Easy life on the rails.....

             Reversed my 50km trip via bus back from Pondicherry to Villupurum railway junction. Rather quaintly named and lends on to think this might be miles off in the boonies, with just a single train passing through per day. Not true, and in keeping with all things ‘Indian Railways’ is on a massive scale. On this day, the Gurgaon Express chose to be an hour and 10 minutes late. Indian trains do not exactly screech into stations, but very slowly enter. Just as well today, as a herd of goats decided to amble down the track.

             It is always difficult to decipher muffled railway station tannoys--this one especially so, with the on-going screech in female Tamil---was I on the wrong platform, is the train cancelled, does it run on Tuesdays, were my tickets in error?? Despite being everywhere in street signage, actual knowledge of English is particularly thin in the south---a simple question, like, ‘when is the train coming’ unleashes a torrent of explanation from very friendly passengers, but unfortunately I can scarcely understand a word spoken and just have to nod politely.

               With several hours to idle, three to be exact, on the way to Tiruchy, drowsiness overtook me. Being one who can never really sleep on planes, I have however taken to sleeping on Indian trains like a duck to water. May be it is the fact that 2AC category passengers receive the convenience of a full length bed, clean white sheets and a pillow, has something to do with it!

               Arrived in Tiruchy (aka Trichy—many Indian place names have two, even three names—confusing to say the least for the tourist) at 3.00pm, and registered my self into my swanky (most up-market property in which I have stayed so far, in India) hotel---pre-booked thru Booking .com at what they call “Genius” rates. Perhaps they had a convention cancel on them. Attached to the Femina hotel is a food court, a small department store and only the second largish supermarket I have seen in the country---all 16 cities visited so far. How blessed can one be, not to have wander the dark & crowded streets seeking something to eat that does not have a spice level to lift ones head off! The name of my hotel in my next city (Madurai) rejoices in the name 'Moscow' Hotel---wonder what awaits me there!

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         The meaning of Indian gestures can sometimes be difficult for a Westerner to decipher. In the western world, a shake of the head north & south usually means “yes, OK, I am in agreement & permit”. The Indian equivalent as observed, is best described as a head wobble. The top of the skull moves to the left, the jaw moves to the right, alternating in rapid succession. This does require a certain looseness & flexibility of the spinal discs in the neck that I do not possess. The head ‘wobble’ gesture is frequently used by Indians for agreeing to that which is proposed.

            The second body gesture I have encountered that varies from European norms, is the clear and definite finger point to indicate a specific direction. The westerner typically makes a strong gesture, usually with the forefinger used like an arrow. The Indian will indicate a recommended direction with a broad sweep of the arm, across a 150 degree arc. This can be confusing for a lost soul --- I frequently find myself hammering away to obtain the navigational clarity that I seek.

A walk around and suggestions for Pondicherry.....

            After enjoying a long Skype session with the ‘folks back home’, I headed out into the heat and humidity that is Pondicherry this mid-November Sunday morning. Noticed yesterday that November is wettest month of the year in these southern parts, with 11 inches of rain (equals a 3 ½ metre snow fall!!) as the ‘northwest monsoon passes through. Having said that, the day was cloudless the with a high level haze. Just in case, I took the opportunity to invest in a collapsible umbrella.  Since arriving nearly two months ago, I have only seen an hours precipitation total, in a couple of locations—both times it was extremely heavy rain with the positive of providing a much needed slooshing (my spelling!) to sidewalks and outside surfaces where it was much needed.

Attractive verandah at French Chambre de Commerce....

             The central tourist area of cobbled streets and yellow stucco French colonial style buildings is only a small portion of metro Pondicherry. The original old town has burst at the seams and spread extensively, following the seemingly universal style of Indian cities, extremely raucous and chaotic. The city fathers seem to be without a plan to capitalise on the history of the town & have mostly failed to preserve the old town core and all that was there under the French, is rapidly sadly fast decaying in the tropical humidity. I happened to glance down a narrow alley off one of the main streets and could just about see, behind the tacky storefront facades, some interesting 18^th century French ornate stone work on buildings hidden from view. What a pity to lose this valuable heritage—but also lost, is the chance to wrap the Pondicherry brand destination in lucrative tourist appeal. My strong suggestion to the city fathers is to make it a priority to bury the open sewer ditches that line the streets in the tourist district and which create rather all pervading ‘rich’ odours in the high temperatures.

Those waves were bigger than they look here....

             Thanks to the former Gallic colonial power, the streets of the old town are laid out in grid fashion, making it is easy even for those with less navigational aptitude. With the knowledge that the ocean is to the east, I was able to carve out an interesting circular amble northward along the sea front and back down through the town. The sea front, and I believe the entire local coastline, is protected by massive man placed rocks that have been positioned to limit shore damage. Today the sea was calm, with little wind, even so, the rollers crashing in on the rocks would have meant instant death to anyone stupid enough to swim.

A first glance at Pondicherry....

Mission completed in Chennai. Way down on any list of beauty spots ---but visiting  points of touristic glamour is not the objective of this rail odyssey around India. To view, to observe, and to chat with some locals makes it worthwhile to visit.

                     A 3 hour train sector today, south to coastal Pondicherry (also known as Puducherry)

population 294,000. By this journey’s standards, a short leg and one that Indian Railways must have been expecting to have included a shipment of ice cream! The air conditioning was set at frigid, requiring frequent visits down to ‘cattle’ class, that does not have the ‘benefits’ of AC, so as to thaw out. Arrived on time at Villupuram Junction and ready for that steaming hot coffee (although the temperature out side in Villupuram was pushing a balmy 35C and super humid). Transferred from rail station to bus station terminal and ready to pay my $1 for the 50 km bus ride to Pondicherry. Wow, I thought, a steal of a deal—just half a dozen on passengers on board and piped-in Tamil pop music at high decibel thrown in, at no additional cost. Not gone more than 1 km and we were joined by half of India. Luckily, I had a seat, but without exaggeration, arms & legs were hanging out of windows. I swear that Indian buses have flexible walls and seem to expand as the load increases. The philosophy seems to be ‘no passenger refused a ride’---just pack ‘em in tighter. Despite the discomfort, everyone was most pleasant and accommodative to others.

Note the blue street name reminiscent of France...

              The former enclave of Pondicherry is a remnant of the former French Empire, founded in 1653 and  returned peacefully to India in 1954. Evidence of French influence is fast disappearing, as the old French colonial style structures collapse in the tropical heat & moisture. A small central part of the city has streets that are lined with over arching trees reminiscent of the French concession in Shanghai. Conveniently, much of Pondicherry is still laid out on the old French street grid system, making it easier for this direction challenged tourist to better orientate himself. In comparison, most cities in India are a chaotic maze of street directions where navigation for a visitor is a challenge.

             In the last few years, an administrative remnant of the colonial period has risen as it relates to the period of French control in Pondicherry. Apparently, many of the Indian civil servants employed by the French opted to take French nationality for themselves and family with the expectation that at the end of the period of the colonial administration that they would be rewarded with the right to reside in France. This was not to be the case and these former bureaucrats have found it difficult to transfer to Indian citizenship with its benefits. Thus, there is a diminishing strata of the population in Pondicherry that are considered as colonial outcasts and hold-overs. 
               November is the wettest month of the year in Pondicherry, with 11 inches of precipitation, from the "northwest" monsoon---must buy an umbrella tomorrow! 

Of photography & the economy....

          Far from being a competent photographer, I am and have been for the past 12 months, trying to learn more about this fascinating hobby, from books and the vast knowledge base on the internet. One of the

Yes, ---- I bought 3 bananas from these gentlemen....

areas that I have found particularly difficult is ‘street’ shooting. That is taking photographs of strangers on the street as they inter-relate with others and enact the drama of their lives. I have always felt that I am being aggressive & intruding if I shove a camera in some ones face and I suppose somewhat fearful of an aggressive reaction. No doubt about it, one must be careful. To avoid negative situations, some resort to the use of telephoto lenses, but these tend to flatten the perspective and look like impersonal pictures as seen in newspapers. Someone said that if you cannot see the eyes of your subject clearly, you cannot see into the soul.

                What I am learning on this visit to India, is that photos of strangers can be obtained if one can engage the target smilingly in some kind of conversation before they see the camera. Get the laughter and banter running and the request for a picture falls quite naturally out of the relationship. Immediately the picture is taken, I show them the result on the display screen to obtain their ‘buy in, and even sometimes ask, or they offer a chance of a second picture—perhaps a ‘selfie’ of us both together. I fully respect a person’s request not to be photographed.

              My four days in Chennai/Madras are now concluded. Not a city I have marked down for a return visit, although it is the fourth largest city in India and as dirty and chaotic as cities #1 & 2, I am glad that I came and at least cruised the major thoroughfares and a few backwaters too.

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This lady really enjoys her HEAVY work...

  India is in the process of transforming itself from primarily an agricultural economy into the second stage which would be an export led, low tech manufacturing economy. (An economy that supports nuclear bombs, aircraft carriers and satellites in orbit around Mars). That’s the plan, but at this point manufacturing has not kicked in, especially international partners, with imports of low end ‘made in China’ flooding the streets. Setting up a manufacturing operation here, or even a retail chain gets bogged down in the nightmare of Indian bureaucracy. Per a recent newspaper article, KFC, now reasonably well established, had to wait for 8 years to have its first restaurant Kolkata location finally approved. With 14+ Indian cities now visited, I have only seen two food supermarkets that would be approximately similar to North American examples.                  

The shopping for family food being done off sidewalk vendors, in the local markets, or at the myriad micro sized “go down” stores operated by a single male person, selling the identical items as sold in a thousand other ‘go downs’ in the same area. As a result, the retail scene is very inefficient and I suspect for the local population, very expensive. Sales to owner’s wages ratio must be totally disproportionate. This situation reflects, I believe, the massive unemployment and equally massive under-employment in India. So many men hanging around, not really doing anything—security guard for a couple of parking spots would be an example, an operator for an automatic hotel elevator, would be another.

Moving around places in the Indian city....

          Unless one is wrapped in the cosy confines of the packaged tour, the independent tourist to India is all alone on the gritty streets. These are narrow, very crowded, strewn with garbage, wandering cows, sleeping dogs, beggars and potholes big enough to sit in, plus any other obstacles you can imagine. The locals don’t speak much English despite assurances from every one earlier in my journey that the population in Tamil Nadu are near fluent in it—just not true. . These self employed drivers are masters of psychology, they seem to know just how much ones feet are aching, how urgently one needs the washroom etc…is it written so clearly on the customer’s (the tourist’s) face?

Bottom-line, any visitor with touristic aspirations, relies heavily on the auto rickshaw driver to be transported from point A to point B, or C or point D…..etc. These guys, never ladies, prowl the streets, like flies, seeking lost souls (like myself) in their noisy, open-sided motorised scooters. Easily identifiable in their uniform green & yellow livery, they come to a screeching halt if one as much as throws a glance in their direction. Here in Chennai at least, all auto rickshaws are fitted with meters that according to their driver-masters, are not working properly so its time to do the negotiating tussle. They quote 300 rupees ($5.50) for the trip, counter at 150 upon threatening to find another auto, settle at 200 rupees. Fun at first, just plain tiring on the 50 ^th go around.

                 Born , high influencer type of salesman, the auto-rickshaw drivers are fast to accept the fare and declare precise knowledge of the required routing to deliver to a specific address—problem being that they only have in general, an idea, a feeling, of the location of the target location. Yesterday, my driver kept muttering ‘25 years experience’---still couldn’t find even the area, let alone my guest-house address.

Having said all that, I have clocked probably a few hundred kilometres so far in auto rickshaws and am still alive to tell the tale. Horrific road congestion and totally in a free-for-all environment---the driver with the loudest horn wins the day.

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             Pleased to note, contrary to my expectations prior to arrival in India, that there are very few flies about, despite refuse and food waste being scattered all over the foot paths and roads. Would have thought this would have been the Mecca, the perfect breeding ground, given the heat & humidity, for the world’s flies. OK, a few but nothing to create undue annoyance. Even more pleasing is the absence of mosquitoes, at least in the list of cities I have visited so far. I am religiously popping my malarial antibiotic pill each day and have carried with me protective netting. Perhaps required later when some of my accommodation is in smaller towns nearer the beach.

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 Passed a “Hitler” clothing store today. Clothing for the stylish modern man, it claimed. ‘Hitler is awesome’ it shouted. Interesting and provocative (as in ridiculous) marketing approach!! 

Religious fervour plus squalor.....

                Faced with the 32 hour slow train, that is, one day & two nights, from Kolkata down to Chennai (formerly called Madras), I instead opted for the simple theoretical alternative $80, 2 hour Spice Jet shuttle to the south. That was the promise anyway. Guide books and other travellers tell me that the east coast of India is, in fact, not especially appealing. In the last week, I received two Spice Jet messages to inform me that my flight was cancelled, necessitating a personal trip toKolkata airport to solve the issue and finally secure a replacement confirmed reservation. Duly took-off yesterday, Sunday, fully loaded at 4.20pm from Kolkata. 30 minutes later a passenger suffered heart attack and we had to return to Kolkata---arrived safely 2 ½ hours late at our Chennai destination.

              Awoke this morning in my bed & breakfast at 8.30am—hungry---not able to eat all day yesterday

And what does GOD think of this?

being in transit through airports. Spice Jet was not even been able offer its passengers even a single cup of water in a 4½ hour flight. As stated, previously, finding food is this tourist’s greatest challenge—maybe different for the packaged tour crowd in the Marriott. Remove the hot & spicy offerings on the street and there is not a lot of choice left.

              Another (religious) festival day in India and attracted, just up the road, by the hypnotic beating of drums. Soon I was upon a whirling mass of self flagellating Shiite males. I have seen this on TV, but in full techni-colour real life, it is even more sickening. Especially disturbing to me was that young boys—some maybe only 7-8 years old, had deep bloody cuts over their backs with the constant whipping of ropes. . Such was the mesmerising effect of the chanting and pounding drums, that none of the many dozen participants seemed to notice, or feel, the severe cuts and deep damage that was being inflicted on their backs. All rather shocking, and begs the question as to whether this kind of religious fanaticism is not at the roots of the current schism of Middle Eastern violence. Disturbed to learn yesterday, that 55 people were killed, 100+ injured, by a suicide bomber at  the Wageh, Indo-Pak border crossing ceremony, that I attended just a couple of weeks ago.

              Chennai is the fourth largest city of India. Pop. 6.6 millions, is the capital of the state of Tamil Nadu. Fiercely proud of their own Tamil language, they view the imposition the national Hindi language, as an example of Northern Indian imperialism. I am told that more people speak English in TN than do Hindi. ‘Lonely Planet’ states diplomatically: “Chennai does not always make a good first impression upon visitors” and I would have to agree. I was expecting better, based on what travellers have told me, but we are back in a world of noise, chaos and streets piled with refuse of the most foul variety. I suppose that I should be more charitable, but I really find it difficult how to understand how human beings can collectively agree to live in such filth & squalor. Certainly there is no shortage of unemployed here that could not be conscripted into sanitation brigades.

             Routing myself with the aid  of my trusty old fashioned magnetic compass, I followed the wide & straight Marine Drive northwards for several kilometres, parallel to the beach. I have been told that extensive damage was caused to Chennai’s ocean-front area in the 2006 tsunami that roared in across the Bay of Bengal, however I was not able to see any areas of residual damage.

                Three solid hours of steady plodding, in rising temperatures and high humidity, I was anxious to fill an empty stomach and relying on my trusty guide book, figured that the YW/YMCA International House, near Egmore railway station might offer an interesting buffet repast---disappointed, I had to make do with a plate of rice and a couple of ladles of spicy sauce dribbled over. Maybe, tomorrow, I will track down that elusive and appetising eating spot.

Kolkata round up......

               The pace of my efforts to see as much as possible and record the sights of Kolkata does not slow down. Yesterday, Saturday, 3^rd year, U of Kolkata, IT Engineering student Samrat Dutta, very kindly shared his time and knowledge of this great city to show me the sights and sounds, high life & less high life, not typically seen by your average tourist. Thanks Sam, look forward to reciprocating when you visit North America next year.

 One of the joys (yes, miseries also) of long range travelling solo, is that one is somewhat forced to make contacts with strangers. Today, I crossed paths in a McDonalds with a couple of very interesting ladies, Americans, who are working for a children’s charity for three years in Orissa, southern India. One of them is getting married this week to the Indian Director. Fascinating to get their take, learn of their impressions, & to hear about struggles to make a new life in this country.

Hard bed......

                   Kolkata has been one of the surprises, on the pleasant side, of my visit, so far, to India. To me, Calcutta has always suffered from the lifetime stereotype that has been implanted into my mind, as a city of absolute squalor and deprivation---‘Black Hole’ and all that. The reality is that that this city is on the move---no way near yet the 'Singapores' of the world, but in terms of livability, so much better in my mind, than either Mumbai or Delhi. Most of the garbage created by a Kolkata population of 14 ½ million is cleared up & carted away by city collectors, unlike all the other places, so far that I have visited in India, where rubbish is left where it is dumped to be sorted and picked through informally by human and animal scavengers. More---Kolkata does not permit cows to wander where ever they wish, blocking traffic & fouling as is their nature. Excellent subway system and ritzy new shopping malls sprouting up all over.

Boiling the curd.....

Vast suburban 'new' areas of the city are being filled with modern high-rise apartment blocks arranged in park like settings, ditto, the high-tech garden suburbs that are sprouting up around the metropolis.

               Yes, life in Kolkata city is crowded, hot, chaotic & very noisy. Iin my time here however, I have not seen any evidence of aggression or anger displayed. People seem accepting of their lives, the pressures (economic & social) and respect the lives of others. For me, crossing the road is an excellent illustration. In the West, this a simple process, that is governed by understood rules: traffic lights, zebra crossings, cameras, police etc. many folk get very angry when the rules are flouted. Apparently, in India, laissez faire, no rules, no traffic lights, nothing—each person for themselves. Just now however, I am learning that a different, but real logic in fact applies and is generally understood. Everyone comprehends that according to the rules of the game, the cars will not actually touch, that vehicles will, at the very last second, brake for the old lady or the man with no legs, for the cow or whatever. All accept the unwritten rules and miraculously it all comes together peacefully without the evil of ‘road/civil rage'.

                            Tomorrow 3 November, I am travelling down to Chennai, formerly known as Madras, in

Sisters of Charity administering to the homeless....

the south of India. I have opted to make this a flying segment ($90) of this journey, to avoid a 32 hour train ride spread over two nights.  Duly purchased my ‘Spice Jet’ ticket 60 days ago and have subsequently received two e-mail notifications in the past week to say that my 2 hour flight has either been totally cancelled, or transformed into a 12 hour multi-city trip around India. A strong believer in the power of human reasoning, this morning I trekked out to the airport and demanded to speak to Mr. ‘Big’ at Spice Jet. All resolved amicably (computer glitches, what else?) and your scribe is back with his 2 hour direct flight. Trust that the plane does not suffer ‘glitches’.

Colonial architecture and street food....

               Just returned from my 5 hour foot patrol of the main thoroughfares and alley ways of central Kolkata. In order to give my promenade some kind of sequence, the taxi was directed to drop me in at BBD Bagh (Square), a couple of blocks east of the major Hooghly River and just south of the Howrah Bridge. BBD commemorates the names of the three terrorist/freedom fighters (your choice), who in 1930 attempted to assassinate the Lt. Governor Lord Dalhousie. Instead, they killed a visiting prison officer---not really an important event in its self, but one that was symbolic in terms of being another key point in the struggle for independence.         

               Leaving BBD and feeling cooler air blowing off the wide river I walked up the east bank through a park. Peaceful at 10.30am on a week day morning, it was relaxing to watch the ferries & to enjoy my constitutional cuppa ‘chai’ on a shaded park bench. With guilty feelings that I must ‘see more’, I continued ambling north-ward, but a block in from the river observing all the derelict warehouses that used to service the docks of a busy port. The port is now only a shadow of its previous stature, having been cut-off from its natural hinterland when East Pakistan was created in 1947. One does not walk quickly in Kolkata, the crowds, the ruptured sidewalks and the overall visual and aural over-load occupy all the senses, so that one is always stopping to see ‘one more thing’.

              Based on comments received that Bengali food is sweeter & fruitier as in chutney, less brutally spicy/peppery than in other regions, I partook of a piled plate from a street vendor (thousands of them from which to choose). Very good—it was pleasant to have had the sensation of a full stomach, after several weeks when I know that my input has been lower than usual.

         This is my third foray into Kolkata, and once again I have the impression that this is a more livable city than Delhi or Mumbai. Cleaner and in its own way, less chaotic. Miraculously things (on the street) seem to actually function, when they shouldn’t. Kolkata is chaotically packed to the gunwales with folk all jostling and anxiously pushing to get on with their business.

They thought I was visiting movie star (just joking!)

                 With 5 hours walking to my credit and perhaps 5 kms  covered, past a variety  of decaying British architecture, I hailed a taxi for my commute back to my accommodation in the Salt Lake City section. Getting a taxi is never a problem in Kolkata, thousands of them roaming the streets—I cannot figure the economics of this industry, as I pay only $3 for a 30 minute ride. The taxis are ancient, rattle traps, but even so!

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            Skin colour is a major topic in India. The lighter, the better seems to be the consensus among many newly affluent. Read the matrimonial ads in the newspapers and see how just about everyone seems to sell themselves on the basis of their MBAs, US green cards and their very light complexions. Watch the Bollywood movies played 24/7 on 100 satellite tv channels and quickly observe that the young women featured, bear very little relationship to the women on the street in ‘any Indian town’. The TV lovelies almost look northern European in skin features and colouring. Relentlessly, on TV and on poster hoardings, brands of skin whiteners, targeted at younger women are promoted. Be paler and be more successful in the competition to find a husband is the sub-text. Healthy? You decide, but newspapers report that the Indian Gov’t is developing legislation to control/limit the claims that the cosmetic manufacturers may make.

                   

Parallel to this pale skin phenomena, but at the other end of the age spectrum, as reported in today’s newspaper, is the fact that grey hair in India is a loss of face and an embarrassment to the older age crowd. Many matures, both sexes, often purchase affordible cheap brands, that when applied and mixed with human sweat in a hot climate, result in beads of black dye running down faces and staining the forehead in lines—victims of this genre of cosmetic accident are known as zebra faces! 

Of Kings and Paupers....

               Following  the guidance of my Lonely Planet (LP)guide book, I marked the Victoria Monument (VM) as the ‘must see’ edifice for my second day on the hoof in Kolkata. Built, or rather commenced in

The Victoria Monument--Kolkata.

1910, to mark the crowning of George V as the ‘King-Emperor’ of India, finally completed 25 years later (1935). LP states this is considered as Calcutta’s answer to the Taj Mahal, but being rather less romantic, commemorating an absent colonial king rather than a lost & loved wife. The VM is indeed beautiful externally, cast in white marble, with mirror pools and placed in a massive central park akin to Hyde Park, London or Central Park NYC. Included in my $3 admission was the museum of the colonial period---once again, I noted in the commentary the almost intense lack of official affection for the Raj and things British.

               Duly photographed, one more ‘sight’ successfully off my list, I headed for the crowded city streets, in particular the Canmac Road area—one of the trendy (per LP) shopping streets, in search of some shade and sustenance. No shortage of sidewalk food sellers here for the office workers in the high buildings (not towers) that lined the street. It is never an easy task for me to find something to eat—just call me too picky. Food in India is scooped up and consumed with bare fingers---rather messy. My hands tend to be very dirty by lunch- time, so perhaps my resistance to finger use has resulted in me being 99% stomach upset free for the first 6 weeks of this venture—have crossed paths with many other travellers that have suffered from ‘Delhi Belly’. Hope that my comments has not upset the food sanitation gods!

            

Unofficial  recycling  collection centre--Kolkata style.

It  is my rule when sight seeing, to get myself 'lost'---in doing so, I usually see a lot more of the quaint, meaningful or unexpected, than staying on the well trod tourist route. Today, my wandering took me into what looked like a typical local working class area and a chance to witness close-up the grinding poverty that is Kolkata. At no point did I feel threatened, or was I unpleasantly confronted by aggressive begging. Even with camera raised to eye, people were quick to smile and stare at my  my white skin and bare hairy legs—not too many of those animals pass their homes any day/month/year. Not sure I would like to be here at night, but certainly daytime in the back streets of Kolkata was no problem for this tourist.

                    In a country like India, as in most other countries, there is a competitive rivalry between the major cities.  Not wishing to take sides, but I have to say that Kolkata seems a more pleasant place to live in or visit, than Delhi, or Mumbai, cities that disappointed me. I have a sense in Kolkata of forward movement amongst all the bedlam and chaos. Plenty of high-rise condo towers can be seen rising in the suburbs, plus evidence of shopping plazas being developed for the emerging aspirational middle classes. An effort by local government & the citizens to adhere to basic public sanitation was observed during my walks—and while far from being pristine, I did not have to step over/through so many piles of refuse as in most other places visited so far in the sub-continent.

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             Remember when we used to use messy blue carbon paper in forms to make duplicate copies?  Have not seen this used in the West for 15-20 years. Well the industry is alive and flourishing in India. Anyone in an administrative function uses it many times a day. Of course, this parallels the (almost) empirical total absence of computers in the hotels, offices and lunch counters as would used by a tourist (excepting the airport). This surprises me, as cell phones and hand-held devices have massive penetration here—even shoe-shine wallahs crouched on the footpath, can be seen scanning their screens for their Facebook messages!.

Arrival by train in Kolkata...

             I arrived in Kolkata on the “Darjeeling Mail” at 6.20 am, just 20 minutes late on a 10 hour overnight journey from Siliguri. Trains on Indian Railways are denominated with numbers in addition to rather quaint

names by which they are more generally known by rail travellers. This was my third and final sector of this 90 day rail journey, that runs overnight—much more comfortable that I had beforehand expected and this morning I arrive refreshed after 6-7 hours in the Land of Nod. Must be the rolling stock squeaks and mysterious bangs that hypnotise me!

              Kolkata, formerly known as Calcutta, changed its name in 2001, to make it more phonetic for Bengalis. The city, pop.14.7 million, covering 187 sq. kms is just 10m above sea-level which explains reported flooding in the streets, when there are monsoon rains—memories of Bangkok!. Kolkata was the capital of the Raj up to 1911, when as the result of an earlier 1905 administrative decision to split the State of Bengal into two parts, resulted in wide-spread unrest, the British applied the quick fix and moved the capital to Delhi.

               My hotel, or to be more accurate residency, aka guest-house, is located in the ‘new’ area Salt Lake City section, 10 kms. away from the centre, making it a full 45 minute ($3.50) taxi ride in grindingly slow traffic,. Yes, I think I made a mistake with this hotel—generally I like to be nearer the centre where better facilities for tourists usually exist. Anyway, it is, on budget, clean and quiet---not always guaranteed in India.

     Let's face it,  Kolkata carries baggage in terms of its world-wide reputation in terms of poverty and urban blight. I have to say at this point, on the basis of a superficial 3 hour meander to try and orient myself in the central area, it does appear (surprisingly) to me to be significantly cleaner and somewhat more sophisticated compared to both Delhi and Mumbai ----only a single cow spotted on a traffic island, so far! During this initial centre city stroll, I felt quite safe on the streets and everyone I spoke with was extremely helpful and friendly. Only negative experience was upon entering the taxi to return to my hotel when I was accosted by a couple of young female street beggars who tried to bar my entry, till I had given them money. I had to use some muscle to push them away so as to be able to close the cab door. Early this morning, I did see awfully squalid slums bordering the rail tracks on the approach the rail terminus—with many living & sleeping in total poverty, under plastic sheeting.

Need a loan --put up  the wife's gold...

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          Police & security in India. I judge that police in India do not have a good image with the public. They seem distant, surly and unapproachable. Mostly they are older men that have the air of being ex-military & lathis (long clubs) or with a machine gun. They loiter in the shade, or sit in police vehicles reading the newspaper. Those few traffic police that are on point duty at central points, not many traffic light functional here, lethargically gesture to the traffic with an air of---“I have given up---all this is too much for me”! It has been indicated to me that if you need police help you better have your wallet out & be ready to make a donation to the ‘Police Retirement Fund’.

usually armed with metre long

          The private sector cousins of police are the omni-present ‘security’ guards that hang about outside of almost any significant office building, 'high class shops', banks, hospital, hotels etc., etc. Self appointed security guards even set themselves up to guard parking spots for select and generous customers. Clearly the massive use of security guards in India is another manifestation of a major over supply of unskilled labour, resulting in very low wages and general under employment.

Returning to India!

          Concluding a pleasant short sojourn in Darjeeling.  I did not use the city to its full tourist potential,

Mountain spectacular---3rd. highest in the world.

being mainly happy to just stroll the city streets, enjoy a selection of restaurants that offered international cuisine and chat with visitors from a number of places around the globe. Darjeeling could be utilised more fully as a spring-board for hiking, rafting & climbing activities nearer the Himalayas in Sikkim & Bhutan. Anyway this was a look- see trip, so perhaps next time! The bonus prize at 8.00 am this morning was clear, clear skies and the best snow clad mountain vistas seen during my stay. I was able to click my best photos yet.

           After breakfast I descended, clad in warm sweaters, the 100 stairs, (I know, I counted them), from Dekeling Hotel reception, to the shared taxi rank, 4 wheel drive SUVs, to negotiate the return 3 hour ride back to Siliguri. The price had mysteriously increased 35% up to $3.50, since my inward leg, and I was unable to negotiate it down. The sweaters were rapidly removed as the temperature soared with the rapid loss of altitude.

       

Winding Siliguri to Darjeeling road.

The road back seemed a lot steeper and precarious than it had appeared as we climbed up to Darjeeling—just an optical illusion, of course. There are concrete safety barriers intermittently, in other places, nothing at all between vehicle and a multi hundred foot  sheer drops. The highway descended the very steep hill-sides through a series of switch backs. At times, from my front seat next to the driver, I was able to count 4, perhaps 5, levels of road beneath us. We flung ourselves at considerable speed & a lot of dust around the tight, loose gravel bends, my thoughts often centred on hopes that the breaks & steering where in good repair. I had noticed amongst the many shared taxis in Darjeeling, that more than a few tyres were almost devoid of tread. Anyway, isn’t that part of the travel adventure, third world style.

                                ============================

 The power of social media. 
           Being a creature with roots in the pre-internet era, I have always been a little sceptical of the power of social media---who knows, who cares, being frequently my attitude. During this trip to India, where I had self-planned the itinerary, my advance hotel arrangements were completed on-line, using the likes of Booking.com. Upon departure from my hotels, I have sensed concern from hotel managers as to the acceptability of the hospitality and enjoyment of the stay, sometimes even with an overt request to rate highly the property highly in any post stay reviews that I might complete. When I have been making my own accommodation purchase decisions, I have been influenced by internet reviews recorded by previous visitors. Perhaps this is a new era of effective consumer power that is emerging.

Learning about Goukaland & Darjeeling....

              Sustained by a full breakfast eaten at my hotel, dramatically overlooking the town and high mountains, my first task was to investigate the UNESCO recognised toy train track that originally ran for about 70 kms in the lowlands up to Darjeeling. It had been my plan to ride at least a short section of the route. Apparently, seats are much in demand and reserved well in advance--- so out of luck, it was. The

Mount Kangchenjunga,  at  26,600ft., world's #3 highest.

railway is currently operational for approximately 50% of the full route and appears to be suffering from neglect. A newspaper article recently read stated that UNESCO is considering withdrawal of its prestigious recognition until full service is resumed.

                    With time on my hands, I retreated to the local coffee shop to plan a walking itinerary. The distances are not great in Darjeeling town as the available land is constrained by the precipitous topography.  I learned that Darjeeling is viewed as a jumping off point for hiking routes up into Bhutan & Sikkim. This explains all the mountain gear shops on the main street.

               Conversations with other tourists, underlined to me the necessity of viewing the snow covered high

Himalayas from lookout positions around Darjeeling at 5.30 am as the sun rises, casting a pink glow over the mountain panorama.After 8 am cloud and mist forms and for a good part of the day, at this time of the year, the high peaks are not visible.
               In the 1880's, Darjeeling and the frontier region of west Bengal received massive immigration of Gurkha people from Nepal, who, beneffiting from close ties with the colonial power, moved into the area, such that they became the dominant racial group. Over the 20th century, the Gurhas supported an independence agenda, adamantly rejected by India.This errupted into serious violence in 1986, with large scale damage resulting in Darjeeling. Subsequently, a self-governing Goukaland region within West Bengal was agreed upon.

                                                          +++++++++++++++++

              I have noticed a fair number of what you might class as very mature, long haired hippies during my strolls along the alleyways and lanes of Indian towns & cities. Mature? I would place them as mid-sixties in age & that would make them former war protesters & ‘flower children’ of the Beatles generation. Cannot claim that I have conducted any meaningful surveys on the issue, but wonder if this is not a case of these elderly, guitar carrying hippies taking a nostalgic late life retro stroll, along the highways and byways of a drug crazed and misspent youth spent wandering around Asia. No criticisms here—is n’t it the same youth extension elixir thing with the current crop of portly senior gentleman who currently ride around in leather, atop Harley Davidsons (US,) or drive too fast in renovated TR7s (UK)?

Climbing 7500 feet up to Darjeeling....

           Too early for breakfast, I rick-shawed to the Jeep taxi stand near the bus terminal, Siliguri, and 

View of Darjeeling from hotel...

procured for myself, along with seven other passengers, a seat on the 77km, 2 ½ hr. climb up into the foothills and Darjeeling. This hill station, as it was referred to in the days of the Raj, effectively operated as the capital of India during the hot summer months when bureaucrats, army officers & politicians of the British colonial administration had it’s seat of government in hot steamy Calcutta (now referred to as Kolkata). In 1911, Delhi became the capital of India.

          The air here is much cooler, drier and less stifling than down on the Indian plain, ideal for the Memsahibs to socialise and party away the summer month. Very refreshing—the first time I have sported a pullover since arrival in Mumbai nearly 6 weeks ago.

          Darjeeling, pop: 109,000, elevation: 2200m/7000ft and is a city built on the side of steep hills. The town runs laterally across the hills, with a series of switch-backs enabling vehicles and pedestrians to move about the town. Short- circuiting the looping roads are a series of steep stone stairs that run

My shared JEEP taxi to Darjeeling..

between closely packed buildings. This morning. My JEEP taxi deposited me at a lower level in the town and I had to haul my heavy suitcase and bag up the stone stair system. Not a good idea if one is in less than fair physical condition --- indeed, I was puffing hard—of course, the 1 ½ mile vertical rise and thinner air did not help.

             First impression is: what a pleasant town. I have the feeling of having been transported out of India—the roads are clean here, cows do not wander the streets and the omnipresent beggars and homeless are not to be seen. White & other non- Indian tourists are not really numerous, but enough in evidence in Darjeeling so that the locals are accepting and tourists free from constant hawker hassling.

              Not sure if it is a remnant of Empire, but the school children in Darjeeling are neatly outfitted in school uniforms & badges, so in vogue in the UK in the 1950’s & 60’s. All observed so far are well behaved, speaking mainly in English. A church on the hill above my hotel belts out an electronic version of Big Ben’s chimes on the hour—at least it is a change from the wailing call to prayer from the mosques.
             Tonight, another night of Diwalli celebrations--close my eyes and with the constant pyrotechnics, hard to believe that I am not on the Syrian front lines.

In transit to the mountains...

          Extracted myself from my Varanasi hotel at 7.30pm by taxi  for the railway station, but not before a an hour of crisis---sitting quietly in the hotel lobby reading my book, close to where I had parked my two bags in the secured area. Noticed that my hand baggage was not in evidence—reception indicated that it had been

Diwalli, festival of lights--celebrating prosperity.

likely picked up in error with the baggage of a tour group being transported to the airport. HELP!---My India rail pass (not money, passport) were in that bag. A tense hour followed—bag miraculously retrieved and returned to me at the hotel. Major relief –I had been feverishly waiting & trying to mentally construct travel Plan B. Rail travel in India is a nightmare for those who do not have confirmed reservations especially at a major festive season like Diwalli.

            My overnight train to Siliguri,‘The Rajhani Express, was an hour late rolling into platform #2, but I was able to gain a small measure of tranquillity in the “upper class only” station waiting-room for the three hour wait. None of us residents of said ‘posh’ waiting room—stinks of urine, looked particularly ‘upper class’ in the stifling heat and squalor, but at least it was shelter from the persistent & omnipresent beggars & homeless, that call railway stations ‘home’ in India. As the only white tourist guy that travels by Indian train in these parts (except for a few hippy types), I find that I am a target for the attentions of the station dwelling

Street decorations on Siliguri's main street....

homeless. Have lost my earlier reticence at shooing them away—India, home to millions & millions of these destitute people wandering the streets. To hand any individual money might risk getting quickly mobbed. Avoid eye contact and keep on walking is my current tactic.

                 This afternoon I plan to explore tomorrow’s  transportation stage being the local shared taxi options from Siliguri, for the 85km, 4 hour haul up into the mountains to Darjeeling.

Last full Varanasi day & another trip to the ghats....

                Last full day in Varanasi. Decided to put on my ‘walkers legs’  again and try to navigate from my hotel in the north-end city to the ghats along the east bank of the Ganges. Easier said than done in this country, where the roads are very narrow, twisted and chaotically crowded. The weather favoured this distortingly very humid and even light exercise moistens the skin & shirt. Anyway, despite carrying a simple hotel map and a general sense that the river is “that way”, I proceeded to lose myself ending up in a small village on a dead-end road with crowds of people with nothing much to do (who rarely see a ‘foreigner’) assuring me that it was impossible to get there (the river), from here (the village). A penny please, for every time that I have heard that during my hiking years! To the rescue, an enterprising young man in a noisy auto rick-shaw rattled up and stated that he had the solution to my problem-O.   

Even cows go shopping at Diwalli!

project, of course always sunny, but with a slight decrease in the daily temperature highs, especially noticeable in the evenings, when it currently drops in Northern India to about  20C—it is difficult to be precise, as it is

          Soon I was back on course, grinding & bumping my way towards “Mother Ganga”---- unfortunately, so was half of India. Beginning today, for several days, is Diwalli, Festival of Lights—the BIG festival in an Indian calendar that is jambed with 360 holy days per year. Everyone was hitting the bazaars & street vendors to purchase their, religious icons, trinkets, special food, holiday saris. In total traffic gridlock, I had to abandon my trusty rickshaw a couple of kilometres short of my precise goal and head westward from the main commercial street through a convoluted maze of alleyways, in which one rapidly loses ones sense of direction, hopefully towards the mighty river.. The alley ways, in addition to the odd cow and annoying young man trying to force his way through on a motor scooter, was clogged with long, and I mean long, lines of faithful Hindus packing their temples to bless (or be blessed?) at the Diwalli season. Eventually, I did reach the riverside ghats, but not before entering specific alleyways and being told—“no foreigners allowed”. Who am I to argue?

              

The largest cremation ghat.

A sustaining hot coffee for lunch on the steps of the ghat and I determined that I would endeavour to follow the river northwards, taking time to try & photograph ghat life in all it’s religious fervour & squalor. Rounding a curve I was confronted with the major cremation ghat—a ‘roaring’ business today—Diwalli is an auspicious time to die, I am told—I must remember that! I could see perhaps a dozen large bonfires burning. It was here that I encountered my first ‘ugly’ situation, when I was accosted by several street thugs who accused me of taking illegal photographs (yes, I had purloined one) and told me to hand over my passport and 500 rupees  ($10)!! Furious, I demanded that the police be summoned. Refusing to be ‘physically detained’, slowly and purposely commenced to backtrack. End of incident—they did not pursue me, or my ‘arrest’. Lonely Planet guide book in fact, warns of these type scams at the cremation ghats. Be warned, should you be in these parts.
               With nearly six hours under a boiling sun and with bedlam ringing in my ears, I beat a retreat, back through the same packed alleyway maze, to the sanity of my hotel compound.

A pink dawn over the Ganges...

The option of the hotel tour to the Varanasi  (population: 1.2 million) ghats at dawn, was an offering that I knew I would be wise to avail myself. My determination to turn out of a comfortable bed at 4.45am is never to be 100%  counted upon! As it was, 7kms. to the tour start through dark, empty city streets if one can discount all the homeless people, cows and sleeping dogs littered along the edges. Upon arrival at Ketlar Ghat & just prior to a sunrise straight out of National Geographic, I was handed off to my boatman who rowed me up a section of the river, presenting splendid opportunities to see the many Hindu devout immersing themselves into the waters and offering up prayers. My boatman offered the following wisdom: Varanasi, an ancient city established more than 5000 years ago, is three things: learn (there are three major universities in the city), burn –(famous for cremations along the banks of the holy Ganges) and return (as in: fall in love with the place and always yearn to return).

I was the only person booked, so I had the car & guide to myself. We drove the 6-7

           The pink, red, gold sunrise was truly remarkable, probably made even better by the polluted air and high humidity, bathing the high buildings on the west bank ghats in a soft pink glow for a brief period. Easy to understand why this location is such a Mecca for photographers with high price gear ---all this was clearly evident in the other tourist boats that we passed. I have seen more tourists here in Varanasi, than anywhere else I have visited to date in India.

          

In 1948 and again in1978, the Ganges went into extreme spring flood mode, which was estimated for me as 50 feet higher than today’s level- the veracity of this, can be seen by the residual high water discolouration marks on the raised ghat buildings. The unpopulated east bank of the river acts as a flood plain & is much lower being even today, unpopulated except for some farming activity. I commented on a lack of bridges across the Ganges for this large city and learnt that the nearest is, in fact, 20 kms to the north, being constructed by the British in the 1920s.

Varanasi....experienced.

         Is it my imagination, or are Indian railways starting to let me down? The last couple of trains have been

either late departing, or mysteriously held up en route resulting in late arrival times…alright, this is not a great crisis for this tourist with all the time to spend, but for this my first month of riding the Indian rails, I have been greatly impressed with the punctuality of the worlds largest rail system. This morning the 7.45 am train to Varanasi had not arrived at platform #2 from Lucknow by 8.45am, the anxious and expectant crowds stacking up on the platforms---and when I say crowds, I mean crowds, Indian style---a massive crush of business men, grandmothers, babies, ladies with massive baskets of (vegetables?) balanced on their heads all anxious/desperate to secure passage in “unreserved”. At 9.15 am, first in Hindi, then in a sort of broken English, it was announced over the loudspeakers that the awaited train would now be arriving at platform #6. I don’t think that I have ever seen 10,000+/- move so fast, with one accord, up the stairs, across the connecting bridge and down the stairs to the new platform. One reads/sees in the media how, 500 people are crushed to death falling down stairs---well to see/experience it, is to believe. Just imagine what real life ‘in the raw’ experiences those Western packaged tour folks who take the glossy brochure tours, miss!

              My hotel ‘Sariya’, is approx. 5 kms. north of the central Varanasi city area, a little less frenetic and in the sector with perhaps more international appeal, being complete with McDonald's, Pizza Hut et al. Important to understand that my medium pizza supper probably cost the equivalent of  ½ a weeks wages for Mr. Average in these parts.

          The ‘ghats’, or access points to the river (Ganges), are the main points of interest in Varanasi, a city where devout Hindus believe that to be immersed in the muddy brown soup of the River Ganges, moves them a step closer to heaven. A cremation with ashes carried downstream assures passage to a higher level (of  Kama?). Not being a guided tour type I decided to take an auto rickshaw to the southern most ghat and attempt to walk back towards the city. The passage was of course convoluted with barriers to my progress frequently appearing in the form of deep sewage ditches that I felt too dangerous  & foul to attempt to leap and several times was forced back to the ‘main’ road in order to progress northward. In the maze of narrow streets I did stumble upon Mother Teresa’s Missionary Shelter. Curious, I entered, was warmly welcomed and offered a tour. Absolutely spotless! The ‘clients’, imacculately clean, seemed to me be mostly mentally challenged. Unfortunately, they had a strict ‘no photography’ policy as far as the Sisters were involved. Again, the advantages of getting oneself lost in the maze of side streets.

                 The water front area of Varanasi, rated as a national/Hindu shrine in India, is, I am sorry to report, an absolute slum, an open sewer. Very photogenic are the rotting and semi-derelict buildings that tower up and over the river-bank. My walking route along the ghats brought me to the first of the smoke shrouded major cremation areas. These areas certainly did not have the hushed reverence of church cremations in the West. In fact, there were groups of young boys surreally playing soccer not 20 yards away. It all seemed to me more like a work yard, where gangs of men were setting fire and fanning the flames of piles of logs. Chatting to a local, I was informed that even this smaller ghat can handle 250 cremations per day, that tears from mourners not allowed as this impedes the passing of the spirit of the deceased to a higher level, and lastly that aromatic (expensive) sandal wood is considered more auspicious than cheaper regular wood as a burning medium.

                Exhausted in the heat from climbing and carefully descending all the flights of stone steps up and down to the ghats, I beat a retreat to find a restorative ‘chai’ shop  on the main-street.

            Back to the hotel, a siesta and a relaxing dip in the swimming pool. The good life, (for a lucky few) in Varanasi.

        A 5.00am (tomorrow) three hour dawn trip booked back to the ghats, hopefully to witness the multitudes of faithful take their obligatory dip in the River Ganges.

Lucknow seiged in 1857 mutiny.

           A relaxed half-day site seeing in this historic city. Not really on the tourist route, but famous amongst history buffs for being at the centre of the 1857 Indian Mutiny, when Indian rebels turned on the colonial power and laid siege to the Lucknow administrative & military compound, killing all the defenders and loyal native soldiers.  The flashpoint of the rebellion was the introduction of theEnfield rifle the cartridges for this weapon were believed to be greased with a mixture of beef and pork fat, which was felt would defile both Hindu and Muslim Indian soldiers. On 1 May, the7th Oudh Irregular Infantry refused to bite the cartridge and on 3 May they were disarmed by other regiments.

            Known as ‘The Residency’, the site of the siege is now a beautiful park, including the gravestones of some of those killed.

           Item: Indians, I am told are very quick to categorise people, groups, situations, events etc. Others belong to particular castes, of a specific religion, of a certain economic status/ profession etc. People in the street are quite likely to stop a foreigner, and this foreigner has been stopped numerous times, to enquire as to name,  age, country, how much I earn(!!), how many sons I have …….

All in a very friendly manner and apparently quite normal for them to want to know.

With this knowledge they can therefore categorise and slot the subject into a specific social position that forms the basis of a good relationship.