Thanks to lots of wi-fi options in Pokhara, I've been able to upload the backlog of photos. If you can be bothered, you can find the following:

Ranthambhore - the no-tiger tiger hunt

Agra - the Taj Mahal and all that jazz

Varanasi - Ganges and ghats

17^th November – Our driver contrived to turn our seven-hour trip to Sonauli into a nine-hour marathon, thanks to several stops including one for breakfast (his), one to drop off a bottle of whisky for his brother, and another to pick up his brother in law (I kid you not), who completed the journey with us. All of these unscheduled stops, combined with his late arrival to pick us up in the morning, meant that we arrived at the border in the dark.

What you have to realise about India is that there are very few street lights. From what we have seen, these are even sparse in the major cities. Which is a positive in my view and far preferable to the orange glow of Milton Keynes we can see from our village. But lack of light does not help when you arrive at a chaotic border post where lorries line the road for several hundred yards and headlights blind and the air is full of dust. Everyone at Sonauli was shouting and there was a slightly unsettling incident where our driver got pulled over, shouted at, then a third man climbed into the front, then we drove forward a few yards, then there was some more shouting with people outside and he got out...

After we had parted with some unofficial money to get some probably-unofficial exit stamp from a dude in jeans and t-shirt on the Indian side, we were loaded with much shouting and chaos onto a cycle rickshaw and taken through the archway into Nepal. No difference as yet. Still lots of darkness, dust, holes in the road, shouting, horns blowing, trucks, buses and cycle rickshaws heading every direction. But then we went into Nepalese immigration and three lovely smiling gentlemen processed our visas and welcomed us to Nepal.

We had wondered in passing why the agent in Varanasi and our driver would not tell us the name of the hotel we were to spend the night in, just over the border. We thought maybe there was just one, but really we believed in our heart of hearts that this was part of their plan to keep us in the clutches of an agent and parting with as much money as possible. Inevitably we ended up again in front of some smiling hand-rubbing guy, this time in a grubby office to the side of the hotel we were supposed to spend the night in. The first thing he said was, “I don’t think you want to stay in my hotel”.

What??????

Long story short, I went to look at the room in what was little better than a doss-house while Alan got the hard sell about how he really didn’t want to be catching a bus over the mountain road to Pokhara, why didn’t we let him book a driver for us. When I rejoined I was searching for a polite way to say, “You’re darned right I don’t want to stay in your hotel”. Anyway, we parted with some more money to transfer to ‘much better hotel’ and agreed that we would have a driver.

There is something I need to make clear right now. Alan is no shrinking violet and, possibly thanks to my age, I am capable of some pretty impressive outbursts of aggression, as at least one cycle rickshaw guy in India would testify. If we had wanted to stick to the plan made in Varanasi having listened to the evidence, then we would have stuck to the plan. But our experiences in India have proven that these agents are not wrong if they say “You don’t want to do that”. And the changes have not cost much in our terms, although probably out of reach of the locals. I just don’t understand why they have to be so devious and conniving.

Anyway – I’m going to start my Nepal blog now. Watch out for a change of tone! There are no photos of our trip from Varanasi to Sonauli, although I can report that the landscape became much greener, more affluent a we went further north – we even spotted tractors working in the fields and two combine harvesters!

Folks, I know a few of you are quite techie, so you may be able to help. I have intermittent trouble accessing my webmail and now have lost the facility to upload photos to my website from the various computers I am using in hotels and suchlike. My ISP is Freeola. They say everything is working and no doubt it is.

Sometimes the photo problem is due to lack of Java, but I have just downloaded this to the machine I am using and it still doesn't work.

If this continues, the only time I can upload photos is when I have wireless access from my laptop, and this is few and far between.

Does anyone have any ideas, am I missing something? When I get the backlog uploaded, I will alert you through my latest blog - you may, however, lose the will to live with the number of photos I'm, stacking up!

I thought it might be an idea to add some comments to compliment Bev’s blog, so here goes.

The Indian nation is still immersed in its caste system. Everyone belongs to one of four castes at the top is royalty second is the church third is business and the lowest caste is a worker.  The lower two castes are further divided into three hundred grades dependant on trade or profession. Much too complicated for this simple soul but via a number of discussions and happenings I have formed an opinion. It is of course limited to the folk I have met on a well trodden tourist path and I would so much have enjoyed meeting other more average, not to say real people.

The main priorities for a family man seem to be – his family – his religion - the education of his children – work.  The last of these is purely to support the first three, the idea of earning and then spending money on oneself or wife to go travelling or on holiday instead of spending it on children or grandchildren is an anathema.  Family seems to pervade all facets of life.  Children seem happy to remain in education and under the control of their parents throughout university and take family advice on all things including job and partner choices. Grandparents are included in all family decisions and are generally cared for in the family during their old age. Maybe a slight exaggeration but very different!

Religion seems to be a large part of all Indians’ lives irrespective of which they are a part. I enjoyed a long conversation with a priest (tout) at a Jain temple in Jaisalmer.  Jainism is a breakaway sect from the Hindus.  He explained that the Jains had only twenty four prophets and no gods, he could not help scoffing at the Hindus who have three hundred and twenty three gods and innumerable prophets.  Whilst all religions are able to practise here the competition for the tourist dollar is fierce.  Sufficient to say I have very much enjoyed Sikh, Hindu, Buddhist and Jain places of worship which were all very beautiful and welcomed the dollar with alacrity.  There is a spiritual element to most parts of life here but if cleanliness is next to Godliness they miss out on at least one!  I probably am not plugged into my spiritual side as I support Southampton FC.      

Education is considered all important. Children, wearing their school uniform of clean and ironed shirts, generally blue but other colours in different areas, walk up to ten miles to school.  They stride along purposefully in ones, twos and groups smiling and chatting but I witnessed no horse play.  Creeping like snail is not evident here. The boy of fifteen who rowed our boat at 6am at the ghats will be at school one o’clock till six. The schools have two sessions 7am – 12 midday and 1 – 6pm the younger children go to one and the older to the other.

Every parent is proud of their children’s attendance and success and provides every assistance.  The very poor must send their children to work so school and advancement are not universally available.       

The work ethic here is amazing everybody seems busy at something. In the rural areas I have seen no farm equipment except tractors, trailers and the occasional plough. All crops are planted and harvested by hand by both men and women earning less than £1.00 per day. The loads carried on their heads are huge and heavy and the amount of cargo strapped to and pushed for miles on a bicycle has to been seen to be believed. Everything from man and woman to truck via camel, donkey, horse and mule are overloaded and work at the limit.  To a tourist two bullocks pulling a plough followed by a small struggling man is exotic and worth a photo. When you realise the huge area to be ploughed you can only admire the sheer tenacity and toughness of this small man – and his bullocks!

In the western part of our travels water was in very short supply and wells were the only source for drinking and irrigation.  Drinking wells were visited daily by ladies and water carried up to five miles in containers on their heads. They often went in groups of six or seven, and their beautiful, brightly coloured saris as they wended home were like smiles on the arid landscape.       

The irrigation wells employ single cylinder petrol engines which use a belt to drive the pump.  These machines have not been used in UK since the 1950s, to see one you would have to visit a museum. The same engines belt drive compressors along the main highways to inflate the tyres of trucks after their frequent punctures.  No self respecting lorry driver would ever start a journey with anything but well worn tyres.  There is an MOT starting as a vehicle reaches its eighth year.  But it is cheaper to bribe the policeman if caught.  On a H&S theme Roy would be fascinated by the wooden poles and wire used as scaffold by builders up to three stories, no hard hats ( also not required on m’cycles) and all material carried by hand, NHBC does not apply.   

In the city the same applies but the output is necessarily different. Even the scam artists, touts and beggars are always looking for the next ‘business opportunity’. One particular beggar walking from car to car at a busy intersection was exceptional. His testicles and scrotum were oddly coloured and about the size of a bag of sugar he kept a cloth over his penis so as not offend anyone but waved his unusual offering at all and sundry to obtain money. I paid him the compliment of keeping a straight face but my wallet stayed closed!

As another example of India’s amazing coping mechanism imagine arriving at a major city to be faced by a roundabout ten vehicles in width with six wide junction roads irregularly joining and leaving. Your road, from about 100 mtrs from the roundabout, is absolutely full across its width including the pedestrian hard shoulder.  You are surrounded by overloaded forty tonne lorries, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and the indigenous three wheel tuk tuks.  Every mode of transport is trying its best to get forward, there is never more than 2 or 3 cms between each mudguard or wheel.  The whole throng is blowing long and stridently on many tuned horns. The diesel smoke is choking if you are not in an enclosed, air/con car( I wasn’t) .  As we progress slowly by stop and start other vehicles zoom into the smallest space to the front and side no driver looks directly at another no matter how outrageous the manoeuvre.  

Placing my trust in the driver, Balram, and his Hindu gods, I turn my attention tour fellow road users.

On my left a smokey motorcycle driven by a bearded gent who could act as an extra in a pirate film and on pillion is a petite, attractive girl in a dazzling red and orange sari, she is disdainfully riding side saddle and not holding on, her hands crossed on her knee.  As we proceed we come abreast of three camels pulling carts piled with sacks of corn, the camels are snooty and the drivers in nearly-clean, white dohtis, seem totally unfazed.  In front and the absolute centre of the mayhem, bearing the full force of every available motor horn is a small middle aged man pushing a four wheeled bazaar trolley loaded with fresh vegetables and followed by a younger man who pushes a similar trolley piled high with all forms of linen and clothes.  The trolley pushers do look moderately concerned for their safety and who could blame them?  A dozing cow is in residence on the middle of the island with its rear jutting onto the road by two feet causing hurried adjustment of line and even more loud blasts on over worked horns.

Through the indescribable din and frenetic activity everyone lurches, pushes, twists and somehow reaches a point opposite the required exit.  With or without an indicator they then TURN LEFT!! This turn is often across the path of a thundering truck, bemused camels or hard braking Tuk Tuks but somehow every soul reaches a destination of their choosing.

It makes Paris look like a drive in a country lane.  To my amazement I have seen this scene repeated time after time and never witnessed a single accident and never a cross word between drivers, drovers or pedestrians. In the UK swearing, fist waving and road rage would ensue within seconds. What easygoing pragmatic races live and drive in this exciting country. I have a clear picture of a father on a motor bike with his two eldest sons on the tank and his wife at the back supporting a sleeping daughter and his youngest son.  A family of six on a Yamaha without a care in the world.               

Bev has reported our visit to the beautiful City Palace in the Pink City at Jaipur.  Our entrance to the palace grounds once again gave me an insight into this great country. We arrived at the entrance and ticket office to find it thronged by literally hundreds of Indian folk. Families and groups chattered and flowed very slowly in a multi coloured and excited crowd in no hurry towards their turn to purchase a ticket. I saw a sign for foreigners to purchase tickets and just round the corner with no queue purchased two tickets plus those required for the audio guides in English for the princely sum of £4.00.  We now returned the back of the local queue and fully expected to wait our turn in true British fashion.  Not at all!! Spotted by a brown uniformed security guard at the front by the gate he immediately began to wave his very large stick, shout loudly and gesticulate at the happy throng to our front.  Like the Red Sea, a path opened down the middle of the crowd and smiling faces on either side waved for us to come through to the front.  As I made my way, slightly discomfited, I was heartened by the smiles and calls of “where do you come from?”  When I answered England several people, including ladies, held out their hands to grasp and shake mine with obviously heartfelt cries of “welcome enjoy your visit to India”.  It was a sea of smiles and welcome, and I just accepted it as a very kind gesture and strolled contentedly to the gate smiling in response.  I appreciated it very much.

I noticed that my lovely Bev had not looked up once during our short journey to the front the queue.  Slightly red in colour (the sun?) she indicated fairly firmly a little later she would rather have waited her turn than become the centre of attention. I just thought what a kindness and how different from my own country where any form of perceived privilege or queue jumping would have been met with at best silence or at worst snide comments and a closing of the way.

At Jaisalmer, of camel safari fame, I had a long chat with Farooq the very articulate and friendly owner of the Camel Camp.  He had lived there all of his life and was now forty two years of age and a big strapping man.  When he was a young boy in this arid and inhospitable spot on the edge of the desert everyone was very poor, there was no work and his Father travelled many miles with his camel to earn what he could.  Sometimes no rain fell for several years making crops fail.  Babies died young and old age was fifty.

Now, due to the boom in tourism, which was started in a small way by an Australian in late 70’s, the area is populous and prosperous. The tourists like us come to stay for one to seven nights to experience the sheer beauty of the desert both by day and night and of course get a little too close to camel farts!  This gives employment to camp staff, cooks, cleaners, security guards, launderers, and of course camel drivers and their support network for food and repairs.  Also earning a living was sixteen year old lad who walked several miles to meet us on the dunes with his bag full of cold beer.  Ice cold in Alex it wasn’t - but a very welcome Tuborg lager.

This has allowed wells to be dug (still 2 miles from the village) and there is now a school for the local children.  Everyone is housed adequately and even the low caste musicians and dancers who entertained us find employment only with tourist camps. In fact a whole thriving infrastructure is in place due to the mighty tourist £, $, Euro and Yen.  Amrad our seventeen year old camel driver (see Bev’s blog) had been to school, was confident and outgoing and believed that he would someday own his own camels and become rich. Good luck to him he looks at the world with a different perception to Farooq at his age. I do not wish to make any particular point but I did enjoy speaking with Farooq and Amrad.

One disappointment was that we were not allowed to teach English at local a school on visitor visas.

The Palaces, Forts and Havelis have been wonderful and I can imagine them teeming with Maharajah, warriors and soldiers, horse traders and thieves, priests and holy men, snake charmers and magicians as described by Kipling.  Great! I would not have missed it.

The smells, lack of hygiene and rubbish have been well covered by my lovely travelling companion, she ain’t far wrong.  It takes an effort to see past the crap to the beauty.

I am done. Love to all Bev’s readers.         

16^th November – Varanasi and its close friendship with the Ganges have helped make it the holiest city in India. A major part of the scene is the ‘ghats’ on the riverside. These are really just long flights of steps down to the river and they can be general bathing ghats, or wedding ghats, or funeral (also ‘burning’) ghats. Whichever one, the idea is to enhance the service user’s life or afterlife in some way.

So we were up at 05:30 to go for a boat trip on the Ganges, our first sight of the great river and guess what – yup, it’s raining. (So, Ed, yes indeed the golf course is closed today :o) But we got on with it, along with several hundred other tourists who picked their way down the steps of one of the bathing ghats and across the mud to take their places in their respective boats to see dawn on the Ganges. Hah! Mind you, I did get one pink-tinged photo, so you can see this in the gallery, if I ever get any more photos uploaded. (I suspect that some enhancement by my ISP is now causing conflict with the machines I am using in hotels.)

Anyway, we were lucky to have a lovely young lad, Deepak, to ourselves. He rowed us along to see the main ghats. There is one for every Maharajah in India, plus some more besides, I suspect. Deepak spoke very softly, quite good English, but with that Indian accent I am finding so hard to pick up (all that practice at Lassan restaurant in Stewkley wasted!). Alan got in a good vibe, just gazing about and leaving me to do my earnest listening face and making what I hoped were the right noises. Of course the lad then focused his efforts on me and soon my ears were so stressed that I was making little moaning noises and rocking back and forwards when I should have been enjoying one of the most interesting sights in the world.

And don’t get me wrong, it was interesting. There are bathing ghats where men, women and children were splashing about happily and making noise, and where photos are permitted. Then, photos forbidden, there were deserted wedding ghats and, most sombre of all, the burial ghats. Here we saw the great piles of logs and the burning pyres that keep going day and night. We saw a body being carried down by a small group of people in preparation for burning.

If I understood Deepak correctly, a nearby incinerator building is used for poor people who cannot afford the pyre, but want their ashes scattered on the river. Then there are some bodies that are not burned – those of holy men, lepers, pregnant women, and babies are taken across the Ganges and (again, I think I caught this right) cast adrift on the river. Another slightly bizarre (to me) aspect of the burning ghats was the group of large, tenement-style buildings overlooking them, the purpose of which was to house elderly holy men who had come there to die. They believe that Varanasi is a very blessed place from which to leave this world. Certainly better than Agra station.

All along the banks were people washing their clothes (and even their teeth) in the polluted water. Much of the laundry looked disturbingly like hotel linen, which would explain its off-shite (sorry, this started as a genuine typo and seemed so apt I left it in) colour. We started looking carefully for any hint of the Craghoppers trousers and shirts that we had lodged at our hotel reception yesterday evening for laundering!

On a happier note, a whole boatload of Nepalese-looking monks, all standing up in their boat and chucking food to the seagulls, started taking photos of us and we took photos right back at them and we all laughed and smiled in the gentle rain. Lovely!

Moving on – literally. We were supposed to catch a train just after midnight tonight, which would get us into Gorakhpur at some unearthly time like 4am (if the train turned up on time, which is doubtful). After this we would have had to find our own way to the bus station to catch a bus onward to cross the border into Nepal.

Still heaving at the memory of the sights and smells of the last train, I was very happy when it became apparent that Indian travel agents, such as the one we met in Delhi, seem to work in tandem. No sooner had we been picked up from our boat trip than we were whisked off to the driver’s office ‘to plan our sightseeing trip for the day’.

As soon as we sat down in front of the guy behind the desk we knew we were going to be sold the next phase of India’s Grand Plan for the Maloneys. The preamble included hints at our age, the horrid hour to be in the station (tell us about it!), the possibility of delays, we shouldn’t have to experience this, and so on and so on. I nearly butted in to say, ‘OK, we’ll take it’ before he got to the word, ‘station’, but instead listened to his alternative plan. When we worked out the prices in English, it seemed to make perfect sense to book a driver to take us over the border to Nepal at Sonauli, to take a night in a hotel just over the border, then a bus to Pokhara the next day, and a hotel in Pokhara for our first night there. All being well this will be our base from which to undertake a bit of mild trekking in the Annapurna range.

So we have just had a lovely lunch at a place called Brownies in Varanasi (highly recommended – great cheeses, homemade breads including good old wheaten bread, continental style cooking, a perfect break from curries). I drank the first good coffee I’ve had since leaving home, and we are now back at our hotel waiting for the driver to pick us up to go back to the office for final paperwork, making use of their internet at the same time (we were to go straight from the restaurant but the electricity is off until 6pm), then we will have one more sleep in India and it’s ‘Nepal here we come’!

A note for Lyn and Fraser of Black Dog Farm (excellent B&B in Wiltshire) – on arrival back at the hotel this afternoon we popped into the bar to buy two bottles of mineral water (no, this is not a typo) and spotted Black Dog whisky. If we ever get our backlog of photos uploaded, you will see a couple that are just for you!

A note for our dear friend Anne in the Netherlands – you don’t see your blog comments coming up immediately as they have to wait for my next visit to the internet to upload them. I chose not to allow them to be uploaded automatically just in case some eejit (Irish colloquial for ‘idiot’) stumbles on the site and decides it would be fun to post something offensive. That’s my job. Unlikely, but I won’t give them that chance!

See photos

15^th November - Eventually we get on the train and thankfully our sleeper seats are in a prime position in mid-carriage. Should be in for a good night’s sleep. Not so. The top bunks are occupied by an Indian family, the mother above me and a young couple (yes, couple) in the bunk above Alan. During the six hours before they alighted from the train, that mother’s mobile phone must have rung about eight or ten times. This provoked loud conversations between her, the male relative, and the third party on the end of the phone. Plus she had some sort of screen saver on her phone that flashed and lit up the whole compartment when she wasn’t actually using the wretched thing.

It would have been more peaceful sleeping in a Barclays call centre. And the toilets back at the station were quite clean compared to the ones on the train. They are mostly of squatting type and not every one is a good aim or bothers to flush – eventually the water for flushing ran out and it descended into some sort of stinking nightmare.

Fifteen hours we spent on that train for a journey that should have taken ten hours. There were nice moments after the Vodafone family got off, however, when the train rocked us as we finally dozed, or gazed out the window at a landscape that is becoming greener and possibly a little bit more prosperous.

Met by driver at Varanasi station and checked into a hotel nearby. Off tomorrow for early morning boat trip on the great Ganges!

Still having problems uploading photos - will clear the backlog asap!

13^th November – It has stopped raining, but the sky is still very grey and we were actually wearing our fleeces when we set off from Ranthambhore to do the seven-hour drive to Agra. In the fields the farmers are out scattering fertiliser on their crops – mainly mustard grown for oil in this area. It is amazing to see how the people till the earth and plant and tend their crops by hand. Although tractors are used to transport people and materials from place to place, they are not used in the fields, certainly not in the parts of India that we have seen.

The rain has been a welcome relief to the many months of drought they have had in much of western and central India. Everywhere is noticeably greener, having lost its coating of dust for now. On the downside, the village streets are now ankle deep in mud and it was a bit sad to see the schoolchildren in their impeccably clean and neat uniforms picking their way through the dirt.

14^th November - Speaking of dirt, we had been warned that Agra is the dirtiest city in India. I honestly didn’t think it would be possible to notice the difference, but my goodness, it would make one of our landfill sites look like a country park. The rubbish is piled higher than anywhere else, the buildings are more decrepit, and the electricity wires are like an explosion in a spaghetti factory. Perhaps this explains why the electricity is only supplied in rota to different parts of the city. For the rest of the time, hotels etc have to manage with generators.

In stark contrast to the rest of the city, the wide road from the airport to the Taj Mahal, travelled by visiting foreign dignitaries, is clean and well-kept. Arrival at the TM is less than romantic. First our driver fought his way through the chaotic carpark, then gave us dire warnings about only going in the electric bus, not with camel drivers, cycle rickshaws or any other mode of transport.

We bought our tickets, were issued with the bottle of water and shoe covers that are the only things you are allowed to take into the TM besides a camera, and set off in our electric bus. After about 1km we were ditched out to walk the remaining few metres, entering the east gate of the TM site.

Being a grey day, the white marble of the TM itself was not as stunning as you may have seen in some photos. But what some of the PR photos miss is the wonderful buildings and gateways that surround the mausoleum itself – one of these is a Muslim temple that has never been used because it does not face due east. Sack the architect!

Once inside the imposing four gates that allow access to the TM we were mercifully free from touts – except that one guy saw me taking a photo of Alan and offered to take one of us together. Having checked we were happy with the photo, he then put his hand out. How sad that he did this when we, and others, were able to take photos for each other and not expect anything in return. One of the lasting memories of this country will be that there are no random acts of kindness, no good deeds, only debts to be repaid.

We joined a very long, snaking queue to get into the mausoleum itself and were impressed at the lane discipline that was maintained! The inside would be a very moving sight if it were not for the constant babble of loud voices and occasional shouts from people testing the acoustics of the wonderful dome. I thought I would be very moved that a man built this for his dead wife, and that his son made sure they were both reunited after death. Sadly the atmosphere did not permit.

But we did make some new best friends in the form of around 40 schoolchildren. We were sitting in a quiet spot we had managed to find in one of the TM’s outer chambers when suddenly we were set upon by a horde of little smiley faces. What ensued was a marathon photo call with all sorts of people taking photos, getting in shot, or just spectating. They were so lovely and wanted nothing except their photos taken. In fact, I took so many photos and did so many previews that I actually found myself in the situation I said to Alan I was dreading before we even left UK – that I would find myself at the Taj Mahal with two flat camera batteries (all related to the lack of electricity in Agra).

Balram picked us up once more in the carpark and we set off to do a duty visit to one of his boss’s many shops, a marble inlaying business in Agra. We did this as a favour to Balram, because he gets stamps in a book for every one of the shops he manages to get us into. This helps make his job more secure. He was in cahoots with us when we said we had no interest in the stuff, but we agreed to stay just long enough (15 minutes) for him to get his stamp.

So we sat through the demo of poor guys working on cutting amazingly small pieces of semi-precious stone to set in white marble using ancient implements, then sat through the talk on table tops, before which Alan said very clearly to the salesman we weren’t going to buy anything. But these people just don’t understand ‘no’. When we had had enough and the 15 minutes to secure Balram’s stamp were up, Alan stood up and said that we were leaving.

We tried to go by the nearest exit, but matey boy said, no, exit is this way, and took us into the usual back room where they cut their losses by selling smaller, cheaper items to tourists who feel guilty about not propping up the Indian economy. He had not budgeted for Alan, who said, no I’ve already told you we are leaving and with that, opened the door to the narrow corridor where the next lot of tourists were sitting having the demo on cutting. It was a moment of high comedy as the boyo chased us, clearly unable to say too much in front of this new batch of potential customers and there were we going ‘scuse me, sorry, sorry... Excellent, loved it. Go Alan!

After a long-as-possible lunch in Only, Balram took us to the station at Agra to catch our 9:15pm train to Varanasi. It was a little bit sad saying ‘bye to our mentor, but in one way we are glad to be getting on with things ourselves now. We were much too early, arriving before 5pm, but Balram had a long drive back to Delhi and we wanted to let him go.

Well, I am not a shrinking violet, but the past 24 hours have been a bit much even for me. We dug ourselves in in the second class waiting room, gradually elevating ourselves to seats further from the stinking toilets as other people left to catch their trains. The recorded announcements were so loud that they gave me actual pains in my ears. And they were repeated three times each in Hindi and English for every single arrival, departure and delay that happened. I said to Alan if I heard the phrase that sounded like ‘pandypatty passengers’ one more time I’d go and find someone to strangle.

Sadly the announcements became a big part of our evening. We spent over six hours waiting for our delayed and delayed and delayed train. All this time we are being stared at (Gareth, you know what this is like – it gets a bit wearing after a while), my belly chooses this prime time to go Code Delhi, the toilets are more foul than the foulest thing you can imagine (but my first action on each visit is to roll my trouser legs up), a mouse does a circuit of the walls and ends up amongst our luggage (a big kick from me against the side of my bag sends it hopping and skipping out the door), then the mouse sends reinforcements in the form of a rat, that runs from behind a food stand just outside the waiting room and returns to its nest under the wash basins in the foul washroom...

Agra photos

11^th November – Last night in Jaipur, after uploading the blog, we went to a big hotel called the Om Tower, as recommended in the Rough Guide. It is indeed a tower of about 15 stories. Had a drink in Amigos bar on the 9^th floor, then topped it off with a lovely meal in the revolving restaurant on the 14^th floor. It was sad to see this place almost deserted, as are many of the restaurants we go to. Apparently tourism in India has been hit hard by the credit crunch.

Anyway, we had a wonderful meal – for me the best thali I have had so far, with around nine little dishes plus bread. The staff were cheerful and attentive and the views over the city were good. It’s funny how the car lights viewed from above go in snaking, intertwining lines, not like the disciplined parallel lines of red and silver we see on our roads at night in the UK.

12^th November – Awoke to cloudy skies and noticeably lower temperatures. Balram tells us there has been snow in the north of India and later we hear about the cyclone that has hit the west coast. Our day stayed dry, but the grey clouds remained with us all the way to Ranthambhore, where there is a renowned national park with tigers and black bears.

We arrived in Ranthambhore with just enough time to check into our room and have a quick lunch before setting off on the evening safari (there are two a day). Our transport was a small, very Spartan green bus with open sides, presumably to allow the tigers easier access. Our particular chariot was already under the occupation of an Indian family that was very noisily consuming a takeaway thali. Taking our seat-in-curry-sauce (evidence of previous takeaways) we set off around several other hotels to complete our complement of tiger hunters, all the way shedding the paper plates and dishes that had contained the thali.

Our hotel turned out to be only a few kilometres from the national park and, at the main entrance, we joined a mini flotilla of twenty-seater biscuit tins, the contents of which were all equally intent on bagging some game. Sounding horns loudly in case we should gain an unfair advantage over the tigers, and discharging smoke and litter, we lurched up the road and into some of the most beautiful landscape we have seen so far, with towering hills, mini lakes, and trees all around.

Soon we came to a chaotic area (none of the more specific nouns I know would describe it) in front of a narrow gate set in a high wall where all the guides leapt from their vehicles and went to check in with the man in charge of checking such things. In a way that seems to typify this country and its people, the milling mass of man and machine somehow sorted itself out as soon as we passed through that gate and soon we were alone, the other vehicles having disappeared in different directions. No more sounding of horns, just a wonderful (although bumpy) ride through some beautiful scenery with lots of deer – very large Sambars, small spotted deer, and elegant little creatures closely related to the Thompson’s gazelle that are also the emblem of Rajasthan.

The Sambars seem to like to spend most of their time up to their armpits in the lakes, grazing from the grasses and weeds. Apparently they are quite safe from the crocodiles at present, as it is not the smiley creatures’ eating season (don’t quote me on this, haven’t checked it out on Google!). We did see some crocodiles, lots of peacocks and peahens, egrets, and many unidentified small birds.

Amongst the tangled greenery was evidence of days gone by – crumbling ruins of the Maharajah’s summer palace and of hunting lodges added to the romantic atmosphere of the place. On a long ridgeline, again a magnificent fort. And lakes everywhere – quite a contrast to the miles and miles of arid land we passed by earlier in our travels.

But no tigers or black bears. So looking forward to a hot shower after bumping around, plus it got quite cool after the sun went down. Had to settle for a cold shower, but at least the noises I made whilst doing so kept Alan amused!

12^th November – Not being the sort to give up easily, we had booked up for the morning safari. When we received our early morning knock on the door at 5:30, it was raining and cold. The typhoon is making its presence felt, but only in a gentle, British Autumn sort of way. We armed ourselves with the towels from our bathroom and Alan decided to play the hero and sit near the open window. Those towels came in very useful, believe me!

Once again we had no luck in spotting big game, but the crocs, deer and birds did their best to make our trip worthwhile. Despite the rain, we enjoyed the outing. And when we got back to the hotel and asked at reception about hot water, we were told that the shower has to run for about five minutes before it gets hot. We tested, and proved, the theory and celebrated with a cup of masala chai made in our Friend Forever kettle teapot.

It’s still raining so a good lunch with some afternoon reading and dozing seems in order.

Photos

9^th November – Last night we treated ourselves to an Italian meal down the road at a wonderful little restaurant set in several garden ‘rooms’. All the food was vegetarian, so I had lasagne and Alan had a Four Seasons pizza (yup, bit of artistic licence going on with the menu here!). Together with the salad I ordered, this was one of the best meals I have ever had. Perhaps because it was a break from the Indian food we have been eating regularly.

Anne, to answer your recent blog question regarding the food, we are both enjoying it much more than we thought we would. Back home, I would be more of the Indian food freak than Alan, who can just about tolerate going to our local restaurant about once a month. Here, we are just getting on with it and enjoying it. This has given us some tummy problems, but not enough to keep us bound to the bathroom. The situation seems to be getting better already

Something I forgot to mention about Pushkar. Due to its religious significance, no alcohol or drugs are allowed inside the town boundaries. But it is possible to buy ‘special lassi’, which is a yoghurt drink laced with a drug called bangh. Just another of the conundrums posed by this exasperating country. In the privacy of our room, Alan and I toasted the health of the authorities in the only way Mr Jamison knows how – with a little drop of water added!

When we woke up this morning, Alan was displaying all the signs of having had a tennis ball implanted in his elbow while he slept, but we didn’t do so much toasting last night that he would have missed this, had it happened. He said he must have bumped the offending joint, I reckoned he had been bitten by a cobra. Somewhere in between lay the truth and in the end we agreed it must have been a fairly senior level insect that had bitten him. I am pleased to report that the application of Ibugel and an ice pack this evening have resulted in a significant reduction in size of the problem and Alan is feeling no ill effects. Which is probably more than you can say for the poor insect.

Jaipur, next stop on our tour of Rajasthan, is a very big and busy town. Once again we are so glad that we are letting Balram take the strain. Today we went with him to a carpet and fabric shop, this time with our collusion, to buy me a couple of skirts as planned before we left home. Adored the carpets, especially the one that cost nearly £3,000. But once again, it didn’t fly, so we didn’t buy.

I did, however, choose fabric for two skirts, which are being made up even as I write this back at our hotel room. They should be delivered any moment now...in fact, they just have been!

Alan then really spoiled me by treating me to an Ayurvedic massage for my stiff lower back. This worked a treat, but was not without a large element of comedy. You see, ‘Ayurvedic’ means ‘oil slick’. Or if it doesn’t, it ought to. The treatment bed was made of plastic with a moat around the edges and a little wall around that. The reason for this soon became clear and, as the woman doused me in oil, I looked around nervously for the matches. Later in the plot, when I was thoroughly coated, any directional pressure on my body sent me scooting in that direction, then back with the return movement. So not only did my back feel better, I ended up with a fine polish to my front. End result – feels wonderful!

10^th November – Just when you think you have had enough of forts and palaces and havelis, along comes the Amber Fort, proper name Nahargarh or Tiger Fort. It occupies the summits of several hills, with all the buildings enclosed within a mini Great Wall of China. This, in my opinion, is the most majestic location and architecture of any of the forts we have seen, although the fort at Jodhpur is still number one for interior decoration and exhibits.

This was the first time we have seen a multitude of elephants (we’d seen a few singletons before) and they were plying up and down the hill to the main fort carrying tourists. Once again we ran the gauntlet of hawkers and beggars. Even though I say so myself, I was in fine form today, calling one chap several unsavoury names and even out-striding a crippled beggar to get away from his pleading. I cannot solve all of India’s problems and we are advised not to give to those who are not doing anything to earn their ‘baksheesh’.

Next we went to the Observatory inside the ‘pink city’, which is a mainly pink-painted, walled, inner section of Jaipur. This had been built to replace the fort when water supplies up in the hills became too scarce.

Then to the City Palace, which is still used by the current Maharajah and his family as a main residence. Apart from one or two of the exhibits, we found the building itself very disappointing compared with what we have seen so far.

Now we have divested ourselves of the good council and services of Balram (practice for later!) and are sitting in the rooftop restaurant of the one place we have found so far that provides wireless internet. If this was posted on 10th November, then it worked!

Photos of Jaipur – sorry, went a bit mad with these today, will try to be more selective in future!

Tomorrow we become tiger hunters. Laters!

Hello all you dear peeps back home. It is so lovely to hear from you all, including now our friends at the golf club - glad to hear you are upholding traditions, Gail, I will miss our little annual letting down of hair! And even a squeaky clean comment from Heidi - well done, girl!

Sometimes it will be a bit of a one-way street with you folks being kind enough to send us your news and views and us appearing to ignore them. I promise you nothing could be further from the truth. We usually sit reading them together and they put a big smile on our faces. It's just that the internet connections here are a bit tenuous and sometimes I am rushing to do the necessaries before the next power cut or whatever whatever.

So keep them coming, feel free to be rude if you wish about my commentary on our travels.I'm no Alan Whicker! I'm about to upload the latest blog, then report back to the rooftop restaurant where I left Alan reading his book - the wireless internet that was supposed to work on the roof didn't, so I am now separated from my beloved by three floors and my need to stay in touch!

Take care all of you.

Bev