The weather in Darjeeling made out stay a little difficult – due to our altitude the whole of Darjeeling remained lost in the thick misty cloud cover for the few days that we were there.  Visibility was 10 meters at best, much less at times.  We got horribly lost in the mist one day whilst searching for a Buddhist temple.  We did however make it to the zoo (yes, a zoo in the clouds) where we spotted loads of native animals – including red pandas, tigers and leopards.  We also visited the Himalayan Mountain Institute – which includes a great museum dedicated to those who’ve ascended Everest.  It has a load of tatty exhibits on show, including Hillary and Norgay’s kit from the first successful ascent in 1952.  Later that afternoon we took high tea a the New Elgin – a very posh institution on the hills of Darjeeling.  We chatted about our plans for Nepal – the weather was poor, a bridge was down, an airport shut and a couple of borders closed.  We decided to head to Thailand instead, and booked a couple of flights.

 

The following day we boarded the toy train for our 70km, 7 hour, 2100m descent back down to Siliguri, where we would get out connection for the flights to Thailand.  The train was tiny – it has four coaches of 33 people and a small diesel engine.  For the most part the track runs alongside, and occasionally weaves over the busy mountain road.  We passed within inches of peoples homes and shops – kids ran alongside the train and hopped on.  As the train chugged further down the mountain we were rewarded with stunning views of Darjeelings vast tea terraces – thick blankets of bright green tea bushes were crammed into every spare inch of hillside.  As we broke the cloud cover the views were even more magnificent.  As we arrived into Siliguri the train ran alongside the main road – car drivers, motorbikes and even cyclists pulled alongside to wave and take photos of the train.  We arrived in Siliguri bang on time and caught our 12 hour bus to Kalkutta.

Getting here was equally eccentric but less fun: in a moment of complacency we got on the wrong train in Agra and were unceremoniously thrown off in a little suburb 20 minutes later with 5 hours to get to Delhi and catch our very expensive connection to Darjeeling. ‘Don’t panic’ I said. ‘Too late’ said James’ expression.

The station name translated as ‘Arse end of Nowhere’ and the fast trains didn’t stop there so we got a rickshaw back to Agra at break-neck speed and managed to get 2 unreserved tickets for a fast train to delhi at 9.15 (it arrive at Agra half an hour late, giving us 4 1/2 hours to make a 3 1/2 hour journey). Indian trains have 7 classes and unreserved is the lowest (it’s a bit like sitting in a stinking, overcrowded oven on a bed of nails) but it was completely full  anyway, so we were forced to sit on the floor in the vestibule. When the ticket man came he kindly pointed out that we should be in cattle class and forced us to pay 300Rs for the privilege of sitting in squalor. He also kindly told all the his mates that we’d missed our train so they could have a good laugh at the silly tourists as we paid up.

Two hours later we had almost lost faith with the Subcontinent altogether and were discussing whether to fly straight to Kathmandu if we missed the connecting train, but redemption appeared in the form of two Sikh teenagers who invited us to share their seats in sleeper class. Grateful to escape the stench of piss we meekly followed them to their seats, where the other 19 (I’m not exaggerating) members of their family excitedly squeezed up to make room. The last hour of our journey was an absolute joy. They fed us sweets and sandwiches, told us all about Amritsar, invited us to stay with them, blue-toothed dodgy videos to James’ phone and generally treated us like royalty. ‘Singh is King’ their T-shirts said, and we were inclined to agree – now seriously considering a detour to Punjab after Nepal.

 

The train reached Delhi with 15 minutes to spare and, after emotional farewells, we threw ourselves off and began to hare round the 3,586 platforms trying to find our train. Luckily platform 18 was the winner and we made it with a comfortable 36 seconds to spare.

The following day, almost on time, we pulled up in West Bengal and shared a jeep with a family almost as big as the Singhs up the 2900 metre ascent to Darjeeling, passing through a narrow valley that sandwiches this remote part of India between Bhutan, China and Nepal – our next destination. More on Darjeeling later, we’re off for high tea at the Planter’s Club.

Luckily, the Taj transcends the highest of expectations as easily as it transcends the bedlam and commercialism of its surroundings: I don’t usually wax lyrical about buildings and I know nothing about architecture (and anyway, no phrase or photograph can really do justice to its contrasting elegance and delicacy), but we were both blown away. We arrived at the complex just after 6am when it was almost deserted and the sun sent the marble through a spectrum of pale grey, pearly cream, pale yellow and pure white in a matter of minutes – even with sleepy eyes it was the perfect time to visit.

As always in India, with the sublime comes the ridiculous – in this case we were forced to pay an exorbitant sum of money to enter the Taj Mahal complex, most of which is siphoned by politicians while the Taj suffers long term pollution damage – but, thankfully, in this case the sublime won by a mile.

Sitting in a hobbit-size cafe later in the day, our stop off in Agra became even more worthwhile when we met Eric the Scot: Eric was wearing cycling gear so we got chatting about bikes and it emerged that he had cycled from Aberdeen to Agra, half way to his destination (Adelaide) to raise money for charity. Eric was on his own (except for the six man armed guard who’d escorted him through Pakistan) and cited amongst his trip highlights a night spent on the floor in a petrol station, watching the guard dogs patrol the forecourt and listening to the three staff members take turns with a prostitute in the adjoining room (no door in between). He’d had a tooth infection (Azerbaijan) a broken collar bone (Italy), two bouts of gastroentiritis, various other hospital visits, and he was possibly the most cheerful man I’ve ever met. Eric is my new comfort barometer – the following day when James and I were forced (through partly self-inflicted reasons) to pay a 300Rs bribe to sit on the floor of a train vestibule, two yards from the stinking toilet, for three hours, with a numb arse and half a dozen perverted men circling us, I thought of Eric in that petrol station and serenely closed my eyes. Perhaps I am getting spiritual.

 

Until we reached Jodhpur we’d been back on enforced detox in Pushkar, one of the holiest towns in the Subcontinent (Nehru and Gandhi both had their ashes scattered in the lake) where we spent several days recovering from Jaipur and communing with the hippies, some of whom seemed to have been there for a long, long time. Pushkar’s principal attractions are its relatively peaceful streets (no rickshaws), its holy lake, whose ghats teem with Brahmin priests, and its bhang lassis, designed to make spiritual fulfilment a little bit more achievable. We could have spent longer there slurping spiked lassi and watching the cows head-butt each other but we decided to head to Jodhpur in search of beer and meat for James’ birthday.

 

Jodhpur is ace – far more interesting and organised than Jaipur with a beautiful, blue cubic roof-scape overlooked by the imposing medieval fort. Our hostel is nestled on a tiny backstreet halfway up the steep ascent towards the fort: killer views and a whiskey-loving owner.

On James’ birthday we took a village safari out to a handful of Bishnoi villages on the outskirts of the Thar desert. The Bishnois were the world’s first tree-huggers: in the 18th Cebtury the Maharaja sent his troops to fell a load of trees outside the city, but when they arrived a local Bishnoi woman put her arms around a tree and told them they’d have to go through her to get to the sacred wood. So they cut her head off, then they cut her daughters’ heads off, then for good measure they slaughtered an additional 363 protesting Bishnois before the Maharaja heard and put a stop to it (he also put a protection order on the trees). We were able to watch the villagers weaving rugs, using pottery wheels and generally going about their business – they are still nature lovers and hold the trees and animals in high reverence. One old chap brewed us some opium tea and showed us round his mud and cow dung hut, where we were fed and watered before returning to Jodhpur.

With the cultural appreciation out of the way we proceeded to the hotel roof for beer, and they did a lovely cake and buffet for Mr. James’ birthday – he even got a flower garland and a bindhi. But it was last night that did the damage…after the world’s most frustrating day trying to book a train to Darjeeling we hit the Kingfisher rather early and ended up seeking out Jodhpur’s premier nightclub with the rest of the hotel residents. When we got back, Mr Joshi was waiting in ambush on the roof with a bottle of paintstripper disguised as whiskey which I hold entirely responsible for my poor health today. Assuming I’m still alive in the morning we are Agra-bound. There’s supposed to be quite a nice building there.

 

I had reasonable expectations of the Pink City – charming, narrow, pretty backstreets and bazaars set amongst the hustle, bustle and chaos of a busy city.  We got the chaos, and not much else.

Perhaps this is a disservice – Jaipur had a few redeeming features – like the Jantar Mantar – one of the oldest observatories in the world, and the ‘monkey temple’, set deep in a valley away from the city.  Saying that, even the Sadus here are on the make – one in the monkey temple tried to screw us for a RS100 donation (5 times the going rate) after spouting four words of pigeon english.  Is nothing sacred Ms India?

 

Following the epic train journey we arrived bang on time at 4.35am and staggered off the train into the bustle of the CST terminus, which was even at that hour littered with sleeping bodies (a fixture I guess), commuter trains and chai sellers. We didn’t have the energy to face the taxi drivers so we whiled away two hours drinking tea and people-watching. As the station began to fill up I realised it was one of the scenes of the terror attacks in November and tried to imagine the chaos of all these hundred of famileis suddenly starting to run in all directions under hails of bullets: it was a really, really unsettling thought.

So began a very long and action packed day which included keema mince and fried egg for breakfast in a greasy little Muslim cafe, a visit to the magnificent Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, a trip round a cathedral (lots of British relics in the bayside area) and the piccies! There was a wonderful art deco cinema opposite our hotel which was showing Slumdog Millionaire and we jumped at the chance to see it in its home. I came out of the cinema an emotional wreck although there was some light entertainment when the film was interrupted for an interval which consisted of a series of quick-fire public service messages by the Mumbai Police – here’s a small selection (paraphrased but rleatively accurate):

‘Keep the peace – don’t honk horn.’

‘In event of explosion, follow instructions from staff.’

‘Always report suspicious opjects or persons.’

‘Wearing helmet saves life.’

Terrorism and traffic violations: the scourge of Mumbai.

That night we went out for a few beers on Colaba Causeway but sadly couldn’t afford the cover charge for the bars where the Bollywood Glitterati hang out. The next day though, we did get the chance to see how the other half live by visiting a former colleague (our old big, big boss) at the glittering, swanky new HQ of Vodafone India. Kyle was on very good form and the air conditioning was just out of this world.

Generally speaking we both far preferred Mumbai to Delhi althoughwe seem to be in the monirity on this, and we can’t really be fair to Delhi until we go back for longer. I’m very glad we stopped by though, being one among 18 million people in a city which should really hold about 4 million is quite exhilarating, and it was nice to hear and see how thoroughly it has bounced back from the most recent atrocity it’s had to face.

Next stop Jaipur, a mere 18 hour train ride away.

 

Kochin is a charming port in the middle of Kerala. Over the last five hundred years its been under Portuguese, Dutch and British rule – the result is small town with a European feel, but with the obligatory Indian twist. To the north of the town is the famous Chinese finishing nets, where groups of fishermen plunge the huge wooden frames into the sea and haul up their catch. The pickings seem rather slim these days, I suspect the fishermen now make their rupees from cruise-goers hopping on board for a quick snap.

When Matt arrived we headed out to watch a Kathakali performance. This famous Keralan dance sees characters with pistachio-green faces replay the Hindu story of Mahabharata. The characters dance to the mesmerizing sound of drummers and singers, telling their story through intricate hand movements and dramatic gestures. The powerful dancers and the fierce drumming gave rise to a gripping performance – it’s easy to understand why Kathakali rose to fame amongst India’s masses. Traditionally Kathakali is performed at the temples, with the story unfolding over 9 or more hours, our taster lasted just over an hour.

 

Later in the week we hired a rickshaw driver for an afternoon to take in Kochin’s sights. We visited the old spice market (in the 16th century Kochin was famous for its export of precious spices to the middle east and Europe), before heading to the Jain temple. Kochin’s Jain temple is simple in design and decoration and feels wonderfully calm, once you understand that the ubiquitous swastika is a Jain symbol, not an allegiance to the Nazi party. The temple is home to hundreds of pigeons, not the most elegant or characterful temple animal, but still entertaining. We arrived at feeding time – an orthodox Jain (with his muslin mask to prevent inhaling and thus killing insects) lead the lunchtime pigeon prayers. Buckets of rice and peas were thrown over the yard and hundreds of pigeons descended upon us – we joined the locals and fed them from our hands. I somehow couldn’t imagine doing this in Trafalgar square.

We moved on to Jew Town – so named due to the large population of Jews who used to reside there, before they emigrated to Isreal. There’s now less than 60 Jews in the whole of the state of Kerala. Jew Town is home to scores of Indian antique shops, selling a huge variety of collectables – from stone statues of Hindu Gods, through to vintage Bollywood movie posters. We stumbled upon a cute little shop – Athena Antiques – where we picked up a couple of old framed Hindu prints.

 

At 5am we took a ’safari’ into the reserve, hoping for a sighting of wild elephants. Actually we were more excited by the prospect of green, tranquil surroundings but our Jeep companion Rachel had flown from Delhi to Kerala to try and spot some and she was rather desperate not to return home from a month-long tour of India’s wildlife sanctuaries without spotting some baggy grey elephant hide. The omens looked grim when our guide told us there were 1000 elephants and 72 tigers in a 900km square reserve and although we did see some funky snakes and monkeys, the clever elephants stayed away from the road. The day was saved from disappointment by a surreal rowing boat trip in the rain and by the fact that James and Matt were both sucked dry by leeches (I was untouched but in a fit of Karmic justice I was woken up two days later by a cockroach scuttling across my arm). 

 

We departed Kumily the following day on perhaps the most heart-in-mouth 6 hour bus journey yet, but we arrived back in Kochin alive and best of all, as we were hurtling down a mountain face the 11 residents of an oncoming car slowed down enough top screech ‘ELEPHANTS!’ at us. The bus driver hit the brakes, 200m later we stopped moving, and sure enough a family of wild elephants were trampling happily through the undergrowth about 100m from the road. Rachel went home happy.

 All of which brings us bang up to date, since I am writing this on the 2 night sleeper train from Kochin to Mumbai. The train is called the Mumbai Express but we’ve just realised that it’s gone as far inland as Madhya Pradesh, which in terms of directness is like going from Cornwall to Essex via Northumbria. Still, there’s plenty of entertainment on board: Indian Railways employ 1.6 million people and about two thirds of them are on this train, sweeping, checking tickets, making breakfasts, taking lunch orders and shooing off the additional half a million food and drink vendors who embark at every stop and flood the carriages with the smell of deep fried filth. Every half hour or so from 6am onwards the chai wallah passes through, chanting ‘chai-chai-chai-tea-coffee-chai’ in a robotic drone which is coming to characterise our frequent train exploits. Adding to the excitement, about 4 stops ago, two stern-looking chaps in intimidating khaki marched down our carriage and served a single cup of tea to a business man in the next compartment. Then, without exchanging a word to each other or anyone else, they marched back onto the platform and the train pulled away. The business man disappeared to the toilet half an hour ago and I haven’t seen him since. I swear I’m not making that up, although I am reaching a level of boredom that may bring on hallucinations so I will stop short of describing the miniature green elephant that just ballet danced down the middle of the carriage. We hit Mumbai at 4am and have a two day whistle-stop before we take yet another sleeper to the city of Jaipur in Rajhastan.

We hit the jackpot by arriving just as two festivals were kicking off close to our hotel and on our first night we were treated to a bone-fide Kathkali performance in the temple grounds, attended by a combination of locals and tourists. We stayed for around two hours, surrounded by the frenetic beat of drums, the menacing chants and gestures of the performers and the stench of pot (legal in India during religious festivals), but we didn’t have the stamina or the depth of understanding for the full nine hours. On the way home we were accosted by the local gambling mob and Matt relieved one of the card tables of about a thousand rupees before deliberately losing it all again.

The following day we tracked down a full blown parade complete with elephants, food stalls, drummers, dancers and deities. I have no idea what the celebration was in aid of and I’m not convinced anyone else did, locals included, but almost everyone in Varkala threw themselves onto the narrow village streets and had one big, disorganised party for a few hours.