.

Before we arrived in Mumbai, we were almost totally unaware of there being many wealthy Indians. Of course, we thought, there must be a few prosperous industrialists and moneyed businessmen what with the burgeoning economy, as well as a small sum of old money enduring in some lines, but surely that’s all there is: a few. Mumbai however, though we were there for only a day and a night, suddenly opened up the possibility of there being rather more than that.

As India’s financial capital and the home of the world’s biggest film industry, Mumbai has evidently spawned some big-earners. Their collective influence can be felt in the city’s arrangement which has a far more European or aspiring American feel to it, albeit with a touch of distinctly Indian disorder and filth. Its central streets, though heavily congested by a higher-than-average quantity of cars (an unfortunate byproduct of increased wealth) are mostly free of the oppressive smell and littered waste of other Indian cities. People seem generally more purposeful and occupied and so there feels to be a smoother flow, less apathy and inertia. But it’s the citizens who seem most to reflect this aspiring Westernisation. We saw, on our wanderings, the sort of people you’d expect to see on a fashionable high-street in London. A mother sauntering through a Waterstones-like bookstore, dressed in tasteful, lightweight designer clothing, casually flicks through a glossy cookery book while her chubby child, dressed in baseball cap and Nike trainers, tugs impatiently on her trousers, whining for something or other. On a street lined with the glittering facades of designer clothes stores, a surly-looking pair of teenage girls clutching mobile phones to their ear in one hand and fiddling with strands of their hair in the other, aimlessly amble in that bored, indifferent way particular to rich adolescent girls, their expressions suggesting a sort of haughty exasperation at the general irritation of it all. Due to the time of these wanderings however- midweek, early evening- we never really saw many men, all of them no doubt hard at work in their offices to bring home the cash and satisfy the rapacious shopping appetites of their spouses and offspring. We needn’t have worried. Baga is awash with them.

Whether from Mumbai or elsewhere, their stories of these revellers must mostly be the same. Most will have made their fortunes within a generation or two. Most will have come from a history of relative deprivation. All will regard themselves as being entitled, in the way that all us successful Westerners have become accustomed, to a slice of the good life. And by golly, they’re really going to go for it.

Swaggering, American-styled Indian men, with basketball vests, combat khakis and unblemished trainers; loud, ostentatious, brash and boorish, demanding sun beds, seafood and booze from their scampering countrymen who cower and acquiesce in a way that relegates their status to that of slaves and elevates the grumpy-looking money-wielders to that of Roman emperors. Some are quieter, emulating the quiet, respectable American family of four: father, dressed in pastel Ralph Lauren polo shirt and cream chinos, a sensible side-parting and wire-rimmed glasses, dutifully leading from the front with a warm and loyal golden Labrador in tow; children and mother puffing away, laden with needless amounts of beach paraphernalia. Others, in younger groups, laze nonchalantly beside one another, so transparently and so risibly self-conscious in their movements, laughter and gaze, with wraparound sunglasses that cover half their face; and the girls determinedly arching their eyebrows with petulant pout, imitating the moodiest-looking models from the Western fashion magazines that lie in their laps.

However, try as these women might to resemble the images of svelte Western models propagated by their glossies, they are woefully let down by something that might reasonably be called the ‘Newly Affluent’s Epidemic’. Nearly every one of these Indian nouveaux is overweight. Some are merely tubby; others titanic. As far as the eye can see: droopy rolls of flab hang over bikini waistbands, men’s breasts bobble as they play Frisbee, cellulite-dappled thighs waddle towards the sea. One man is so round that, when lying on his side, his elbow barely reaches the surface of the sun bed. But this phenomenon is part of something larger. It is a tangible, physical and visible symptom of a broader problem: it feels as if, after a long and complicated history of repression from religious figures, colonialists and the state, a secular, fat-walleted middle-class finally has hold of the reigns and is making up for lost time.

The excitability of this crowd of thousands on the beach has a sense of instability, as if a vast chunk of a population has suddenly won the lottery and wants to start living like stars. They seem to be part of a greater population that’s heedlessly diving headlong into a cycle of conspicuous consumption without much ethical restraint or an environmental conscience- seafood stocks, as just one example, after five years of heavy trawling off this stretch of the Goan coast, are depleted almost to the point of annihilation. After many millions of years of ecological balance and many thousands of years of sustainable fishing by local fishermen, someone out there with the necessary capital as decided, on the back of this economic boom, to bring in his four-craned trawlers and mine the seas of their wealth in a mere blink of five years.

On the surface, it’s easy to argue that the Newly Affluents in these mushrooming economies have every right to enjoy themselves after all their years of relative hardship.
Why not? We have. It would only be hypocritical to suggest anything else. We’ve made mistakes and we’ve learnt from them- let them make their own mistakes and all will be right in the end. I think though, for the most part, people find this line profoundly troubling. In a book I just recently read called The Hidden Connections by a fellow called Fritjof Capra, this rapid development of the Developing World and its sustainability is discussed in some detail. In essence, it states that if the 77 countries considered ‘Developing’ were to achieve the same level of consumption per capita as the US currently achieves, then we’d be getting through 220 times the natural resources used today (as well as emitting 220 times the waste); or the equivalent of three and a half planets. Those in positions of power and influence are well aware of the unsustainability of our current growth rate and yet still it continues to grow, exponentially. The adverts that we see on Indian TVs across the country depicting spacious apartments and glamorous lives, pushing the consumption of their products ever further, fail to mention to their audience of millions that the fantasy they’re peddling simply isn’t possible. And yet those that can, do- as is all too evident here on Baga beach. They may still only be a nominal proportion of the 1 billion population of India but they are leading the way.

But besides this question of how long our increasingly global party can go on for, there’s the humanistic issue that surrounds these grossly distanced lives, lives that exist both in India and the whole world. It’s impossible, in contemplating the mindless excess that exists here in Goa, not to be taken back to when we began this trip in Kolkata. Everyone who lazes here on Baga beach knows of the existence of the pitiful lives we saw and yet they continue to party like there’s no tomorrow, frittering more money in a week than maybe some of their fellow Indians will ever see in a lifetime. It's difficult to attribute blame but it all seems so wrong.

Anjuna's colourful flea market...

A beautiful Goan bug the size of a small dog...

Jonny had managed to munch his way down the list of desserts but hadn't yet plucked up the courage to ask for the last...

Once a nobber, always a nobber...

Lucia Bella (how apt! says Lucy) our bunker retreat from the rowdy rabble of Baga Beach.

A Very Merry Christmas (he, he, he...)

Giddy Christmas Kippers clutching their cliched coconut cocktails...

Our venue for the 25th...

Christmas Day only hours away...

Christmas Eve green-lipped mussels. We left the shells out for Father Christmas.

Our peaceful little stretch of sand outside Sami's...

Our cocohut at Sami's Place on Agonda beach.

Day 90- New Year's Day: Goa.

And then two days worth of travelling down the west coast to Goa: the party place of India. Where in the north one can watch the hedonistic hippies swing their foisty locks freely on the sands and the hardcore Israelis thumping and pumping the night away around fluorescent painted palm trees; or take a trip south to witness the loud, staggering, belching English folk drink their way through the holiday. And then there are the people in-between like us: just having a nice time. We did read these kinds of descriptions about the state before we stepped off our train and a few of the people and places we came across certainly did live up to the books.

We (the nice timers) took our chance with a quiet option and made our way to a peaceful and tucked away village, set behind a delightful beach, called Agonda. The houses and shops (there were very few) are generally made from either bamboo or cow dung and surround the centre piece of the village which is a rather imposing Christian church. After spending so long surrounded by Hindus and their everlasting, three-or-four-times-a-month-occurring festivals, it was very strange to witness and stay amongst a strong Christian community but still be on Indian soil. Scraggy tinsel, Santa effigies looking a little more like daylight robbers and masses of bright, paper stars adorned people's homes, trees, backyards and the palm trees which surrounded us. On Christmas Eve whilst sipping our cocktails (out of coconuts of course) we were made audience to some of the village's youngsters as they traipsed from bar to bar singing carols. I have to say that they did a pretty poor job and the Santa mask which one of them wore was really quite frightening but we paid up and thanked them. And on passing the church one afternoon we saw a bride in the full white, fairy cake dress making her way into the church with her father.

Our home for the first week was a delightful bamboo hut on stilts at Sami's Place and the tiny little resort (made up of only thirteen huts around a small bar and restaurant) proved to be as tranquil and peaceful as our guidebook suggested. We spent the days frolicking in the sea (frolicking= Jonny dive bombing me, Jonny dunking me and Jonny dragging me along the sea bed by my feet leaving me with salt water up my nose and sand in my pants) and playing on the beach (playing= burying Jonny in the sand so that he became only a nodding head).

Ten kilometers south lay the next resort of Palolem and it's here that literally thousands gather during peak season to drink, dance and worship the sun on Palolem's famous palm tree lined picture-perfect beach. Although it's actually rather difficult to appreciate the beauty of the place as people, huts, shops and bars are literally squeezed and crammed into every available space and after an afternoon there it began to feel a little more like a concentration camp than an Indian beauty spot. Saying that, the couple of evenings we spent in the restaurants and bars there were great, fun-fueled with Goan port and seriously tasty mussels, each the size of a small crab.

Palolem was also the setting for our Christmas dinner. We arrived brushed, scrubbed and polished (it has been quite difficult to keep on top of personal hygiene and clothes washing whilst being on the move. Many nights have been spent racing through India on trains with only a communal sink and tap to wash at) and dressed in our new Indian garments. Jonny in a smart blue and white checked shirt ordered and made at one of the many tailors in Kolkata; and me in a red sari suit I had made in the market place there. We enjoyed a really delicious three course meal (with cocktails and nibbles on arrival) at Ciarans restaurant right on the beach front.

It was a set dinner and everybody sat down around sixish to eat which gave the day the shared celebratory feel it deserved. The owners had made a startling effort with the set-up and our candlelit table was in the middle of the garden by a finely decorated Christmas tree overlooking the fairy lit bar and the sea beyond. Frank Sinatra poured warm honey into our ears as we slowly and delicately made our way through pumpkin and blue cheese crepes and chiili and ginger prawns followed by a mixed seafood platter comprised of squid stuffed with spicy leaves, mini creamy coconut fishcakes, a few of those memorable mussels, a small dressed crab, lobster and potato salad and a portion of nutty saffron rice. Yes, it was bloody good and no, the turkey wasn't missed. Christmas pudding and a slice of a traditional Goan rice cake made up our desert and by the time we left at nine o'clock Jonny had grown a small snout and I a curly tail: Two Little Piggies. Needless to say we then drank far too much and after doing so well over the last few months with managing to keep hold of all wallets, cameras, cards and phones, I lost my sandals. Very boring.

After a week in Agonda we'd just about had our fill of quietness so we packed our bags once more and headed to the far north to a village called Arambol, described as the alternative side of Goa where many of the long-term hippies congregate for months at a time.

Now, I like to think of myself and Jonny as open-minded, free-thinking individuals with the ability to mix, mingle and understand most people. But, my god, was I to be proved wrong. The people of Arambol and the place itself we just couldn't get. Both categories ticked the dirty, seedy and dark boxes and both categories had stale and stagnant auras (I think the people of Arambol would be pleased with me for using the word aura). Hippies- real, full-on hippies with weathered faces and glazed eyes descend upon Arambol from all around the globe, filling its rather beautiful beach around October time and then drifting off again towards the end of March. Some practice yoga in embarrassingly skimpy briefs; some seem to spend their days juggling and throwing fire; some lie around naked (I felt really uncomfortable seeing this in India- the arrogance of it!); and a lot literally spend their time on another planet. At a few of the shacks we called in on when looking for a place to stay, the people there were so out of it they didn't understand what we were saying and just pointed and waved their arms around with frightened eyes. I've never felt so straight and normal in my life.

As we walked down the beach, Jonny dressed in his practical, khaki, knee-length shorts with their many zip pockets, his oxford blue, short-sleeved shirt, his sturdy, velcro-fastening walking sandals and carrying his Berghaus rucksack looked like Mr Palin reporting on some lost and forgotten civilisation. Tie-dyed bits of cloth and scarves, beads, floaty strips of silk, glittering sandals, hessian sacks, tattoos, piercings, knitted items, scruffy rags, massive hair (all colours) and a drifty, no rush attitude made up the people of Arambol. Anything else just didn't fit. Posters sellotaped to the walls of the numerous dingy shacks advertised meetings held by people like 'Reena' (from her photograph she looked about sixty) where you could go to enjoy a supportive atmosphere whilst finding your inner being and discovering self-realisation. The meetings were held each Tuesday under the swaying palms (which swaying palms?) or if you wanted a one-on-one session with Reena you could find her in her hut on top of the cliff. We just couldn't get it. So, instead of spending the four days there as planned including New Year, we wearily picked up the book once more in order to try and find somewhere suitable.

Well, suitable is the wrong word. We both knew that staying anywhere along the coast wasn't going to be ideal. Although we had a lovely and relaxing Christmas, we did find it hard to really relish the 'holiday atmosphere'. After seeing all we have, I found it quite difficult to suddenly stop in a beach resort and slip into care-free mode. The poverty still surrounded us, it was just better hidden. This way the consciences of the holidaying Westerners are kept clean and they keep returning to spend their money. But you only have to take a look behind the bars and holiday huts lining each beach to see the cramped and dirty conditions most of the locals live in. People try to do their best with regards to litter-disposal but with no real waste system, a good deal of the thousands of plastic and glass bottles used each day find their way into these people's living areas. And really they have no choice but to grit their teeth and watch their once quiet and undisturbed villages become second homes to lots of white faces who really know how to fling their money about. Most of the locals have turned to tourism; nearly every home has an attached guesthouse or a room to rent. Many people sell food, clothes and jewellery on the beach; we even saw the pitiful sight of small children dancing for money. It’s awkward and difficult to justify any sort of excess. Due to the sheer economic imbalance of the world and the geographical lottery that has landed me in the West, I'm the one who can laze on a sun bed and spend more in one week than the women trawling the beach all day desperate for buyers of their clothes will earn in a year. But, awkwardness aside, the Goan resorts are still interesting and elp to inform our whole collective outlook on India. Watching the locals, the holidaying Indians and Westerners' behaviour in these hotchpotch resorts is anything but banal.

‘Banging Baga’ was our next stop. Jonny's written about this particular place so I shall leave it to him- apart from a quick word about New Year (I don't think he's got round to writing about it). We managed to escape the hoards and booked a meal at 'La Terrace', a wonderfully camp but classy, top-notch roofless French restaurant run by Thierry and Guillaume- a super-stylish gay ex-pat couple from Paris. The tables, the decor and the building itself were slick black and white; water flowing down tall black slabs into pools of floating petals; and tall trees dripping with fairy lights growing from between smooth grey paving, giving the whole place a sort of magical forest feel. The food was great, the owners charming (I received a complimentary red rose before the first course- oh la la!) and, as the icing on the cake, the perfectionist pair had invited one of their French friends to come along and sing in the style of Edith Piaf. Perfect.

Midnight was spent on the beach with the other couple of thousand people watching the fireworks. They don't have firework 'displays' in India, people simply buy their own and let them off. It was interesting trying to keep an eye on our backsides for wayward rockets whilst trying to enjoy the enormous amount of explosions occuring right above our heads.

They're real.

The sorriest looking mutt yet seen. Poor old bugger...

Built in 1439, the entire temple, supported by 1440 of these pillars, took over 50 years to construct. The detail of the marble carving is astounding.

Jain temple, Ranakpur.

A camel toe.

Our thirsty friends replenish their humps

Never again will either of us sleep in such close proximity to a camel...

Sunset over the Thar...

Dunes at last...

Lucy's love of Madonna drives her to follow in the popstar's footsteps and adopt her very own desert baby.

A brief pit-stop at a desert village draws out some inquisitive little-ones...

'Trousers riding high, our brave adventurer endures many more ball-flattening hours before they reach the elusive dunes...'

Tuggers takes the reigns...

Our motley band of intrepid desert trekkers...

All carved from crumbly sandstone...

Jaisalmer- indside the fort.

The ornately carved facade of a townhouse in Jodhpur.

Jodhpur's imposing Meherangarh Fort surveys the blue-washed buildings below.

Day 81-89: Jodhpur to Ranakpur.

And what a change of colour, atmosphere and sights Rajhastan brought. The India that people conjour up in their minds before they've visited the country I am sure will be made up of the exotic looks of this vast desert state. Swaggering moustaches, heavy silver anklets, bulky red, yellow or orange turbans, pleated veils, mirror-inlaid saris and desert towns and cities, each painted their own colour, housing extravagant palaces and forts. Nowhere else in India is this traditional flamboyance more vividly expressed than Rajhastan.

Our first stop was in the Blue City, Jodhpur. We spent the day weaving in and out of the eccentrically narrow and windy streets of the old town before making our way up onto the hill where the city's famous fort looks down on all that goes on below it. From the forts’ walls, it's quite a sight to stare out into the yellows and reds of the desert shrubland which lays beyond the city and to then bring your focus down to the houses and buildings below and see only blue. To paint your house or shop blue is now definitely the fashionable thing to do in Jodhpur but the buildings were originally painted with white limewash. It was only when indigo was added (as it was thought to protect the buildings from termites and other insect pests) that the white walls disappeared and blue walls began to spring up all over the city. Over time the distinctive colour caught on and there is now even a blue-wash mosque.

Another bedtime spent on a train and we arrived in the Golden City of Jaisalmer. I just have to quickly mention about the travelling overnight situation in Rajhastan. Although we'd entered desert territory and much to our delight our days were suddenly warm again (Agra, Delhi and of course Nepal had all been pretty cold) the nights in the state of Rajhastan were CHILLY. On each of the train journeys we ended up emptying our rucksacks and clambering onto our bunks wearing everything we had. That was just about the same amount of clothes that we were wearing whilst trekking in the Himalayas (minus the down jackets) and the nights were still spent open-eyed and shivering. Poor Jonny sleeping on the bottom bunk by the two windows really suffered the worst with a seriously naughty draught whipping in, under and out of his sheet.

Jaisalmer's old town looks a little like a movie-set with its magnificent golden fort dominating the area. Every part of it, from its outer walls to the palace, temples and houses within are carved from soft, yellow, Jurassic sandstone. I couldn't believe that it hadn't been erected to enable Harrison Ford to come running through the (literally golden) streets with an Indian beauty slung over his shoulder, followed by a mass of screaming, multi-coloured turbans, wielding glistening scimitars. It’s quite spectacular and I only wish that we had been able to stay longer.

Rajhastan is famous for its rooftop cafes and restaurants and it was on top of some of the exquisite sandstone architecture of the Golden City that we sampled a selection of really fine dishes. I don't know how the Rajhastanis do it but the vegetables in their dishes are bursting with flavour and we savoured each mouthful of their traditional curries in a way that we haven’t done before or since.

Next on the agenda were camels. Lanky, ugly (apart from Jonny's which was rather beautiful), farty, belchy, sometimes temperamental, bumpy, humpy, lumpy and fly-ridden camels. Jaisalmer is the starting point for camel treks into the 'desert' and we decided to do as the tourists do and book a two day excursion. After being horribly hassled by our hotel manager (a creepy, sleazy con-man) to use his trekking company we shopped around and managed to find a company called Adventure Travel with a very sound reputation and a decent manager. We were aware that many companies charge ridiculous prices only to take you to local dunes where every other tourist has been brought and before you know it, your peaceful-get-away-from-it-all safari has turned into a bit of a nightmare but the chap at Adventure Travel ensured us that he only took clients to dunes further afield and we wouldn't see any other groups.

Our morning started with an early breakfast in an arranged hotel and then an hours’ jeep ride with the rest of our group to meet the camels and our guides. There were another three in our group, Houston and Eric from Chicago and David from Switzerland. I have to say, it was rather exciting when we pulled off the main road into the shrubland and saw our camels under the trees waiting for us; I don't think I've ever seen a zooless camel before. We waited for a short while and once saddles and supplies were firmly attached it was time to hop on. Our three scrawny, local guides rode one together (poor camel, it really wasn't happy and spent the whole two days moaning and groaning and trying to fling them off) and we all had one each. We quickly established basic camel riding etiquette and headed off to the dunes. Well, we imagined that we would reach dunes quite quickly and spend the day riding through barren, golden sand but I think for that kind of experience you have to be in the Sahara or Kalahari. It' really just sandy shrubland around Rajhastan with the odd cluster of small dunes and sparsely dotted villages so it didn't quite look like the "Lawerence of Arabia" desert that we'd been expecting.

Lunch was a three hour job (it's too hot to travel between the hours of twelve and three) and we happily laid out on rugs and read our books whilst our guides whipped up spicy vegetable curry with rice and chapatis followed by chai and fruit. Then it was back on board the towering beasts for a couple more hours of painfully bumpy riding. By the time we finally reached the dunes at five o'clock, I think the lads had definitely had enough. Unfortunately for them, I was the only one riding a camel with stirrups and therefore was able to take a lot of the strain and weight in my feet and lower legs. They had to take it all in the balls. I have to smile, just a little.

The dunes were beautiful- small but still beautiful. We dismounted, removed our shoes, ran through the undisturbed sands (undisturbed only since the last group was there- a girl called Debbie had left her sandy signature a few feet from our camp) and after writing names in the sand, (the boys all drew willies), we perched on the crest of one to watch the sunset.

Dinner was served around eight and we washed it down with a bottle of local whisky. Afterwards we came to the conclusion that 'local whisky' must mean 'cloudy water' as that is all that it looked like, tasted of and had the effect of. Bit of a shame as a night under the stars isn't quite the same without a warming drink inside of you, so we bedded down for the night a little earlier than expected. Once in our desert beds (bulky, Hessian, type mattresses with fold away compartments containing two thick duvets, blankets and pillows: brilliant) the sky and its billions of sparkling diamonds became our entertainment for the remaining part of the evening. Simply magical.

The next day was a repeat of the first, only heading back to base, and at one point, for a change, we decided to walk for a bit and lead the camels by their reins. The trip was an experience, I wouldn't want to do it again unless in a real desert but glad we did it and glad we had great company. David was a little strange but the other two were lovely and interesting and considering we had to spend so much time together and the number of weirdoes we've met along our travels, we were extremely lucky to be with people that we could have good conversations with and a good giggle.

Our next move took us to the south of Rajhastan to a tiny, little village called Ranakpur, famous for its four Jain temples. The complex is the largest of its kind in India and boasts immaculate and dumbfoundingly intricate marble work; we were actually more impressed with this place than the Taj Mahal. The sacred spot is hidden in the bottom of a glorious, wooded valley and its isolated position has kept it well off the travellers trail so we didn't bump into any other backpackers. However, large, five-star hotels and lodges have recently cropped up a little way from the site, bringing with them the more affluent, package holidaying tourist. We decided to skip the five-stars and paid ten rupees each (eight pence) to stay with the pilgrims in the temple grounds. A simple concrete room with a mattress on the floor was all it took for a jolly good nights sleep.

Tired boots receive a stitching from a wandering shoe-wallah.

Jonny would once have been up to his neck but now this river runs dry.

The Red Fort. Home now to a legion of fierce-faced macaques.

The most fun we'd had in months...

An Agran peddler of home-made perfumes and ointments. He inherited the trade from his father. We bought some citronella to keep the mozzies at bay.

The most photographed bench on the planet. We had to queue for this picture.

A close-up of a typical wall: each of the colours you can see are precious stones minutely carved and embedded in the marble. 20,000 men. 21 years...

You can never take too many photos of the Taj (can you Lucy?)...

Oh Great Taj...

Tuggers in front of the Taj...

A flock of kabootars in action.

A view of the Taj (barely) from our rooftop.

Day 73- 80: Kathmandu- Jodhpur

It's been so long since pen has touched paper, so much life has been lived and so many places passed through, but I shall forgive myself as we've been busy with the frivolous festive season and all have been merry and drunk. (Well giggly). I shall start from where we left off....

Trains, buses and a horse and cart saw us through the three day journey from Kathmandu to Agra and on arriving we decided to rest a while and spend a good four days there. We had expected the city to be a little more hectic and bustling than it was so the green, leafy streets and open spaces came as a welcome surprise. The only downside was the dried up river bed which runs through the city; I imagine when it's full and flowing the city takes on a much more romantic appearance.

We spent our first night sipping chai on the rooftop of our guesthouse whilst looking out over the city's bulbous onion domes bathed in pinks, reds and yellows by the sun's setting rays. We were staying in the Muslim district where many of the locals keep pigeons (kabootars) and as the afternoon draws to a close, people gather on their rooftops to let the pigeons out of their cages for a daily stretch. Usually men or young boys (kabootar baz) control the flying flock with a code of high pitched whistles and whooping noises and the man with the fastest flock and the most control gains a godly reputation. Some take the sport very seriously, actually teaching the pigeons a plethora of tricks, twists and turns but only when a man has mastered these tricks and is able to direct his flock in perfect curves, or single files across the sky, or even command them to encircle a neighbours' flock and drive it to the ground, can he gain the name 'Khalifas' (Great Master). It's really quite a special way to watch the day come to an end.

The next morning I dragged a sleepy and grumpy young man out of his bed at five thirty so that our first sighting of the most beautiful building in the world would occur as the sun came up and in relative quietness. It was definitely worth it. By mid-morning the coaches begin to unload and the wealthy, camera-wielding tourists swarm the building and the grounds, jibber-jabbering at everyone and snapping everything in sight.

It was still fairly dark when we arrived so we sat on a bench in the gardens and watched as the almighty Taj revealed itself. And it really is quite something. A marvellous spectacle of unimaginable size and beauty made from a ridiculous amount of white marble and finely decorated with precious stones. If only Shah Jahan's inspiration to build the monument didn't have to come from his wife's death. Couldn't he have decided to honour their love and her beauty and build an eternal monument whilst she was still alive? At least then Mumtaz would have seen the building. It seems so sad that her coffin lies in the centre hall of a building built for her, the most famous building in the world, a building constructed by a workforce of some 20,000 men from all over Asia, a building which now thousands of people from all over the planet visit each week and take home models of it, posters of it, keyrings of it and touch it's cool and smooth, thick marble walls with their sticky ice-cream fingers and walk across it's slippery white floors with their sweaty little feet and she never even got a glimpse. I'd be pretty gutted.

So, we've seen the Taj Mahal. It feels like one of those many boxes you should tick before you die (take a trip to the moon= no, Go sky-diving= no, Visit the Taj Mahal= yes!) and I am glad we've seen it. It didn't make me feel emotional or anything (are there people out there who become overwhelmed at sights like the Taj?) and we didn't witness any of the colour changes it talks about in the book from reds, purples, yellows and greys to dazzling white, it just got slightly brighter as the sun came up but definitely stayed white. The book also talks about the shrouds of mist that bathe the building in the early morning but we found that the mist generally stays there all day. Everywhere. It's pollution. Some of the outer walls of the Taj have turned yellow and slightly fllaky from the cities industry and petrol fumes and we never saw the sky for smog whilst staying in Agra. The government has set-up a 'Taj Cleaning Programme' but apparently it will only rectify the problem to some extent. The chemicals used will themselves eventually affect the marble and the methods used by the 'team', such as scrubbing with toothbrushes, may prove disastrous in the long term. Attendants already shine their torches on repaired sections of the marble to demonstrate how they've lost their translucency. And that's not all, the Government may have more to worry about as due to the low water levels of the city's river, the Taj's minarets are tilting dangerously and it's feared that unless something is done to restore the river's previous levels, the entire building could collapse! Tick your box whilst you still can!!!

Our next day in Agra was great. We hired a couple of old clapped-out, rusty Indian bicycles and took our own tour of the city. What joy it was for the first time to hear shouts of "Madam! What a lovely bicycle!" or "Very good, very good, you ride like an Indian!" instead of the usual, constant screaching of "Taxi!?", "Get in my rickshaw madam!" and "Where you want to go? Where you want to go? I take you!". We didn't have to fend off the calls with replies of "We're happy to walk", "We'd like to walk thanks" or "We really want to just keep walking!" as for one day we had our very own silent weapon of response in the name of a bicycle.

In and out on the busy bazaars, through some of the outer suburbs and across the citiy's rather rickety bridge to visit more monuments built in people's honour. I think after the Taj was completed, a lot of the wealthy Moghuls decided it was the in-thing to do and throughout the city many loved ones have been left small houses worth of white marble in the shape of a temple or shrine which made me wonder if there is actually any marble left in Rajhastan (the marble was brought all the way over from the north-western state). We sped past the famous Red Fort, littered with swinging and chattering monkeys and rode along the river to see the Taj from across the water (well, from across the dry bed). It's surely the perfect way to get around any Indian city, hassle free and enjoy the sights in your own leisurely time.

Delhi was our next stop but only for an afternoon. We had no desire to stop there but needed to catch our adjoining train to Rajhastan and buy some more books from the big stores there. It was big and busy as expected (of course we didn't see much) and we were glad to hop on board our overnighter to Jodhpur.

Typical Thamel street.

 

Pap peddlers in Basantapur Square...

 

"Child breaks free from his box after two years imprisonment."

 

Durbar Square.

 

The Buddah and I have fine taste in neckwear.

 

Monastery aftery monastery all became a bit too much for one little man...

 

Durbar Square Sadhu takes a break from asking tourists if they want a photo taken with him...

 

Nepalese nose-picker.

 

Street spices.

 

Fierce bargaining for a fistful of oranges in the streets of Kathmandu.

 

The Orchid Garden day care centre.

 

Nepalese thrash metal plays at The Himalayan Times World Food Festival main stage. Note the incongruous monk in the middle.

 

The final stretch...

 

Kali Gandaki Valley felt a little like returning to Galicia.

 

The milk from this buffalo tasted cracking in a cup of masala tea.

The interior of a Buddhist monastery (top) and an example of a painstakingly painted thanka (bottom).

 

 

Lucy gets intimate with some four-legged friends...

 

 

Relief to return to the sunny plains and the sight of a reasonably civilized village: Muktinath.

 

Tuggers on Top.

 

Thorung La Pass at 5416m (bottom) and the interior of its teashop (top). Needless to say the tea was cold.

 

Lake facts...

 

Tilicho Lake.

 

The landscape transformed quite suddenly and became snowbound and biting.

Relative stability after the slip-slide of the scree (top) and the final approach (bottom).

 

Lucy and Arjun nearly over the worst.

 

The unnerving approach on the steep slopes caused Lucy to have "a bit of a Lesley".

 

 

The scree-slopes from afar. The path in the top picture is only vaguely visible.

 

Dawn on the morning of our trip to Tilicho Tal.

 

An enticing pitstop for the passing trekker. Seabuckthorns, unique to the Himalaya, are small, sweet and orange and make a most delicious juice.

3000 metres and climbing...

 

Views from Upper Pisang.

 

Prayer wheels small...

 

...and large.

 

Fogg and his trusty Passepartout...

 

The higher you go, the colder it gets and the more uniformly filthy and snotty-nosed the children become...

 

Poinsettias and marigolds: two frequently seen flowers below 2000m.

 

Day 70 (Post 2)

Wednesday December 6th

We’re now back in Kathmandu and staying at Hotel Planet in Thamel, the city’s central area. We completed our three hundred and fifty kilometer trek around the entire Annapurna massif in eighteen days and it was simply two and a half weeks of jaw dropping, awe inspiring scenery. The circuit took us around the Annapurna Sanctuary, a conservation area which spans across forty miles and is home to forest land, many astounding mountains- including six of the world’s largest peaks over 7200meters- and massive ice glaciers.

We began in a small town called Besi Sahar which lies at about 700metres above sea level and for the first eight days climbed along the floor of the Marsyangdi valley heading upstream of the surging, crystal blue Marsyangdi River. As the days passed, strikingly vivid and colorful flowers and plants gave way to tall alpine looking firs and barren slopes housing only heather, rocks and many big boulders which we had to clamber over and around in order to follow the path. We’d chosen the perfect time of year to trek, it was just coming to the end of peak season so we came across very few others along the way and as winter was approaching the days were crisp, bright and beautifully clear. Only one day out of the eighteen did we witness any cloud. Of course this meant that night time was toe-numbingly cold but we felt fairly well prepared as we’d hired down jackets and down sleeping bags from Kathmandu before we left and bought thermals and plenty of extra woolen layers for the chilly evenings.

As we headed north and climbed higher the villages became smaller and sparser and began to take on a Tibetan like look and feel, prayer wheels and flags dominated the village’s central streets and mini Buddhist temples could also be found scattered along the way.

By the time we reached Manang, a town 3700 meters up, I began to feel myself astounded. Not only by the sight of the ever increasingly magnificent and humbling peaks which were starting to surround us but by the fact that people were living there. Only days of walking, often clambering, uphill along a sometimes undistinguishable route allows access to these mountain villages and the cold-resistant communities that thrive there. I suppose it makes sense that generation after generation stay and inhabit the same village year after year and very few make it down to the lower lying towns and areas of civilization. It would just seem like too much bother! Of course there’s really the fact that the mountain people believe that God is to be found in each one of the peaks so the higher up you live the closer you become to living a life filled with God and pure fulfillment.

It was around the Manang area where vegetation seemed to give in altogether. We were still able to get carrots, cabbage and potatoes in our soup so somewhere crops were managing to grow but the land had taken on a ‘surface of the moon’ type quality; dusty, rocky and grey.

Most trekkers take a day off in Manang to acclimatize and rest but we hardy pair decided to take a side trip ‘off-piste’ to visit the highest lake in the world; Tilicho Tal. The path was much more challenging and at times rather hairy. We crossed scree-slopes prone to landslides, navigated our way around narrow pathed mountainsides and all the while climbed higher until we reached Tilicho Tal lodge at 4200meters. We’d been walking for just under eight hours that day and hadn’t come across anyone else since the morning so as we rounded the corner of what felt like our hundredth scary scree-slope the sight of the solitary toy-like lodge in the distance nestled amongst the silent monsters came as a welcoming surprise.

Up until this point we’d had to add an extra layer of clothes to sleep in each night but at Tilicho Tal lodge and for five nights afterwards we slept in absolutely everything including all our jackets, socks, hats, gloves and scarves. It was freezing.

The lake itself lay at 4919meters, another four hours climb away, so we started out just before six the following morning in order to reach it and head back to the Manang area in one day. This was the first day either if us began to feel inhibited by the altitude. Breathing deeply and slowly became hard and headaches coupled with nausea began to creep upon us. I especially had to rest more often and my steps literally became mouse-like.

It had snowed during the night and at one point everywhere we looked we saw white, from the ground beneath us to the looming mountains towering all around. And then we saw the lake. I’d expected it to be frozen as our guide book said that by mid-November it usually is but it wasn’t. It was emerald green and turquoise blue, shimmering and magical. It felt like we’d unearthed a precious, hidden jewel that only a few people get to see and we both became a little emotional. For a few moments the cold and the exhaustion were forgotten and there was only the spectacle of the lake. Along with sitting at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro and watching the sun come up over Kenya, standing alongside Tilicho Tal in its nest-like spot cradled high up in the mountains was the most magnificent experience of my life and I shall always remember it.

After an energy boost of boiled eggs and chapattis by the lake (the eggs were especially difficult to conquer as it was too cold for us to remove our gloves to peel them) we gazed at Tilicho for one last time in order to soak up and savor its unearthly beauty before making our way back down to the lodge. This part of the trip we managed to complete in under one and a half hours as the lower we descended the more oxygen we had streaming through our blood which allowed a feeling of euphoria and giddiness to take over and we were practically running at one point. (Although I later discovered that Jonny’s real reason for bolting off down the mountainside and leaving me scampering behind following a trail of footprints was the fact that his stomach had begun a succession of serious cramps and was indeed about to give way on the snowy path. Not the most romantic of ways to end a trip to an extremely romantic lake).

After a brief stop at Tilicho Tal lodge for ginger tea and to pick up our bags we headed back along the windy mountain paths and the sliding scree-slopes back towards the Manang district. As we’d risen early and already overcome a challenging morning, the strenuous route, this time, began to take its toll. The paths seemed to go on forever and any of the stones and rocks that tumbled away down the mountainside from beneath our feet posed more of a threat due to the fact that we were becoming tired and were finding it hard to recover from losing our step.

We eventually reached another tea-house around two o’clock and rested again for tea and a bite to eat. Now, as I said earlier, the nights were becoming colder and snow was starting to fall and we still had to reach and cross the highest point of the trek: Thorung La pass which was a good three days away. We knew it was advisable that we got up and over the pass sooner rather than later in order to avoid becoming faced with an impassable route and having to wait until perhaps the snow melted. So, at this point, instead of continuing a little further to reach our starting point of the Tilicho Tal trip, Manang, we decided to gain two days by forking off on a side trail which would eventually join the main path to the next settlement, Yak Kharka and land us closer to the pass.

The route started off well, fairly flat and manageable over shrubby hills and past old, abandoned stone houses but the way seemed to come to an abrupt end when we found ourselves at the top of a cliff overlooking a valley and a river 500 meters below. We knew that we had to cross the river and traverse another few hillsides in order to reach Yak Karka but I had expected to be able to see the lodge from this point. We still had a long way to go and after walking up and down the edge of the cliff a steep and unwelcomingly thin path crawling down to the valley floor revealed itself to us.

It took us almost two hours to reach the valley floor as black ice coated certain parts of the route and made it impossible for us to pass up-right; we had to shuffle along on our bottoms and hands. I was becoming exhausted by this point and had to hand my bag over to Jonny, the savior that he is, and with my scarf he tied my rucksack to the top of his and with the strength of an ox carried on.

I could drag on about the last part of the journey as that was how it felt: a long and everlasting crawl over the river, up more hills, across more fields, around more rocks, stopping every five minutes to catch our breath and to check that we were following the right course and eventually reaching and joining the main path. It was almost five thirty, it had begun to snow and the sky was dark but at least we had reached the main path and only another half hour of head-bowed trudging brought us to the lodge.

I had a little shaky weep in our room from exhaustion and from being a bit scared. At points I had seriously envisaged (and I think that maybe just a little bit Jonny had too) losing our way, becoming too tired to carry on and having to give in and huddle up for the night between two boulders in the middle of the Himalayas. Of course we didn’t, we slept in big, cosy beds under thick, warm (well, nearly warm) duvets and drank hot, sweet chai with whisky BUT it COULD have happened so the shedding of a few tears was allowed. (We had also been hiking up and down mountains for about twelve hours that day and had finished the whole four day side-trip to Tilicho Tal in two days. Enough said.)

Even though the path over the next few days took us higher in order to reach Thorung La High Camp lodge we were now back on the main trail and life was once again easy. We had undergone a two day adventure along a trail which had been difficult, remote and all to ourselves and now we could relax and stop whenever we liked at the many tea-houses along the route and enjoy seeing other groups of trekkers around us.

Yaks became a big feature of the trail at this altitude, huge, hairy, wonderful animals with big, sad eyes (the type that you can drown in) and we often had to sit by the side of the path for a good half hour or so to let a farmer and his herd of sometimes up to two hundred pass. We discovered later that the yak cannot actually survive below around 3000meters and for this reason the local people regard them as sacred animals. As they only breathe in the high altitude air which sweeps its way round the mountain tops they are creatures which live and breathe closer to God. Therefore a special ceremony is held a few times a year which involves the drinking of yak’s blood in order to cleanse and purify the soul. The people of the lower villages will travel for many days to take part. We didn’t opt for a mug of blood but we did sample yak steaks and cured yak’s meat with chilli and garlic at a few of the lodges and it was scrumptious.

Thorung La High Camp lodge sits at 4800meters and on arrival slight feelings of altitude sickness crept in. It was very cold there and we spent the evening huddled with the rest of the trekkers around one huge table which, hid underneath the folds of its tablecloth, housed a heater. We ate very well (chilli chips, vegetable spring rolls and tomato pasta) in order to compensate for the cold and the final ascent to Thorung La pass which we would begin at four o’clock the next morning with the rest of the group as by lunchtime the wind on the pass is uncomfortably strong. We went to bed at seven that night but I didn’t sleep. The cold and the altitude got the better of me.

Like a line of slow moving ants, a group of about thirty of us (trekkers, guides and porters) set off with only torches to light the way to reach the highest point of our journey.

The pace was desperately slow but needed to be due to the altitude and it was hard not to give in to urge to breathe quickly and sharply. At around six o’clock the sun came up and we were able to see below us High Camp lodge where we had begun. The path criss-crossed up between two peaks and we could just about make out above us the spot at which it would pass through and over to the other side. Unfortunately at around this point the chilli chips wanted out and after holding on with serious stomach cramps for as long as we both could bear the two of us had to hang back to the end of the line and exert even more energy by traipsing off the path through the snow to find a boulder to sheild our modesty. It took me nearly a week to regain feeling in my fingers after washing them in ice water and the top few layers of skin peeled away.

We reached the pass at around ten that morning and after braving standing in the icy wind for a photograph by the prayer flag swamped sign (you have reached 5416meters!) we rushed inside the tea-hut (yes, there was actually a hut here with a man inside who makes tea) for a hot cup. Needless to say it did little to ease the discomfort of the minus twenty degrees temperature (outside with the wind chill it was recorded at minus forty) and so we hurriedly paid and moved on. We also had to pay for the tea of a young Australian couple that we had met as they became too cold to function properly. They had brought layers of woolens, jumpers and shawls but neither (probably due to lack of information from their guide) had a proper jacket. They were both shaking uncontrollably at the top and he was trying to wrap anything he could around his face, a kagool, plastic bags and a head scarf. They couldn’t work out what notes were what so I told them to start heading down and that we would pay.

Three hours of viscously steep, knee straining, downhill walking brought us to the bottom of the pass and to our next stop off point. The sun was out, we were able to remove a few layers and as the hardest work had now been done we celebrated with a beer.

It took us another four days of descending to come just about full circle. The trip finishes at a town called Beni which lies directly west of the starting point so we had completed what looks like a horseshoe route on the map. The last few days took us through the Kali Gandaki valley, the deepest valley in the world, where the vegetation and villages looked almost Mediterranean. Lush and vibrantly green hillsides made up of fields broken up by dry stone walls sprouted trees bearing an abundance of fruits. Apples, oranges, pears and apricots swinging from their branches lined the path and made for refreshing snacks.

The last village before Beni is home to hot springs and after arriving and dumping our bags in the room we trundled down to the riverside and joined the masses that were soaking there. I didn’t realize how tight and tense my body was until I got out of the water where-upon I suddenly turned into a rag-doll. A very happy and relaxed rag-doll.

So, our journey into the mountains is now over and so too is our time in Nepal as we leave tomorrow morning to head back to the Indian border. We haven’t really seen as much of Kathmandu as I’d have liked although, like most cities, it is noisy, busy and cramped so the lure to venture out and explore is far less than when we find ourselves in less populated areas and we actually seem to have been busy(?) the last few days.

After arriving back early that morning, we spent Saturday at the world food festival which was held in the grounds of a huge conference centre on the outskirts of the city and proved to be an extremely entertaining and leisurely day. Seventeen countries from around the globe had stalls set up where you were able to watch them prepare and then sample different dishes. We did feel that it would have been a little more authentic and perhaps a little tastier had only people from the respective countries been working at each of the stalls and cooking up the dishes but the Nepalese did a grand job, especially at the Russian stall where the women were all dressed in authentic folk costumes and served iced vodka with the meals. Tents with the usual ‘two minutes of fun’ fairground type games lined the grounds (although they were somewhat less elaborate than the ones at home and the locals were certainly gaining more than two minutes of not just fun but cheek cracking, laugh out loud and jump about pleasure from them); hook the bottle, fling the frisby in the hole and hit the cut-out head sellotaped on to the wall with a tennis-ball seemed to be some of the favorites. There was also a stage at one end of the festival which we happily lazed in front of to listen to the mixtures of music (good, bad, loud, banging and some extremely heart felt) which soared out from it. The whole affair had a slightly American feel to it, plenty of big cooperate advertising, cheesy smiles on the plastic looking couple who were wandering around the grounds interviewing people and strange, forcefully happy, elevator-like music was pumped out of the tannoys. It was a day for the wealthy Nepalese (and a few Indian) to dress up and parade themselves around for all to see.

We have also spent a delightful couple of days in the company of Don who works for Adventurous Trekker, the company who organized our trip and supplied us with Arjun, our porter. Don spends half of the year here in Nepal and the other half at home in Montana. He’s been organizing and leading treks around the world for years and it was a great reassurance, after completing the Annapurna circuit and coming across people who were very dissatisfied with the company they had used, to know that we had landed with a decent and caring organization. We joined Don in his flat for dinner one evening where Laxmi, who also lives there, cooked up the most delicious meal (Laxmi is the young son of one of the partners of Adventurous Trekker) and as usual Jonny astounded all with his voracious and everlasting appetite.

The following day Don took us to visit Orchid House, a small school/day-care centre for some of the cities poorest children. The establishment was set up to allow the tiny children’s parents to go out to work without having to take the kids with them. The school only accepts children from the ages of about eighteen months to five years and only those who come from seriously under-privileged families. Before a child is given a place at the centre the parents are interviewed and monitored to ensure that they definitely earn as little as they do.

Don is making a short film about one young mother who, before having her daughter accepted at Orchid House, used to go out to work at seven in the morning (making bricks for 120 rupees a month which is just over a pound) and tie her one year-old to a chair in the corner of the grubby corridor of a run down, dirty and cramped housing block where they live. She’d work till twelve, come home to feed her little girl and then go back to work till five, six o’clock. The child is now two years old and has been at the centre for a few months and Jonny and I both could see the difference in her compared to the other children. She doesn’t join in any of the games, she doesn’t make any sounds, she stares vacantly at everything and anyone and already she looks like she’s witnessed the pain and suffering of a lifetime. She is apparently much better than when she first arrived when a look from one of the other children or an embrace from a member of staff would set her off into a hysterical fit. The staff resolved to keep her out on the patio most days with her toys where they could monitor her and only gradually introduced her to the rest of the class.

It was an interesting day at Orchid House and a delight to watch the energy exuded by Bina (the lady who runs the centre) when working with the kids. Thirty little mesmerized faces lined the wall as she animatedly told them a story about foxes and tigers (this bit I managed to grasp) in lots of silly and scary voices.
We then headed back to Don’s where Laxmi once again cooked for us. We were spoiled this time with a thick noodle and vegetable soup laced with ginger and garlic and it really was lovely. Don and Jonny proceeded to set up a blogsite for Orchid House where they can post information and pictures of the centre for sponsors and volunteers to see.

Nepal and the trek came as a welcome change from Kolkata. The country is definitely more laid back and somewhat hassle free but I definitely now feel ready to embrace India again and see what else it has to offer. I would hate my only experience of India to have been in its poorest city.

A hardy-looking ropebridge...

 

...and the not so hardy.

 

Improbable load A.

 

Improbable load B.

 

Improbable load C.

 

A typical lodge kitchen and dining room. Note the cured yak meat hanging from the ceiling racks.

 

Arjun and Lucy at the beginning of what sounded like a good idea- a rooftop bus ride as the sun sets. Those thin metal bars decided otherwise.

 

Day 70 (post 1)

Wednesday 6th December

Lucy and I have an impeccable sense of timing.

Since the first tourists arrived in number back in the 70’s, the major trekking routes in Nepal, namely the Annapurna Circuit and the Everest Base Camp route have been, as far as I’m able to gather, entirely open and free to any visitor with a Nepalese visa. The only restrictions one may potentially face were purely the time of year, the length of your stay, the weather and the difficulty of the route in relation to your ability.

The result of this freedom has meant that for many years, in an admirably fair and egalitarian manner, people such as us: long-time-travelling, independent and relatively penniless young people have had an opportunity, in our own small way, to enjoy the spectacle of the Himalaya and its inhabitants as much as the well heeled 8000m peak-conquering mountaineer dripping with equipment, porters, cooks and guides.

From October 1st of this year however, a mere and infuriating month before we intended to trek, the Nepalese government in conjunction with the TAAN (Trekking Agencies Association of Nepal) decided to implement some changes. The changes, according to the advocates, have been introduced to safeguard the trekker, protect the rights of porters and quash all the illegal trekking operations that exist in the country. Unfortunately, the effect of these changes I think will be felt not by the large groups for whom money is no real concern and who will trek through a registered agency anyway, but mostly by people like us.

Quite simply, it is now necessary to obtain, through only ‘trekking agencies registered with the Government of Nepal’, a TRC (Trekking Registration Certificate- price Rs250) and at least ‘at least one field staff of the concerned trekking agency’ (price between Rs500- Rs700 per day). Added to this already quite considerable expense is the agency’s administration fee as well as insurance for your compulsorily acquired porter. But this is of course, in looking at the price of the TRC and not its overall value, a rather cynical attitude to the changes. In principle the laws look well-intentioned and preferable to the unregulated state that existed previously.

Before the TRC, guides, porters, cooks, etc. could be picked up off the streets and, in their vulnerably penurious state, be hired at abusively low rates, the level of their desperation often competitively driving down the rate at which they’d sell their services.

Porters accompanying trekkers and mountaineers have also been documented as contracting hypothermia, frostbite and even dying due to their ill-equipped state before setting off. It’s now obligatory for agencies to ensure that all their employees are adequately equipped and offered health insurance for the duration of the trip.

Also, the surprisingly frequent disappearances of lone trekkers (although relatively tiny- be still our parents’ beating hearts) as well as muggings, thefts and other sorts of banditry may be averted by having an accompanying Nepali man by your side.

And, in a broader sense, it’s going some way to redressing the imbalance of affluence between us Westerners and the Nepalese citizens that provide such a welcoming, friendly and cut-price vacation.

There are some difficulties however, a number of which we witnessed over the two and a half weeks. Firstly, the relationship between consumer and supplier appears to have been complicated by the introduction of a middle man. In a direct exchange, there is direct accountability. A bargain is struck and as long as the two parties remain true to the obligations of the bargain i.e. the supplier must provide his service to the satisfaction of the consumer and the consumer must duly remunerate the supplier, then they leave happy. The promise of pay at the completion of these obligations provides the supplier with the incentive to perform well. If he doesn’t then the consumer can look elsewhere.

With the agencies’ introduction though, the porter or guide is paid not directly by the trekking party but by the agency from an all-inclusive lump sum paid in advance. The porter or guide is therefore accountable ultimately to the agency and has no great incentive to provide a service to the trekker beyond the bare minimum. Consequently, as we saw on our walk, some trekkers were being led around in a stunningly rude manner.

In one instance, a couple, who had been given a particularly pushy guide as well as an utterly needless porter, was walking the first few hours of their morning itinerary. After a meager breakfast, they began to feel hungry after only a couple of hours and talked between themselves of the possibility of stopping for a bite to eat at one of the many lodge-filled settlements before the one designated by their guide as ‘lunch-stop’. Their requests were met with a curt assurance that they would soon reach their ‘lunch-stop’ and to look out for a waterfall which was a feature of the area.

After a further period, they became increasingly impatient and asked again how much longer it might be before they could sit down and eat, to which the guide replied in the manner of an exasperated parent: ‘What did I tell you? Do you see any waterfalls? Well do you?’ and continued to walk.

In this situation, I think my blood would have boiled over at the impertinence of the bugger and I’d have shouted him off a cliff. Why the couple didn’t I can only guess at- perhaps, without the power of the promised wages, they didn’t want to displease the fully-paid up man who was supposed to be guiding and protecting them on their journey across a remote and foreign territory; perhaps they thought the added expense was needless and that it was better to wait until the ‘lunch-spot’ where they’d receive their inclusive food; or perhaps they were just rather un-confrontational. Whatever their reason, they conceded to wait, remain a few paces back and mutter frustratedly to one another.

The same couple also complained of their porter’s behaviour as they arrived as a foursome at the most treacherous point of the entire trek: Thorung La, the highest mountain pass in the world. The pass is close to five and a half thousand feet high, an altitude that will always be cold, but by virtue of being its being a pass it also provides a handy channel for some horribly biting winds. The combination of the cold’s effects were enough to seriously concern the woman in the couple who looked to her porter to ask his assistance in carrying her small rucksack to a less cripplingly cold elevation. The porter however was nowhere to be seen. He too had decided the cold to be a bit much and bombed down the other side to thaw out. This to me is a dreadful dereliction of his paid duty. He, as an experienced porter, should anticipate problems at what is arguably the most crucial and difficult point on the trip and, if not offer assistance, at least be sure that the couple is well. Perhaps though, as he knows his wages are safe, he regards his actual job as being little other than just carrying what he’s been given and cannot really be seriously reprimanded. If he was awaiting his pay directly from the couple maybe he might have shown greater concern over their well-being.

Anyway, our organization was different. After trawling internet forums on the subject of the TRC before we left England, we noticed a particularly passionate and articulate contributor called Becky.

Becky, in her late thirties I believe, runs an agency in Kathmandu and has done so for a full 12 years. She has worked all that time in tandem with a Nepalese man called Nar, her first guide on her first trek in Nepal. She employs only inhabitants of Nar’s village and rotates the employment fairly and widely across a number of the villagers. She asks for an office fee of $3 a day each to cover both the insurance for the porter as well as administration costs- buying tickets, TRC etc. and for the porter’s fixed fee of Rs500 a day to be paid directly to the man as and when he needs it.

We were initially reluctant to pay anything when considering the needlessness of anyone accompanying us on a really rather simple route that hundreds of thousands of people had completed in the past without any assistance besides the detailed guidebook in their bag but, of the options available, Becky’s organisation’s seemed the most sensible. So it was that we found ourselves sat in the foyer of our hotel on the morning of the day before our trek being introduced by Nar to a young man from his village. ‘This’ he said, ‘is Arjun Kumar Rai. He will be your porter for the next eighteen days’.

Our Porter

Meeting Arjun after many weeks of imagining who our porter would be and what he’d be like was very much how I imagine a blind date to feel (I’ve never actually had the pleasure of experiencing one). I was shocked to discover that when the moment of our introduction finally came I felt rather nervous. This person was about to become our almost constant companion for a full eighteen days. We were, over this quite considerable length of time whether we liked it or not, going to become inescapably well acquainted with this person- almost intimate. What if he was an obsequious, fawning little lapdog who would never leave us alone? What if he was cold, indifferent, demanding and difficult? Perhaps a hysterically hyperactive and giggling idiot who liked nothing more to ply you with endless questions about England and your favourite football player- eighteen days! Oh god- I can’t bear being in the same room as someone I dislike for more than five minutes- how can I expect to tolerate eighteen days with a total stranger?

My first impression after a few minutes of discussion over the itinerary was favourable. He was quite a small lad of around 18-20 (he himself is, incredibly, uncertain of his age- Nepalis aren’t apparently concerned by the passing of birthdays), a stocky build of about five foot five and a remarkably wide jaw. He had an intelligent, thoughtful and humble expression that was quick to smile but showed control. He too was evidently rather nervous.

It turned out that Arjun, like Nar, was from the Khumbu, a region around Everest. His family, like 70% of Nepalese, is a farming family and maintains a large mixed farm that grows, among other things, millet, sorghum, maize, potatoes, cabbages and radishes and also keeps a quantity of livestock including a number of cattle, goats and chickens. Arjun however was pursuing a different path. He had moved to Kathmandu and worked variously as an electrician, a cook and occasional porter whilst at the same time studying English so that he might one day become a fully qualified trekking guide. For the moment his English was basic.

It also dawned midway through our discussion that this person was our employee. I’d never employed anyone before, nor, I thought, had Lucy. Perhaps it’s of little real significance but the way in which Arjun was playing the acquiescent card reminded me of our differing roles. I was interested in how Lucy and I would respectively respond to this newly acquired power.

The first morning of our trek and the bags were packed. Arjun was to carry the majority of our belongings in my 70 litre bag; I was to carry Lucy’s 50 litre; and Lucy our 20 litre day pack. As soon as Arjun had tried on the bag, I felt a squirming discomfort. The bottom of my bag reached the back of his knees and the top loomed monstrously over the top of his head. It looked impossibly huge and, to (literally) top it off, he had to strap his own bag of belongings to the lid. He puffed conspicuously as he tried it on.

At the lodge later that evening in the privacy of our room, Lucy and I had a discussion over the apportioning of weight which was rather revealing. I was of the attitude that as Arjun was a porter and as we were employing him as such, he should carry the majority of the weight regardless of how silly he looks. Lucy was not so sure. His diminutive size and weight-bearing ability seemed unmatched to the load we were giving him to carry- it seemed unfair. I pointed out that it was his job- he was used to it- and if you were to think of an equivalent situation at home, say with the employment of a removal man, you didn’t look worriedly at the person you’d paid to carry your wardrobe if he appeared a little on the small side. Lucy’s compassion (lucky for Arjun) was unmoved and she insisted on his carrying the 50 litre bag while she would strap a few more items to her 20 litre. I was landed, a little huffily, with the largest of the bags.

In retrospect, now that our journey is complete, we are both very glad of the assistance he provided. Though we could have carried our bags individually, they would have been much heavier and the walk would have become more a test of physical endurance than the pleasantly strenuous stroll that it actually was. His knowledge of the circuit from a trek he’d assisted on two years before was also useful as was his limited ability to interpret when we arrived at villages. He also acted as a sort of butler. Whenever we arrived at a lodge he was always prompt to remind us that should we require anything we shouldn’t hesitate to knock on his door and he’d do his best to oblige. He would bring us tea now and again, serve our food if the lodge was a few hands short, fight for our seats on buses and make a handy third man for our enjoyably competitive nightly games of contract whist. He was, like Phileas Fogg’s loyal manservant from Jules Vernes’ Around the World in Eighty Days, our very own Passepartout.

The Trek

After the first few hours of the first day, I began to feel increasingly apprehensive.

On the bus ride to Kathmandu, we’d reluctantly reneged (me much more so) on a firmly made, mutual agreement that we’d walk the Everest Base Camp trek regardless of how much time or money it might take to complete. It’s expense was really going to put the rest of our journey out of joint. Instead, due to the vastly reduced cost of doing the Annapurna Circuit, we opted to walk that instead.

It seemed entirely wrong to come all this way, perhaps never to return, with a long-harboured dream of seeing the highest peak in the world and then toss it aside due to a few measly pounds. The Everest trek was also, as I understood it, generally at a much consistently higher elevation, home to a much harsher and barren sort of landscape and consequently proved less enticing to the casual trekker which meant, crucially, less tourists and less lodges.

The Annapurna Circuit however played host to tens of thousands of trekkers every single year who trudged through its mostly tightly clustered settlements all of which are finely primed to ensnare the tourist rupee. I really didn’t want to spend two weeks walking along a factory-line trek and emerging feeling as if I’d been cleverly led at my supposed pleasure but actual expense.

The first day did nothing to assuage my suspicion. Within the first few kilometers we’d been ordered into the ACAP (Annapurna Conservation Area Project) office and the TRC hut and duly penned our credentials in their ledgers before, like docile cattle, being herded back on to the designated trekking channel.

After a certain distance, we arrived at a flat, hill-crowned, green plain. I drew myself up, stretched out my stride, resolved to do away with this silly sense of oppression and get on with enjoying the trek when out of a ramshackle hut on my left rushed a middle-aged Nepalese man walking as fast as he possibly could without appearing manically desperate. He cut off our path and inquired with a breathless, ingratiating smile if we could sign his register: a dog-eared and grubby A5 children’s exercise book with a brightly-coloured cartoon-character on the front. We warily accepted the book from the man and began to add our names to the list when the inevitable request for donations came, in this instance for ‘maintaining the path’, though what exactly he was doing to maintain a flat, narrow and centuries-old dirt track I couldn’t quite discern.

We offered considerably less than others preceding us had and insisted on receiving something in return which led to a rather unpleasant squabble but eventual success in the form of a couple of bamboo staffs which, incidentally, survived with us right through to the end.

Added to this sense of harassment, in my peeved state I couldn’t help perceiving the surrounding countryside as relatively unimpressive when bringing to mind the other areas of the world in which we’d walked: the West Highlands of Scotland or Wilson’s Promontory in Australia. This was supposed to be the mighty Himalaya- where were the sodding mountains?

As we finally arrived at a peaceful-looking lodge for our first evening’s rest, we sat down hungrily to our menus and looked over what was on offer. As expected, a section was devoted to Thukpa (a sort of Tibetan noodle soup) and momos (a steamed or fried pastry-cased filling) as well as the Nepalese staple diet of dahl bhat (rice with a few different accompaniments). Much more space was startlingly devoted to pizza, spaghetti, macaroni, mashed potato and apple pie. Arjun informed us that throughout the walk we could expect to see the same sort of fare displayed in the same way as all the lodges had, for the sake of fair and unanimous pricing, been recently regulated by the Tourism Management Committee. It was beginning to feel a little like the Disneyland of Trekking.

The first few days below 2000m followed in distressingly similar fashion. Images I’d seen of the lonely, soaring peaks in the Everest region flitted through my mind and brought surges of frustration and regret.

After this period however, the scenery and settlements began to take on a more satisfyingly dramatic aspect. The tended order of the terraced fields bordered by lushness gave way to random, rocky scrub; the plain-looking livestock were replaced by doe-eyed buffalo, shaggy yaks and elaborately-horned Himalayan goats. The inhabitants too appeared increasingly Tibetan as did their villages which were announced by sometimes ornately painted arches depicting Buddhist figures and stories, lines of spinning prayer wheels and primary-coloured prayer flags whipping wildly in the ever-stronger winds. The 8000m+ peaks of Manaslu and Annapurna silently nudged their way over the plainer hills and brought with them an authority that dominated the pathetic-looking human habitations and made mighty man look risibly insignificant.

By the time the first week had elapsed, my anxieties were all forgotten.

Thursday 16th Nov

DAY 52

Just to let you all know that we have arrived safe and sound in Kathmandu and have been enjoying a few luxuries over the last few days. Steak, wine, bagels and cocktails to name but a few. Tommorow we head to central Nepal to begin our trek around the Anapurna circuit. We should be gone about twenty five days maximum, I'm sure there will be internet access in some of the tea-houses we will be staying in as it's a well trodden route but just incase there isn't.... goodbye for now and lots of love x

Thursday 16th Nov

DAY 52

Just to let you all know that we have arrived safe and sound in Kathmandu and have been enjoying a few luxuries over the last few days. Steak, wine, bagels and cocktails to name but a few. Tommorow we head to central Nepal to begin our trek around the Anapurna circuit. We should be gone about twenty five days maximum, I'm sure there will be internet access in some of the tea-houses we will be staying in as it's a well trodden route but just incase there isn't.... goodbye for now and lots of love x

Day 49

We're back in Siliguri and head to Kolkata tommorow. Jaldapara was a bit of a let down, it was a bit of a Knowsley Safari Park type place with lots of loud families carrying flashing cameras, (note, you don't have much chance of spotting rare, shy and elusive animals with crying babies and jabbering kids in tow).

We did enjoy the elephant ride- this was our means of getting around the park- but as Mr Elephant Man and his elephants didn't turn up until eight o'clock, (we were supposed to start at six) we didn't really get our moneys worth. We saw a peacock, a Musk deer and the back ends of two of the endangered, greater one-horned rhinos as they sped off to the sound of whooping and laughing from our fellow spotters. Never mind, next time we'll do it properly and head out to some remote park where it takes days to get to and can only be reached by parachuting from a Bomber 57. That should keep the babies at bay.

The best curry we've had yet did just make up fot it. Delicious.

Rhino-Spotting