I watched with some Indian soldiers the last ball finale as Inzammam guided Pakistan to victory over India in the 6th one dayer at a shack restaurant outside Siligiri station. I arrived to find Calcutta had turned the heat up another notch. The monsoons are now only a month away and the heat on the West Bengali plains is egged on by a stifling humidity.

Calcutta had some fame as the first capital of British India, with haute couture and gentlemen’s bars barring ‘Dogs and Indians’. Mother Teresa’s grace in this desperate city made headlines in the later 20th c as did the book and motion picture ‘City of Joy’. Reading it here bought the fiction alive to a very real level. The only major city for hundreds of miles, the city has had a lot of work done to it to lift so many thousands of desperate, displaced rural people out of the scum conditions of the 80’s.

For the traveler Sudder St offers what some of India’s maddest cities don’t – a street of refuge where overpriced comforts, like a beer in a western style café make things better. Never mind the other leeches that attracts. I booked my flight to Kathmandu, flying solo as Gareth wimped out over a few Maoists. I’d done my research and knew that the situation would be easier to judge when I was there.

So with a few days before my flight I checked out the city Indian style. Indian tourist style that is. I can again confirm Indians are as mad as they come. On a tour bus with Indians from all around the country we literally rocked around the city. Our guide was biased that Calcutta must be the greatest city in India. Of course the Bangalorians wouldn’t agree to that and neither would the couple from Orissa, which degenerated into ‘Fight for the Mic’. And then instead of doing the usual ‘who’s from where’ introductions our bus became ‘Popstars’ on wheels and the Bollywood songs (that even I know) were belted out with unchecked enthusiasm by young and old. They really were a fun group of people and seeing how Indians see there country was even more interesting to me (the only westerner on the bus) than some of the fine sights of Calcutta. Some educated Indians enjoy a philosophical debate and in the gardens of Victoria memorial it was put to me that the difference between me (the west) and them (the east) was that we are bought up with the emphasis on developing a personal identity that accumulates personal gain. (This was the gist). This bollix was quite long winded but I did enjoy deconstructing the dichotomies of East/West, Us/them suggesting that while these terms were convenient divisions for old empires they don’t make any sense in today’s world of globalization in which Indian’s more than contribute in. ‘Where does the east begin and end today?’ I asked. ‘Geographically New Zealand is even further East than India.’

I jumped off the bandwagon after lunch when the bus went near Sudder St, cutting short an intensive tour. I met up with Cella and a friend who volunteers (as many do) in the orphanages around Calcutta. We headed for a coffee shop a few blocks away. I prefer to let India work for me, so I suggested taking a rickshaw. The rickshaws in Calcutta presented a moral dilemma for the girls, but not me. Here Man-drawn rickshaws, human horses, persist while being long extinct in most other parts of the world. I can see how you might think it must look like slavery carrying me in a carriage while a subservient Indian hauls barefooted through the obstacles of Indian streets. But let me shed light on my perspective – what is crueler, to accept a ride with payment or to leave a man without a fare, with the options of going hungry or turning to begging. There are enough skeletal beggars. So I take the ride and the girls decide to walk. I know I don’t weigh the same the fat sari’d women in the rickshaw behind me, or the 4 school girls occupying the same carriage going the other way. Yeah, I felt like the king of the world, carried on my elevated throne moving through the streets and markets of Calcutta by my happy Rickshaw wallah. Of all the random things you might see even in Calcutta I was pretty surprised to see sheep herded across the main road, across blocked traffic and beneath billboards. I arrived ahead of the others to find the café closed. While I waited I asked to give the ‘running man’ rickshaw a go for myself and run the giant 2 wheeled carriage down a side street. He wasn’t too keen but I took it for a spin anyway, just up the road, and quickly appreciated the strength to achieve equilibrium when starting and stopping. The girls arrived and my happy Rickshaw wallah give his prize customer a big smile. A westerner is a good catch because we pay more. All the same I always try to bargain down to local rates, pay the agreed fare with one hand, and add a tip with the other. Otherwise, by simply throwing a tip straight in it’s just assumed you’re a rich man and rather than being thanked, you’re usually taken for granted, never to get a fair price in that town again.

After a round of Dosa’s and (a great find) Icecream coffees we all walked back on some footpaths more bustling than normal. I didn’t know it straight away but it was a night before Bengali new year. Buses and shops were draped with lavish garlands of orange Marigolds, Puja (blessings) offered for a prosperous new year.

I couldn’t hang around for the party next evening, my plane left at midday. On the approach to Kathmandu I was sitting on the right side of the plane eyeing the highest mountain range in the world from the window.

***
Ps. My camera is back in action thanks to some Indian know how.

I upgraded my train ticket out of the riffraff of third class and into the alien freezer of an aircon class that typically didn’t fit the full length of my frame. I passed through Calcutta in just a day (to return later) and booked a night train to the hill country of Darjeeling, renound for its views of the Himalayan and its famous tea. Calcutta had been an admin day, a day I occasionally set aside to take some deep breaths and play ball with a frustrating bureaucracy. One such task was to find somewhere to fix my digi camera, which after dropping it 2 months ago finally died. I know, I know… no more pics

From Siligiri station a 2 hour jeep ride took us into the hill station proper, the road prominently featuring on every bend a warning to slow down. In typically goofy English they read ‘if you are married divorce speed’ or ‘speed kills but thrills’ and countless other (forgettable) wisdoms. I wanted to do a bit of trekking up here and stretch my legs out after having them crossed.

Two Eerish girls, Cella and Michelle, and myself teamed up, and made preparations for the hills. After a false start (when Michelle left her passport in storage in Darjeeling and the park guard made her go back to get it) we left Manybanjeng on the first leg of our 5-day trek. The general route was a lowish altitude track that zigzagged along the Indian/Nepali border with views that punched up to Kanchenjunga, the world 3rd highest mountain, and to the colossal Himalayan range. The first day served up a soupy broth of low cloud that steamed below us and quickly rose in the afternoon and cut our visibility to about 10 metres. But for me it was a fog of dreams, taking us further Out There, along a cobbled path that I thought, even before Cella said it, must be something like Ireland. Every now and then a furious fluttering of prayer flags clued us to Buddhist Stupa’s on a nearby high point.

Our first night was spent at Tongla as planned, about 10km from Manybenjeng. We’d decided against a guide and since I was the boy had the map and was the fastest walker I became the defacto guide, to the indifference of the girls. We carried our own packs, which to all our credit were pretty small. Sitting in the hut’s kitchen we were all pretty happy with a good first day, the dorm room we had to ourselves and the big servings of Dahl Bhat and Chapatti that kept on coming.

Two other groups highlighted the brilliance in the simplicity of our preparation the next day. Booking from the UK, a couple of Pomes had organized 2 horses, 3 porters, a cook, a guide, and (an obligatory) boy. A bigger group of Germans likewise had all the extras including Leki poles, a few more cooks, and tents. They could keep their tents, because on arriving at Sangtapu I was glad for my lodging. Day two had been brilliant for views but a bit of an uphill slog where I even took up Michelle’s pack for a bit. The previous nights gale lifted the cloud to expose the beauty of the Himalayas. The long climbing path lined with Gilligan sized Rhododendrons bloomed without shyness. Only (ahem) once did we go off track when I got a bit keen with the sherpa shortcuts that presented themselves here and there, and got one wrong.

The thin curtains let the light flood in early next morning and only the biting cold put second thoughts into our minds about jumping out of bed and heading up to the viewpoint, closer again to the big mountains. The day ahead followed an isolated but flat road at 3600m. We had planned to reach the corner of Nepal, West Bengal and Sikhm but we were forewarned that a school trip had booked out the minimal accommodation up there. Well stocked with chocolate, lunch, chocolate, extra water and chocolate we followed the same route to Phalut, but detoured at a point to Molley. A Sherpa tipped us onto a minor path that lead off the exposed ridge on which a few wooly yaks grazed. We’d kind of cut a corner on the map, meaning we’d shave a day off the trip.

By cutting back into India, the valley inside opened up, at first gently with small streams and wild flowers, and then completely revealing plunging terraced agriculture. In a day we steeply descended 1000m passing through Sri Khola, where a Hindu women reminded us of the difference in warmth and kindness the Sherpa people had given us. But also here the people were working hard, and the kids especially found us intriguing. One small rustle in the bushes and out popped a wee guy, maybe five, with a basket strap over his head and carrying a load of firewood bigger than he was. Later we encountered a shuffling human bush laden with leafy bamboo, like a tree in a pantomime.

The final day had been punishing on our knees coming down, and Michelle’s coloured up with the swelling. But we were all pretty pleased with ourselves, finding our own way and with no one else setting the tone. Most importantly for me I got my calling from the Himalayas. They impressed me from a distance, but as with most things and me just seeing isn’t enough. I knew I wanted to be closer. I wanted to walk among giants.

The Mahabodhi Temple at Bodhgaya stands on the site where 2500 years ago the Buddha meditated on the excesses of life and a balanced approach to it, achieving enlightenment under the bodhi tree. The 3rd c temple complex and tranquil gardens, in great condition, house a tree from the cutting of the Bodhi tree in Anaradapura (Sri Lanka), which in turn was a clipping from the original.

So in such a sacred place I, in all my wisdom, decided to take on a 10 day silent Vipassana meditation course. I’ve learnt a lot about myself traveling these past 7 months and it occurred to me it could be an opportunity to order some thoughts. That, and to learn to sit still for a while.

From the moment I arrived at the walled complex I could sense that everything here moved very, very slowly. Perhaps, that is, at normal speed. I diligently rose the next morning at 4:00am with the rest of the students, the majority Indians. Sitting cross-legged so as not to point my feet at anyone, my legs quickly deadened. The method was to sit, still, eyes closed, cross-legged, and observe only your breath. Or as the tape recorder occasionally relayed in a laborious drone, “breathing in through the left nostril… or through the right nostril… or perhaps through both nostrils sim-ul-tan-iously… you’re bound to be successful…” When the mind wanders and you catch yourself thinking thoughts, the technique requires you to bring back your focus to observe your breathing again. Here I learnt the true length of an hour and the real length of a day.

By the evening I had observed not just my own breathing but also an uneasiness about sitting out the course. The almost total lack of instruction, or even the aim of the technique left me a little bewildered. I stacked up a list of reasons to leave. And so I did.

The next day at lunchtime I approached the Guru, who spoke no English so he called an assistant, and stated I wish to leave. A slow-mo conversation played out – a battle of who could be more patient with the other’s perspective. He didn’t ask my reasons for wanting to leave, as I knew he wouldn’t, so I didn’t offer them. But I was told I couldn’t leave until I had completed the 10 days, to which I expressed my free will. The response was that it could be ‘dangerous’ (unspecified) to leave and that I should give the course another day. The corollary of this argument was that the longer you stay, the more ‘dangerous’ leaving would be. Expressing my clarity of my own reasons he resigned to let me go. After one and half days in motionless silence I felt like I was running like a fugitive. In the middle of nowhere I hitched to a nearby town.

No probs. I was dropped at Gaya station and attempted to book a train out that night. The pace was a circus. I bounced from one window to another (a typical Indian bureaucratic process), one queue to get a form, another to get the train number, queuing at the wrong window… In all 5 windows pointed me away until at the front of my final window, the key to my onward ticket, a wooden board was slapped up in front of my face – at 2:00pm the day was over.

Perhaps I was in a dangerous mood. The bloke behind the board probably couldn’t believe his eyes when this white Sahib knocked down the board and unleashed a volley of insults on the incompetency and unhelpfulness of the station agents. It must’ve been a good show because a possi of Indians behind me seemed to back me up. I got some attention, was authorized to see the supervisor, and from this gentlemen at least got the name of the train I wanted and the time it was to depart. No further bookings could be made because the system had shut down nationwide. I could only buy a third class ticket just before the train leaves.

On my evening Rickshaw back to the station I met a Japanese man who was a new practicing Buddhist. This great little encounter filled in all the gaps for me about Vipassana as I probed away with my little questions, not telling him I was a Vipassana fugitive.

Too often in India an act of kindness is taken advantage of. We picked up an Indian man on the trip and allowed him a free trip to the bus station after taking us to the train station. Of course, the rickshaw man, already fleecing a huge fee from us and in cahoots with his countryman, made a big time detour first and left me buying a 3rd ticket just a minute before departure. The presence of my Buddhist friend helped me maintain some calm, but not without giving the driver a few words in his language of what I though of that stunt. 3rd class is classless; it doesn’t even guarantee you a seat. People lye across the floors like in the station terminals. I found the conductor and upgraded to 2nd class air-conditioned, the highest class I’ve traveled on in India. It cost me, but at least with a good nights sleep I could hope to arrive in Calcutta next morning in good spirits.

***

My list of Reasons In no particular order

-It wasn’t my time – meaning as good an idea as it was to stop in this sacred place to do a meditation course, I wasn’t in myself ready to stop. I wanted to see Calcutta and North East India, and if I headed to Nepal after the course as I intended I wouldn’t have time left to visit here.

-I was wrong to have expectations, but expectations I had. I knew others who had done the course and described the environment.

-Here the grounds were barren, like the state, walled in, not in my mind conjusive to meditation.

-Further when you weren’t meditating in the hall you were required to sit in the darkness of your room so neither light nor the wind could disrupt your concentration. The rooms even made an authentic clang like a cell when the door opens.

-My legs hurt

-Again, back to my first reason, I wasn’t ready to stop.

***

In defense of the course, I did get an introduction to Vipassana meditation, which I have practiced since. Vipassana means literally ‘to see things as they really are’. I might need to try a shorter course to overcome the weakness of my mind and my western insistence on explanations. Sit, be still, and see things in the presence of the moment.

Varanasi, the holiest place in India, where a drop of Ganges water can wash away your sins, where dying here offers Moksha (escape from the cycle of birth and death), where all the maddest, most intense elements of India wash together. If Varanasi was my first stop in India it’s fair to say it’d have blown my friggin head off.

Our Rickshaw wouldn’t take us any further towards the ghats. The town was a riot of colour, stained by the assalts of hundreds of men (and a few bold women). The morning of the Holi festival had left buildings and signs splattered and people covered head to toe in neon powder pigment. Even the sacred cow had been walloped with paint. The Dutchies and I left Mahoba station at midnight to arrive in Varanasi that morning, in time to get amongst it. But curse our luck, trapped on the train we were delayed 5 hours, by which time the shinanegans were over. The streets in the aftermath were nearly deserted. Dejected, I lay down my paint guns and surrendered to the guesthouse.
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I think I’ll keep this one short and sweet. After all, I was only here one day and you don’t need me to give you a play by play on all the erotica. We’ve got pictures for that. First, a warning. Content may offend some prudes, and kids, don’t try this at home.

Why all the sex at the temples of Kahajuraho? One theory goes that the Tantric images depict the gratification of the baser instincts, one way to transcend the evils of the world and attain enlighenment. Not a bad way to do it, I’m sure we all agree. However it would be an exageration to imply that these temples, a premiere tourist attraction, are stacked with 10th Century Karmasutra. Commonly they depict gods and nymphs, men and women, daily life and war. Of course sex is part of it. The fun, as it turned out for Sebastian, Mareke and I, was looking for it.
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Orcha, (meaning ‘Hidden Place’) is like another world. It hardly feels discovered. Only a few thousand people live here, with one main street in the town. A fortified island on the Betwa River that runs past this sleepy township used to guard three 17th Century palaces of a powerful Rajput kingdom. Around the complex firetrees ignite the countryside with orange blossoms. The air inside is cool and blissfully peaceful.

There are plenty of dark nooks and crannies to explore on the multifloored Jehangir Mahal. I found the perfect balcony, right on the top floor behind a carved screen that looked out across the river and temples on the other side. I chewed through ‘Vernon God Little’ the most achingly funny read. Indian Ringneck parakeets played around the area, but the big vultures were my eye’s favourite prey. On the far end of a ledge was a vulture’s nest. Mummy was massive, and probably defensive, so with a 10metre drop down I didn’t get too close. The next day I got my chance when an Indian man led the Canadians (Solange and Dan, who had unexpectedly shown up) and I to a back entrance to a little window. Mother and chick, nuzzling, just a few metres away.
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Its big, and its built on love.

A few friends and I rose before the masses to experience the tourist emblem of India at first light. Massive red-pink gateways at N, E, S, W guard the jewel inside. And then there it was, framed by the entrance archway, the Taj Mahal, described as the most extravagant monument ever built for love, stood in an ambient veil of morning mist. The waterways and imaculate garden lead the eye to the dark entrance to the pure white Mausoleum, built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan for his second wife who died in childbirth in 1631.

The eastern side was lit in a pale yellow hue, framed by the famous marble minarets. Just spending some time sitting here, the historical power of the Taj melded with my personal appreciation of its beauty and unparalled craftsmanship. It took 22 years and 20,000 people, including some of the finest architects to build. As the story goes, the master architect suffered the murder of his daughter at the hands of the emperor so that he would know the emperors suffering and could translate this into the Taj Mahal. When the Taj was finally complete, he and other master craftsmen had their hands amputated to ensure the perfection of the Taj could never be repeated.
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I slept rough on the night bus into Pushkar. The reclining seat was jammed upright, the road was ragged and the driver was liberal with the horn. The strange dream continued when we stopped at 1:00am for some tucker – deep fried bread posing as Samosa. Worse, for once the bus was ahead of schedule and dropped us in Ajmer, the next town at about 3:30am. Asa, Teresa and I haggled hard with the band of waiting rickshaws. A driver caved in to our price on to Pushkar, and just as we pulled away a bus passed through. Like who would’ve expected a bus running at this time? The rickshaw games began near the town – his guesthouse not ours, and a ‘passenger tax’, like haha. The kind of shit you can do without when you’re not quite with it.

Pushkar grew on me once I overlooked the bazaar of tourist shops on the main rd. The lake sits like a basin on the plains surrounded by hills. Pilgrims bathe and Sadhus wander around the holy lake with its whitewashed architecture and litter free ghats. One place where Hindus have put cleanliness next to godliness. It also attracts a collection of colourful charletans who entice you to take a flower for a Puja (blessing) with the intention to ask a ridiculous amount of money for such a simple practice. Snake charmers poked their cobras awake rather than coaxing them up. But soon the subtle charms of the Pushkar became visible.
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Gangia! Himm Himmm HIMMMMM! Chch chch chchchchc. Gangia Comeon! ChiHAHHH, HIMMMMM. Pwwwii Pwwwwif Pwii Pwii Pwwi Pwii Pwii Pwuwa. My beast kicks into a canter but Im trying to clip Gangia into a trot. The bumpy canter is banging my manliness around too much. I think I know where George Lucas got his idea for the Tauntaun. Pwwwii Pwwwwif Pwii Pwii Pwwi Pwii Pwii Pwuwa, Gangia snorts. A little whack with my short reigns gets my message across more clearly. His afterburners kick in when he senses Gareth’s camel coming up behind. Gangia likes to play lead. Whooohoo lalalalalalalaaa!! We make some stupid war cry sounds that probably make no sense in the desert, but we dont care. We push into the heavier sands of the dunes – yeah, now we’re riding camels!

Bow legged, we dismounted. The Thar Desert’s landscape isn’t of Sahara’s golden sand variety, but harder and flatter, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky. Definately dry. Barren. But not uniform either. Not dull. Colour is injected by the flowering clumpy cactus. Not the type of cartoon cactus on Roadrunner though. Still, true to our romantic ideas of the desert we set up camp in some dunes. We sent the boys to collect wood for a fire. We climbed the dunes to watch the big sun sink accross rolling dune hills. Back at camp the camel men had unsaddled the camels and cooked up a curry, chapati and chai – a staple fo the next 3 days. We ate, and then the rum came out…
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The Rickshaw man’s dirty fingernail jabbed indifferently at the general direction, down an alley imposed on by tall restaurants all claiming to have ‘The best lake view’. But the sight was as deflating as fruit in your Christmas stocking. I stood blankly for a moment on the ghats (stairs) looking not at my reflection but at cows grazing on the Pichola lakebed. Maybe it’ll be different in the morning.

It was a little. I met a Kiwi girl and her Iranian partner (trying to pass himself off as a Kiwi). Leigh, Arash and I, with an Aussie, Damien, resolved to make the most of Udaipur, supposedly Rajastans most romantic city. Its kinda funny how an empty body of water makes such a difference to the ambience of a town – at least in comparison to the postcards those kids are trying to sell me. The Lake Palace now sits in the middle of the grassy paddock with only a sad puddle of water on one side waiting its turn to evaporate. A few Flamingos strut down here. At sunset camels and elephants parade wealthy guests across to a restaurant, the job the boat used to do. That’s not me by the way. So Arash and I slipped in the side and were soon requested to leave. Cool with us, we just wanted to walk down the path entrance past the Mahouts and their Pachyderms.
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