Subtle Hints

I have finally applied for, and received, my Pakistani visa and now have my sights set on the border and the adventures beyond. Not before time too, as India is letting me know in various subtle, and some not so subtle, ways that I am beginning to outstay my welcome. First of all I was robbed; and by somebody I knew and trusted nonetheless.

"This is to introduce Mr Erik Jelinek holder of British passport no. ... issued by ... Mr Jelinek has stated that he wishes to travel to Pakistan for tourism purposes. I would be grateful if you would give his visa application due consideration."

That is a verbatim copy of the "letter of introduction" that my embassy charged me £41 (at £1 per word it cost me more than my average weekly budget for India) for, and which the Pakistani embassy insisted upon. What arcane, bureaucratic ritual it is required for is completely beyond me. Then, whilst sightseeing here in Delhi, I was shoved out of a local bus. It would have been OK if it wasn't moving at the time, but, as it was, I got a nasty graze on my arm (pretty lucky considering it could have been considerably worse) and significant blackening of my mood for the day. And the touts and rickshaw-wallahs are more rapacious here than anywhere else, mainly because Delhi is the point of entry for many people and so they are generally less wise to their ways. And then there's the heat. Of late the thermometer has been pushing into the 40 degree mark sucking the enthusiasm and drive to do anything out of me. So the mountains of Pakistan will be a welcome and fresh change for me. But it hasn't been all bad. Delhi has its fair share of informative museums and old, historic wossnames to keep you busy for some time. My highlight, however, was neither of these, but instead a modern building, possibly the most beautiful post-war construction that I know of: the Baha'i lotus temple. Although the Baha'i religion is relatively new and unknown to many people they certainly have made their mark with this exquisite masterpiece.

Reunions

I think I may have mentioned it before but I'll do so again. I don't like goodbyes. I'm not good at them. I don't know what to say, I feel awkward, I can't express my emotions (perhaps a good thing as no-one wants to see a blubbering wreck) and always feel empty from the loss of companionship. Whilst travelling there are many goodbyes, but also many hellos and strong friendships that are made in remarkably short spaces of time. My favourite thing, however, is meeting people again. This actually happens more often than one might think. You might be ambling through a bazaar or just waiting for a train when suddenly a familiar face appears and, if only for a short moment, you sit, you laugh, you chat and exchange stories. Then, just as quickly, your paths separate, leaving you just as you were before; but with an added spring in your step and smile on your face.

One such reunion happened here in Delhi, and, although it had been planned, was joyful nonetheless. I had travelled with Liam and Eila through a large chunk of South America together and they are just embarking on their own Asian odyssey. It brought home to me how long I've been on the road when Liam told me that it has been two lambing seasons since we parted (Liam is Welsh and therefore a sheep farmer). Hmm, although I've seen many amazing sights and wonders, some of the most powerful memories are human ones: conversations, friends, gestures, smiles and untold acts of kindness.

Majical Mughal Masterpieces

Upon consolidating power in India in the 16th century the Mughals went on an impressive building spree, erecting mosques, mausoleums, markets, monuments and entire mmcities. The most famous Mughal monument is the ionic Taj Mahal, built by Shah Jahan, the 5th Mughal emperor, as a mausoleum for his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died giving birth to their 14th child. The Taj has often been called "the world's greatest monument to love" but personally I think it's more of a testament to fecundity! Many, more eloquent and poetic people than I, have eulogised the Taj to the heavens and so nothing I could say would do it justice. I would just like to state that it is very big, very white, and very pretty. Just don't expect to be alone to contemplate its splendour, even at 6:30 in the morning. And it's not just the Taj, but the entire environs of Agra seem to be filled with mausoleums and cenotaphs to emperors, their wives and their cronies. But I'm not complaining; not only are they invariably exquisite examples of architecture, but they are also serene havens of peace and tranquility away from the craziness of Agra.

About 40km west of Agra and its dead Mughals lies the ghost-town of Fatehpur Sikri. Akbar (the Great) decided to move his capital from Agra to this pleasant greenfield site with plenty of space for the kids to play, neighbourhood shops and good public transport. Unfortunately Akbar failed to appreciate the site's one big drawback: lack of water (not so Great now, eh?). So only some 20-odd years after being founded out of nothing the town was just as suddenly abandoned, leaving it to nature. What's left are the skeletons of an extensive palace complex made of blood-red sandstone, solid against the deep blue sky. There is, however, one part of the city that is still in use and that is the imposing Jama Masjid mosque, site of the tomb of a famous Sufi saint. Locals come here to pray and play and women tie red threads to the saint's tomb in the hope of conceiving. And in the evenings traditional qawwali singers fill the courtyard with their mystical chanting. Just don't spend too long listening as you might miss the last bus out of town like I did!

Don't Drink The Water

You certainly wouldn't want to drink the local water at Bhopal. You might recognise the name (perhaps subconsciously) as being the site of he world's worst industrial disaster. On the night of the 2nd-3rd of December 1984 a pesticide manufacturing plant owned by Union Carbide, handily located close to the centre of town, leaked 40 tonnes of highly toxic Methyl Isocyanate gas onto he sleeping populace. The heavier-than-air gas rolled through the streets killing thousands upon thousands of unsuspecting civilians in the most horrific manner. Some 10-15 thousand died immediately or in the few days afterwards and a further 15-20 thousand or so have died since (just for comparison only 4 thousand people died, throughout Europe, due to the Chernobyl disaster) and hundreds of thousands have been left with permanent damage that is sometimes also passed onto their children. A horrific human tragedy whose memory, I feel, has been sullied by the actions of those responsible. Not only has the toxic waste not been properly cleared up yet, over 25 years later! but Union Carbide (and Dow Chemical who later bought them) continue to wash their hands of blame and responsibility despite mountains of evidence to the contrary (to see their attempts at explaining the manslaughter of thousands of innocents check out their website). They very quickly agreed to an out of court settlement with the Indian government for less than $500 million and decided that that absolved them of everything. Quite a sum one might say, but if one considers that Libya was forced to fork out $2.2 billion for the deaths of 270 people caused by he Lockerbie bombing it equates to Western lives being worth more than 100 Indian ones. OK, a bit simplistic perhaps, but it does seem to me, from reading the news and such, that that is the general modus operandi of the West.

Despite this rather sorry recent history, the past of Bhopal and its surroundings is far greater. The first traces of human culture in the Subcontinent can be found at the rock shelters of Bhimbetka (which, incidentally, sounds like the word for "little bimbo" in Czech (I have noticed that of late I'm choosing my destinations based, at least partly, on my liking of the name)). They may not be great works of art, but the setting is stunning and you can see that even back in the Stone Age people had a sense of humour as one picture of a giant water buffalo chasing a poor stick figure ably demonstrates.

Equally close to town are the remains of one of the first Buddhist monasteries ever built, at Sanchi, on a low hill overlooking a peacefully empty valley. The carvings and statues, despite being over 2,000 years old, are magnificently lifelike and full of grace. Among them is the 4-lion capitol that has become the emblem of India and is found on all their coins and banknotes.

Culture Vulture

As I've mentioned before India has rarely been unified and was usually made up of a patchwork of petty, warring kingdoms. So it is easy, whilst travelling around, to visit various erstwhile capitals like I did on my way from Varanasi to Bhopal.

My first was a "must see" on the India circuit, being the famous temples of Khajuraho. They're known for their racy, and fantastically preserved, Kama Sutra sculptures. Rather annoying though, is the fact that many of them are quite high up on the temple walls meaning you have to crane your neck to see them and you can't get a decent picture; a sort of top-shelf censorship of the Middle Ages I suppose. More interesting for me, not least because the entire population wasn't out to fleece me, was the small town of Orchha. Its present-day population of about 8,000 is almost certainly less than what it used to be in its heyday, as can be testified by the imposing fort and palace, far-flung city walls and plenty of beautiful, old mansions in various stages of crumbling disrepair. I originally planned to see it as a day-trip but was disarmed by the relaxed atmosphere (and the oppressive midday heat of Summer which makes siestas a very popular activity) and exploration possibilities, and not to mention the river that was actually clean enough to bathe in (certainly a first for India!). The biologist in me was also excited to get his first sightings of vultures in India, soaring through the skies, as the once common birds have almost been wiped out in the Subcontinent due to the use of the drug Diclofenac, a painkiller administered to cattle which causes renal failure in the majestic birds.

Moksha

It may sound like a new coffee flavour from Starbucks but for religious Hindus the ultimate goal of life is to achieve Moksha, or an escape from the endless cycle of life and rebirth. This can be achieved in several ways, like leading a good and pious life full of selfless deeds and the like, or you could take the, in my view, easy way out and be cremated at Varanasi and have your ashes scattered in the Ganges. Varanasi is the most holy place for Hindus. The city is built on an outer bend of the Ganges, which makes for great photos as you can always see the entire riverside. And it is by the river, at the ghats (steps leading into the water) which line the entire bank, that every facet of Indian life is distilled. There are, of course, the sacred, auspicious ghats where people are ceremonially cremated, there are some that are just for bathing and ablutions, there are some for just washing clothes and there is even one that seems to be exclusively for sadhus (itinerant, ascetic holy men).

The ritual cremations are the main draw for tourists, or at least those, like me, who are more than slightly interested in the morbid and macabre. The cremations must occur within 24 hours of death so there are numerous "dying houses" where the old and infirm eke out their last days. When they do finally kick the bucket they are wrapped in cloth, placed upon a bamboo stretcher, covered by a muslin shroud, topped off with a few patties of cow dung (honest!) and carried down to the cremation ghats through the narrow streets. Once there they are dipped one last time in the holy river before being placed on the pyre. The area around the cremation grounds is piled high with wood that is meticulously weighed for each pyre so that the fee, per kilo, can be calculated (everything here has a price). Then it's on the grill for 2-3 hours until the ashes can be collected and scattered. Before arriving I had been set a challenge by a friend of mine, called Anna, whom I had met in Rajasthan (an interesting girl with a disturbing penchant for livestock as she bought herself a camel in Pushkar and has lately suggested buying a cow as a useful "shield" whilst travelling the risky streets of India) of spotting 3, or more, bodies. Unfortunately it must have been a fallow period for deaths and so I didn't have the "luck" of seeing any floating in the river or being nibbled at by the resident canines like Anna did.

But along with the magical and mystical aspects of India, Varanasi also has more than its fair share of the seedy and squalid. As well as innumerable, and horribly persistent, touts offering marijuana and hash, hotel rooms, rickshaw rides, "Ayurvedic" massages, silk handicrafts and much more besides there is a lot of what I have come to call the Indian Dichotomy. For example shopkeepers and householders are punctiliously clean when it comes to their homes and little patch of pavement in front, often devoting large chunks of time to sweeping all manner of dust and rubbish towards their neighbours or onto the "common ground" of the road; but then they won't think twice about throwing litter there or spitting huge gobs of red paan onto the just-cleaned area. Similarly the Ganges is not only a holy place, but also a communal area for washing and recreation; and yet they treat it like a toilet, literally. And then there are the clothes that are washed with great effort every day by the dhobi-wallahs. Firstly I'm not sure how clean one can possibly get anything using Ganges water (one of the most polluted rivers in the world), but then they leave the clothes to dry on the dusty, cowpat-covered ghats. Somehow I'm not sure if I'll ever understand what goes through people's minds here.

University Challenge

In India the state of Bihar is generally regarded as being the country's basket case. Any problem, you name it Bihar's got it: a Maoist insurgency, tribal rebels, dacoity (banditry to you and me), crippling poverty and economic and political mismanagement and corruption (a bizarre example of the latter occurred a few years back when the chief minister was arrested for his alleged role in a corruption scandal and was subsequently replaced by his illiterate wife!). The air is dirtier, the traffic more vicious, the noise more grating and the power cuts more frequent (a dozen or so today), than anywhere else in India. The majority of the population are poor, uneducated farmers, who are preyed upon by politicians and big businesses.

Things, however, were not always so. The fertile Gangetic Plain, which traverses the state, once made it a prosperous and thriving area. The city of Patna was the capital of India's first great empire. The region is also particularly holy as it was home to Gautama Siddhartha and Mahavira, founders of Buddhism and Jainism respectively. Therefore the place is awash with holy sites, especially those related to Bud's life and teachings. Perhaps the most notable of these is Bodhgaya, where Buddha attained enlightenment under the Bodhi tree and spent seven weeks sitting around and philosophising. The tree is there, though it is but a grandchild of the original, and is the focus of prayers and pilgrimages of Buddhists from around the world. The small town of Bodhgaya itself is like a little tour du monde of Buddhist architecture, as every country with a major Buddhist population has its own temple there. There's a Thai wat, a Tibetan gompa, as well as Japanese, Bhutanese, Sri Lankan and Chinese temples. It's good if you're on a very tight budget and can't afford to see the countries first hand, but the old adage that "they don't make 'em like they used to" is very much true here. All the temples seem slightly fake and out of place. The spiritual ambiance is also dented somewhat by the hordes of pushy touts and beggars, most of whom should have been at primary school, preying on the generosity of visiting Buddhists.

But it's not just religious sites that make up Bihar's rich past. I'm certainly not the first, nor the most daring or most original traveller (but perhaps the most cynical?); many have preceded me and many more will follow. For us Europeans Marco Polo was the trailblazer, but he was preceded by two Chinese, Buddhist monks, Fa Hsien and Xuan Zang, some 800 and 500 years before him. These two pioneers crossed thousands of miles of inhospitable terrain, encountered endless difficulties (Xuan Zang's adventures became very popular in China and Japan as the story "Journey to the West" and gained a wider audience, myself included, in the 80's as the Japanese TV series Monkey), and left behin their homes and friends to visit Nalanda. Whilst we Europeans were groping our way through the Dark Ages Nalanda was the world's first university, accepting students from all over the Buddhist world (a hefty chunk of Asia at that time). As well as your basic theology there were also courses in mathematics, astronomy, logic, the sciences and medicine. At its peak it had 10,000 students and the best university entrance examination ever: prospective students had to make their way to the campus and if they could out-argue the gatekeeper then they were allowed in. Genius! OK, there's not much to see any more, just your standard series of low walls (these were the students' cells, this was the refectory, these were the study rooms...) and the remains of some seriously large stupas. But there's an air of serenity about the place; and sometimes it's not what you can see, but rather it's what a place represents. I try to imagine what uni life must have been like back then. I guess there was probably less slacking, smoking of pot or watching of daytime TV than when I was at uni. That's progress I suppose.

P.S. Today is No Ruz, the Persian new year, so to all of you to whom I didn't manage to send a personal e-mail "Eid-e shoma mobarak!" (Happy New Year!)

Run To The Hills

As I travel around various British ex-colonies I see a rather strange trend. As soon as the new dominions were safely acquired the first thing the Brits would do was flee to the hills. On every available piece of high ground they would build hill stations to get away from the oppressive heat of the tropics (their insistence on wearing heavy, stuffy European clothing at all times probably added to their discomfort). Perhaps the most famous of these is Darjeeling. Situated in the north of West Bengal, close to the Nepalese border and with fine views (on a clear day) of the world's third-highest peak, the mighty Kangchenjunga. Though it is for its tea that Darjeeling is most renowned, and it holds the record for the most expensive tea in the world (Makaibari Silver Tips, vintage 2003, sold for $400 a kilo). The town sits, perched precariously, on the edge of a steep ridge, so the streets and paths are a befuddling snakes and ladders board: often you think you're going in the right direction only to reach a dead end, or suddenly turn downhill away from where you're headed. Still, the temperate climate and charming colonial buildings make traipsing the back alleys a pleasant pastime, and it's a relaxing place to recuperate from a fortnight of rather hectic travelling when I didn't stay in any one place for more than one night.

I actually arrived on the second day of the Hindu festival of Holi where people throw coloured powder and water on each other to celebrate ... I'm not sure as I couldn't find anyone to explain it to me properly. But who cares? you get to make a mess and annoy people and get away with it. Does it matter if no-one remembers why? I, however, chose to keep a safe distance, not because I'm a killjoy, but I'm not great at washing my clothes at the best of times and I really didn't want the extra work. The whole town, even several days, and a bit of rain, later still bears the purple marks on the streets, like the remnants of some hard-fought battle (even the dogs are tinged purple).

Horny

The northeast Indian state of Assam is known throughout the world as a centre for tea production and indeed the fertile Brahmaputra plain, which is the defining feature of the state, is filled with tea plantations (unlike anywhere else in the world the tea plantations here are grown on plains not on hillsides) as far as the eye can see. However, in India at least, Assam is perhaps better known for its oil and its iconic animal, which adorns every company emblem from motor oil to shaving cream: the great one-horned rhino.

The huge, hulking beast (the fat pie can often weight over 2 tonnes) usually makes its home in Assam's Kaziranga national park, where about two thirds of the world's population is concentrated. The park is also home to a healthy population of elephants, deer, tigers, pythons and plenty of bird life. But, like all Indian national parks, it is a bugger to visit. You have to go on an organised jeep safari tour, which follows a set itinerary over which you have no control. This is all well and good for groups of travellers, but for a lone vagabond like me hiring out a jeep for myself is prohibitively expensive (hold that thought and I'll come back to it in a bit). So my only chance is to sit around and wait for a group that would be willing to take me along with them. You'd think that that would be easy as anybody would jump at the chance of having a charming, knowledgeable and vivacious addition to their group (which would also reduce their costs) but I had to wait over an hour and a half before I was picked up (maybe it's the beard). Funnily enough I ended up with a group of three Afghans now living in India. This allowed me to wow them with my Farsi. Okay, maybe not wow, as my Farsi is nowhere near as good as it should be and their Kabuli accent is very unfamiliar to me. Still, it was a bizarre experience to be trundling through this nature reserve with a bunch of middle-aged Afghans (and I don't even know what they were doing there as they didn't seem particularly interested in the fauna) telling me I should visit Afghanistan as it is "really nice this time of year" and it "isn't at all dangerous". But I didn't care, I got to see some rhinos, plenty of pachyderms, deer, a python (being rather boring, just coiled up on a rock), some eagles and a hoopoe (which is a bird I've always wanted to see, just because it has such an odd name).

I wish the day had been perfect but it was marred by the all-pervasive practice of state-sponsored tourist abuse that is rampant in India and which leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I'm talking about the practice of two-tiered pricing for locals and foreigners. Now I'm not against the practice in principle, like, for example, in Argentina where foreigners pay twice the amount of locals to get into national parks. That's not unreasonable and it means that locals are not priced out of their own national treasures. However, here in India, foreigners often have to fork out 10-20 times more than Indians. For example I would have had to pay $11 just to take photographs in Kaziranga whereas locals only have to pay $1. No exceptions are made for foreigners of rich or poor countries or for students who have fewer means at their disposal (I may not be a student any more, but I feel like one and I do have a fake student card that I bought on the Khao San Road). I also think it makes locals less appreciative and careful of their tourist sites when they only pay a pittance to get in. The priceless treasures seem to have little value for them as they scramble over centuries old statues and wear away detailed carvings with their sweaty hands. What seems odd to me though is that in China the entry fees were often considerably higher than here in India and yet I was more willing to pay them because the prices were the same for everybody and they gave generous discounts to students (and people with fake student IDs). I'm sure there's an interesting psychological phenomenon there somewhere.

Raindrops Keep Falling On Their Heads

People often criticise Scottish (and/or British) weather as being constantly rainy and dull. Obviously they have never been to Cherrapunjee in India's northeast state of Meghalaya, which, incidentally, means "The Abode of Clouds". This happens to be a very apt name as Cherrapunjee holds both the record for rainfall in a single year, at a staggering 23m! and in a single month (9.3m), and the neighbouring town of Mawsynram has the highest average rainfall a year of almost 12m (for comparison London only has 65cm a year). Meghalaya is indeed a strange corner of India as it doesn't feel at all like India. The majority of the population is Khasi, a hill tribe related to the Burmese, and Christian. There are genuine smiles at every corner, people are polite and the women have equal status as men (actually their status is slightly higher) and so you can have a proper conversation (on the whole subcontinent up until now I had only had one proper conversation with a woman). It was here, in a little village close to Cherrapunjee (I just love that name) that I saw one of the natural wonders of my trip: living bridges. The tribespeople of the Jaintia hills coax the roots of rubber trees growing by the banks of streams across to the other side using bamboo "trellises", and after 15-20 years the roots reach the other side and allow people to cross. One of these bridges even has two levels and is known as the Double Decker. An amazing example of harmony between man and nature.



I'd like to take this opportunity, by the by, to have a little rant about that most British of conversation topics: the weather. As I mentioned before, the weather of our Sceptered Isle is often given short shrift and much maligned. I actually really like our British weather. There are no extremes: it is never so hot that you can do nothing but pant under the AC unit, or so cold that spit freezes before it touches the ground; we have no cyclones or tornadoes, no droughts and our floods would be laughed at by the people of Bangladesh. It's a climate you can live in. People say they would like to live in the tropics when what they mean is that they would like to go there on holiday, and preferably not during the monsoons. And anyway, I can afford a coat. And I like hot chocolate on a cold Winter night. But I ought to stop there before I get maudlin.

The more perceptive of you will have perhaps realised by now that I am no longer in Bangladesh. My stay there was perhaps short, but it was certainly sweet. Despite the lack of major attractions; the constant power outages that always seemed to occur whilst I was online (though that might perhaps have something to do with the fact that I spend far too much time surfing the internet, but I do it for selfless reasons: so that you, my readers at home, can share in my travel adventure); the rather unimpressive food which, quite frankly, has made mealtimes a bit of a chore (I sometimes think of Bangladesh as the Scotland of Asia due to their love of deepfrying everything); and the often oppressive curiosity of the locals, I have enjoyed myself very much. Perhaps because of the lack of foreign tourists it was in Bangladesh that I was finally accorded the celebrity status I know I deserve; or perhaps it was the slightly naive charm of the people. It's a shame that because of its poverty and lack of big-draw attractions this oft gem of a country is often overlooked. It has been hard done by in the past and has crippling amounts of corruption and deserves better. Which brings me nicely on to today's history lesson: the Liberation War of Bangladesh.

The partition of India in 1947 carved up the land into two countries: India and Pakistan. The latter, however, was comprised of two parts, an east and west one, separated by 1500km of India. All the power in the newly formed Pakistan was centred in the less populous west, and was jealously guarded by the, mainly Punjabi, ruling elite. The Bengali east was persecuted from the start: in 1948 Urdu, and only Urdu, was imposed as the national language, despite being hardly spoken by anybody in the Bengali east; most of the east's income was siphoned off to the west so living standards steadily declined whilst those in the west rose. All these disparities caused simmering resentment in the east which boiled forth in 1971. The then dictatorship of Pakistan vowed to hold free elections which were resoundingly won by the east Pakistani Awami League, securing 269 out of seats in parliament. The western controlled military and political parties refused to accept the result and refused to start the new parliament as scheduled on the 1st of March. Instead they played for time and on the night of the 24th of March they started a genocide of the Bengali east, targetting intellectuals, teachers, Hindus, students and journalists. The Bengalis declared their independence and started a guerrilla campaign against the Pakistanis.

After 9 months of bitter fighting the Indians found a pretext for joining the war and quickly routed the Pakistani army, but not before a large number of Bengalis has died. The Bangladeshis claim that 3 million died, but even if it was a more conservative total of 1 million, the death rate was similar to that of the Nazi concentration camps during the Holocaust. But the shocking thing, is that so little is heard about this in the West. I was barely aware of the conflict before coming here and I considered myself a rather well-read individual. How is this possible? It might have something to do with the complete lack of action from the West. One of the critics of the situation was the Soviet Union, which decried the disregard for democratic process, whereas America tacitly supported the Pakistanis!

Now my regard for America and its foreign policies was not particularly high when I started this trip, but as it has progressed I find almost every dark chapter in post-war history has been compounded or instigated by our friends across the pond, either overtly, or through political intrigue, or by secret funding of paramilitaries, or by economic muscle. How is it that we aren't made fully aware of this? how is it that we seem to let all these transgressions slip by? It makes me feel as if we might indeed be living in some Orwellian world where, despite appearances to the contrary, we are just fed any old crap and we seem to lap it up unquestioningly. I'm unable to express my thoughts very well at the moment (and the internet pay meter is continually ticking) but it seems very wrong to me, especially our apathy and unwillingness to rock the boat unless our own interests are at stake. Hmmm, I seem to have gotten all gloomy, hopefully my next post will be lighter and more cheerful.