Udaipur and The Holli Fetival – 1 day

22nd March

… Holi is in full swing. We are hiding in the sanctuary of our hotel. Outside is mayhem. We have missed most of the morning as we have been asleep since we arrived on the night-train from Delhi. Outside the wooden, barnesque, door of our hotel we can hear squeals of laughter, screams of shock, and the wet splats of paint-bombs. Shadows from gangs of marauding imps play under the doorway. I can’t help but imagine the film The Children of The Corn everytime I hear the scamper of impish feet. I am really beginning to get scared…

We got into Udaipur at 6:30am. We shared a rickshaw to a hotel with a South African Lady. She recommended her hotel as a cheap option and we took her up on the offer. Despite our best intentions we instantly fell into slumber and did not awake until past midday. We grabbed a late breakfast and then headed out in the hot spring day and into the chaos of the festival of colours.

Holi is known as the festival of light or festival of colours. It occurs around the 22-23 March every year and marks the end of winter and beginning of spring. The festivals usually run over two days. The eve of Holi is when the demoness, Holika, sister of Hiranyakashipu, is burned on bonfires around the country. The next day is known as Dhulhendi. This is when people spend all day throwing coloured water at each other. There is actually a good medical reason behind all of this malarkey. Most of the dyes and pigments traditionally contain herbs and poultices that are used to stave off seasonal colds and flu that occur this time of year. All the symbolism behind the festival is indicative of the re-birth of hope, warmth, life, and all things associated with the coming of spring. Oh.. and it’s pretty good fun!!

We barely made it fifty metres before being swamped by a gang of multi-coloured kids who covered us in paint. I had heard stories about Holi that suggested people being treated roughly and women being groped. Udaipur dispelled all these myths. The spirit of the day was playful and fun. We were encouraged to cover our assailants in paint as much as they did us. It was great fun and in hindsight we should have carried on much further into town. Instead we got dragged into a Hotel bar at some point and ended up spending much of the rest of the day chatting to various people. In particular we met an Indian girl and her Husband, both living in England. She was actually a Kid’s TV presenter on an animal show in the UK. I forget the name of it. Her husband was a Doctor. We got very, very, drunk and had a hilarious afternoon. I had so much paint on me the couple thought I was naturally ginger. We then headed back home and attempted to de-Holify ourselves. There was a lot of paint to wash off. Then we staggered out and had a local meal overlooking the beautiful floating palaces in the lake.

Delhi – Udaipur via Sleeper Train, 1 night

21^st – 22^nd March.

…Tock

We had to seriously revise our plans today. Merryl had a conference to attend in Chicago the next month so we needed to obtain, at least for M, a multiple-entry visa for Paksitan. This did not appear to be possible. So instead of following the Silk Road: India - Pakistan – China - Tibet – Nepal, we decided to change our itinerary: the new Route was to be India – Nepal – India - Pakistan – China. This would save a great deal of hassle trying to to obtain our Paksitani= visa here in New Delhi… and time was marching on.

We then dumped out bags in long-term storage, then headed for New Delhi Train Station to grab a sleeper-train to Udaipur. Tomorrow was the festival of Holli, of colour and light, of the coming of spring and of the spirit of mischief As we walked to the train station with our backpacks we were pelted with water-bombs from nameless assailants hiding in doorways and upstairs windows. We passed an English guy trying to get back to his hotel, soaking wet. He was jumping from shadow to shadow trying to avoid stepping out into the sunlight. A prelude to Holli.

The train was leaving at 8:30pm. We got to the station and grabbed a light snack. I ordered a spring-roll which was then micro-waved to a steaming pulp of grease in front of my eyes. I left it where it bubbled and drank a tea instead. We then headed onto the station and located our cabins. Sleeper trains in India are great fun – when you have the time to relax on them – to be on. There is a vast and complex rail network connection the whole country. Train journeys can take anwhere from six hours to three days. To accommodate travellers each carriage (and on sleeper trains there are dozens) is comprised of a series of booths. Each booth has an lower, middle, and upper berth. In the day the lower and middle berths are used as normal seats. At night they fold up and down and become beds of sorts. Although you get allocated tickets for your birth the chances are when you arrive you will find at least 8 people squashed into your seat. It’s all good fun. As it happens, there was an entire family in our seats. Instead of kicking them out we left them where they were and found seats next door. We sat reading until we were knackered and then swiped someone elses berths at the top of the next compartment. It meant we had to sleep under the fans which were blowing 2 inches from our faces. It was freezing. Around 2am the family in our seats got off so we claimed our seats – indeed the entire compartment – for ourselves. We dozed on and off for the next couple of hours then finally, motivated by hunger, I jumped off at a station and grabbed some bhajis and rice. Then we sat and watched the sun come up as we trundled toward the station of Udaipur.

Delhi - 3 days.

19^th March

… Tock

Not to be found idling. We hopped out of bed early and had breakfast in the roof-top café of the hotel. There were plenty of back-packers hanging out upstairs. We got chatting to an English guy who had been travelling around India for nearly six months. We all of us were discussing Tibet. Unfortunately recent events had transpired that motivated the Chinese government to close the borders to the Tibetan plateau. Basically the eyes of the world had turned to watch the preparations for the up and coming Olympic Games in Beijing. Understandably, given they had the attention of the World’s media the Tibetans decided to use the opportunity to demonstrate against the Chinese occupation. Violence ensued. The media was suppressed in Lhasa. Nobody was going anywhere. I saluted the Tibetan people and wished them all the best. Unfortunately it meant we had to alter our plans somewhat.

Nonetheless we still had our visas for our next country of call to visit: Pakistan. We headed off in a rickshaw to the Pakistani Embassy to try and arrange our visas.

This turned out to be a little bit of a pain. We needed to obtain a letter of introduction from the British Embassy and we needed to surrender our passports for three days. Plus I was feeling very ill. We got the documents and headed back to the hotel and spent the rest of the day chilling.

20^th March.

… Tick(ish)

We headed to the British Embassy early and obtained the Letter of Intr
oduction for a mere twenty English pinds. Ouch! We then headed over to the Pakistani

Embassy to find them closed. We’d have to come back after the week-end. Next stop was to Delhi New Train Station to book ourselves on a train to Udaipur, in Rajasthan

We spent the rest of the day in bed. We had food ordered to our room for breakfast and lunch, we watched crap films on Star Movies – India’s

western film channel – and caught up on the news

on BBC World, and drank beer. That’s about it. It was a good day and the rest was sorely needed. We got up late in the evening and headed out for dinner on a rooftop restaurant close to our hotel.

Ajanta – Delhi 1 day.

March 18th

Tick…

We checked out of our hotel early and jumped in the taxi, bags included. We drove through the coolness of the morning to Ajanta. By 10am we arrived. The heat was already stifling.

… We are driving through a small town just south of the site of the Ajanta caves. M is asleep in my lap. I am taking in the scenery. The people in the town are busy about their business. It looks like market day today. I am watching a group of young kids interacting and I am remembering the words of my friend, Lynne, telling me if I wanted to see people behaving like animals watch a bunch of teenagers. She is so right. Their hormones are controlling them completely. The guys are preening, posing and strutting around. The girls are simpering, encouraging, categorising, selecting and dismissing. It often strikes me that we have no idea of what we are doing most of the time. We are slaves to our bodies needs, our emotions, our greed, our lust. What makes us think we can aspire to be more? Is it essentially human to constantly fail in this way? Or is failure actually part of the design…

Ajanta, from first impressions, seemed to be much more extensive and evocative than the caves of Ellora. We left our cab and were immediately funnelled through a vanguard of shops and tourist tack. After which we boarded a local bus to take us to the site itself. God it was hot. We climbed up a steep set of steps and walked into the valley of Ajanta. The caves were dotted around on one side of the valley each one carved from the solid rock. Below on the valley floor a dry water-course ran. There was no water to be seen. At least each cave was inside and cool.

The caves numbered around 34. They were not, as Ellora had been, grouped in chronological order. Ok, some were, however others were updated from older temples and some were later additions; juxtaposed with much earlier work. They were stunning. More so than Ellora as many of the original paintings were still in situ, showing great stories of journeys to mythical lands in the north – in now modern Tibet - and even more fantastical lands to the south – modern day Sri Lanka – filled with strange beasts, demons, and succubi. Outside of the caves, Langurs roamed, begging for food scraps, stealing tourists items and generally being true to the nature of mischevious monkeys.

We finished up the tour around 1pm, very hot and drained. We opted to skip lunch until we got to the airport at Aurangabad where we were to fly to Delhi. Time we were moving. Time was getting impatient.

… We are sitting in the departure lounge in Aurangabad. The flight is delayed. The cafeteria is abysmal. We have had a cup of tea and something mixed between a sandwich and a washing-up sponge with vegetables in it. It took them twenty minutes to find the security attendant to check our bags through the X-ray macbine. We are going to be here for some time. I am flicking through a local newspaper published in English. I come across an article that piques my interest:

‘29 injured in bus crash.

Yesterday 29 people, including a driver, were injured in a bus accident between Aurangabad and Ellora. The accident occurred when the brakes on the bus failed. The driver managed to swerve at the last moment avoiding a head-on crash with an oncoming vehicle. Nobody was seriously hurt although many people suffered whiplash.’

And there was me thinking they need to cut down on playing chicken on public transport…

We got to Delhi late in the evening. We jumped in a taxi to the back-packing area, Parharganj. We had rang and booked a room in a mid-range hotel. The taxi driver dumped us someway off though. As we were walking around trying to find it we came across the Hotel Vivek. We enquired as to available rooms and found that for six quid each we could stay in an A/C room with an en-suite bathroom, double-bed, and plasma TV. Well… sometimes even backpackers need a break.

The caves of Ellora.

March 17^th

Tock…

The heat was getting more and more unbearable every passing day. It was draining us. On top of this neither of us felt too good on a daily basis. But we had things to do We had decided to visit the world heritage sites of Ellora and Ajanta. These sites were within a half a day of each other. They both were said to contain fantastically well preserved temples encompassing temples dedicated to Hinduism, Buddhism, and Janism. We decided to split the visits into two days. First up was Ellora. We took a local bus from the city public bus terminal. This turned out to be a great source of hilarity to the local people on it as I guess most Europeans don’t use public transport. The bus journey was pretty uneventful apart from the game of chicken our driver decided to play with another bus, coming from the opposite direction, as we both headed under a huge, ancient, gate. Luckily we won. The other bus smashed into the side of the gate shattering most of the windows and completely destroying the front one. I was pretty glad, not to mention surprised, when we reached Ellora alive.

The caves themselves were magnificent. They were divided into sections in terms of religious orientation, then age. Firstly was the ancient, and very simple Buddhist caves and monastries. These were nothing more than hacked out rooms with very basic stupas and inscriptions. Then came the much more elaborate Hindu caves. Some of these were vast underground areas with huge pillars, adorned with stone guardians and filled with carvings of Krishna, Kali, Ganesh, Shiva, and Vishnu. Inside many of these cavernous temples were enclaves full of bats. Dozens of them were perched in the cool stone corridors behind the altars. M is an absolute bat fanatic and we spent a good hour photographing them.

At the top of the site were the Jainist caves. These were by far the most ornate and visually impressive of the site. Many of the original art work still remained and the stupas were situated in the courtyards with prayer wheels still in place, enabling the worshipper to chant the immortal mantra Ohm Mani Padme Hume as they circumambulated clockwise around them. Upstairs in the cool stone rooms, the enigmatic and eternal icon of the Bodshvittas sat, resplendent in enlightenment.

The highlight of the day, however, was the Kailasanatha Temple. It was close to the entrance where puzzles of Langurs frolicked, acting the fools for tourists, leaping from the trees and posing for the cameras.

The temple had been completely carved out of the side of the bedrock in the valley wall. It was an amazing feat of engineering and not unlike the Jordan Nabatean city of Petra. Two giant stone bulls guard the entrance. Inside, there is a huge shrine to Lord Shiva, in dancing form. The carvings here are influenced by several different eras and was covered with carvings of Kali and Ganesh on the lower floors. On the upper floors was a temple dedicated to Vishnu and the icons of the God adorned every pillar. The place was a marvel. There was also a huge bee hive that, for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why but, I had a burning desire to chuck stones at. There was also a entourage of young guys who all wanted to have their picture taken with Merryl on their mobile phones. I imagine Merryl is now on dozens of mobile phones in some Indian town as the local boys ‘English girlfriend’. This turned out to be quite common practice in India.

We decided, funnily enough, to take alternate transport back to Aurangabad. We opted for a shared jeep as it was the same price. The jeep was designed to take about 12 people. 3 in the front seat including the driver. 3 in the back seat, and another 6 in the back seat. At the point we got in there were 4 people on each bench in the front, and 8 people in the back. Merryl and I were squashed in the front back seat, with two other people. There was a guy hanging off the front running board on the left of the vehicle. They put another 8 people in the back. I could not believe what I was seeing. Every time I looked behind me all I could see was a wall of hands and eyes. Halfway along the road back the driver pulled over. I thought people were going to get off, then I realised there was a family sitting on the side of the road. 7 of them, a mother and her children. I kept thinking no. No-no-no-no-no. This isn’t possible. I heard the door open at the back. Lots of shuffling and weight displacement went on. The door shut and we drove off. My mind was going around with the same thought - over 30 people are in this jeep.. 30 people… in this jeep… 30 people.. I thought it best to ignore it.

We got back to town feeling a little sore . We immediately ordered a taxi for the next morning to take us to Ajanta then to the airport. It seemed the sanest option. Then it was back the hotel as we were exhausted. It wasn’t until dinner I realised it was St Patrick’s day. I quickly nipped out to by some wine to celebrate. Happy St Patrick’s day!! We were in bed by 10pm.

Mumbai to Aurangubad – 1 day

March 16th

Tick…

We got up the next day, knackered, but we had to get moving. We checked out and dropped our bags in reception and went out to grab a slice of Mumbai culture in the 4 hours we had remaining. We took the LP walking tour up to the Admiralty Arch along the waterfront. We planned to take a boat over to Elephantine Island but it was just too hot. We followed the tour for about another half an hour and then abandoned it on the grounds it was complete shite. Instead we took refuge in the cool and tranquil shade of the Prince Charles Museum. It had a great section of Buddhist and Vedish icons in Indian culture. It also had an exhibition upstairs on Tibet and Nepal. We were both very excited by this as we were planning to visit both countries after Pakistan. We also explored the natural history section which had some interesting flora and fauna. Then it was time to rock on.

We headed back to the hotel, picked up our rucksacks, bumped in to the Polish couple and gave them our map of goa. We grabbed a taxi and headed to the domestic flight terminal to fly to Aurangabad. Our flight was delayed. My view of Indian domestic flights was beginning to get a little tainted.

We ended up sitting around for the afternoon until we finally were allowed to board our flight. It was a twin propeller aircraft, a nice machine and good fun to fly in. We were stuck on the flight for another hour until take off. We ended up in Aurangabad nearly three hours late. We got to the hotel and had a late meal and a nargile and then fell into bed, knackered.

Bollywood

March 15^th

Tock…

“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you…” I have always been mesmorised by the immortal words in that song. Sunbeams certainly found us that morning. It was going to be a beautiful day. As for sweet dreams, well we both slept surprisingly well. We headed out to find McDonalds – of all places – where the Bollywood press-ganger had told us to meet him. We found the place eventually after a couple of phone-calls. We were ushered on to a bus full of back-packers and left waiting for about 30 mins until everyone had arrived. Everyone on the bus had pretty much the same story as us. They were in Mumbai and travelling India and had been recruited from one of the many backpacker hotels in the area. There were people from all over the world – a Polish couple from Krakow; three English voluntary workers; A French backpacker from Toulouse; two east European girls; a German family, father, mother, and sixteen year old daughter; a guy from Argentina; A huge French-looking guy who spoke Urdu. The list was extensive. So was the journey. When the bus finally got moving it took over 90 mins to cross Mumbai to the film studios located north of the city. Located near Parleville of all places.

The film studio was, from my limited experience, the same as other studios I have been to in my life. Huge buildings akin to warehouses are set along-side each other in a grid-fashion. Buildings that are designed to be shells, inside of which sets can be created and tailored to the needs of each movie, and then torn down a day later. And Bollywood does produce so many movies. The annual turn-out of films from Mumbai, per year, is approx 800. That is roughly equivalent to 14 movies a week. Hollywod makes a meagre 200 films per annum.

We were dropped off by the side of studio 12. A huge, somewhat desolate-looking building; its desolation negated by the congregation of people, trailers, vehicles, and props outside of it. We were immediately split into groups of males and females and sent off to our respective trailers for outfitting.

… The trailer is packed with people, all male, all looking slightly awkward and unnerved. Even though it is before 10am it is already unbelievably hot outside. There isn’t a cloud in the sky. By midday it is going to be scorching. Despite the cramped conditions we are all thankful for the air-conditioning in the trailer. The trailer is comprised of a sofa on one side and a huge mirror on the other. Complete with the usual light-bulbs adorning the outside. It looks as though it is designed for one person. There are around nine of us in here. The outfitter is searching through a wardrobe of some seriously bad clothes. He singles out each of us in turn. He then goes through the clothes one by one. The polish guy gets a blue PVC body-warmer. The Argentinean guy gets a leather jacket. The French guy gets a dodgy T-Shirt and an even dodgier pair of slip-ons. The German dad gets a blue-cycling top that doesn’t do his waist any favours. The English voluntary worker gets a Red PVC body-warmer. Despite the language barriers, we manage to insult each other’s regalia with aplomb. Now it is my turn. Pin-striped trousers and a leather waist-coat. With tassles. I squeeze into the trousers amid hoots and roars of laughter. I flatly refuse to wear the shoes on grounds of human decency. I do hope Merryl has been evenly matched…

We were all suitably outfitted in the required outfits for ‘European partygoers’. I don’t know when the last time the outfitter had checked what western a la mode was, but I suspect it may have been 1981. The cast of Fame would have a cringed at these outfits. And most of them were still serving sentences for crimes against fashion. I was so embarrassed I didn’t want to leave the trailer, however I needn’t have been. The girls’ attire was even more atrocious than ours. Merryl was repose in a beautiful fish-scale sequined number. The other girls outfits ranged from a union-jack sequined dress to cocktail skirts and boa-feathered scarves. I was half-expecting the Bride of Wilderstein to pop around the corner, arm-in-arm with Dale Winton in matching underwear, and the scene would have would have been set.

The next 10 hours were spent doing nothing. The scene that was being filmed was a night-club dancing shot. We were required at some point in the day to pop in and sit, drinking and dancing and looking cool. Looking cool… my God had they not seen what we were wearing?

It was an interesting day spent sitting around doing absolutely nothing in a clown’s outfit. We spent a great deal of it chatting to the other extras, sitting in the air-conditioned trailer where it was at least cool, if not a little cramped. We wondered around the film sets and got to look in at a number of sets being created. The set engineers were amazing and some of the props they were creating were phenomenal. We ambled up the the police training centre to the shop about 4 times. We were given tea and biscuits for breakfast, and Byriani for lunch. Merryl and I managed to get a trailer to ourselves for a short while and were fooling around and getting pretty frisky when the rest of the extras walked in on us. Which was nice. We all ended up watching a Bollywood movie together. I do quite like the concept of a Indian film. They embrace fully the human archetypes of good, evil, heroes and villains, swooning heroines, and brave young swashbuckling heroes. They tap in to the human psyche and play on your emotions like a fiddle. The dancing, however, needs work. I think the idea is that it replaces the sexual expression in a movie. Sexual frustration expressed through dance is, for the viewer, merely frustrating.

Around mid-afternoon I struck up a game of catch with some local kids outside of the film studio. They started off with fruit but then ran off and came back with a ball. They tried to get me to play cricket but I couldn’t be arsed. Finally they chucked the ball under the trailer. When I went to retrieve it I discovered where the toilets were depositing their sewage. The game ended very soon afterwards. Just after this point I was approached by two guys who wanted to star me in a speaking part in an advert. All expenses paid. It just involved me going to Goa for a week. I explained to them I was on a tight time-frame and had just come from Goa and was not going back. This did not deter them. They got quite moody when I put my foot down. The oddest thing though, was that everyone in the know here had dyed their hair orange. It seemed to be the rage among the Bollywood elite. Now I don’t know if you can picture it, but an Indian person with bright ginger hair… need I say more?

Afternoon gave way to early evening. Merryl chatted to the three English volunteers, whilst I sat with the French guy and watched the sun set behind the cast and crew on the set. Dancers in hot pants with very long legs and sequined tops rushed about. A group of men went passed carrying a huge golden bird cage. I realised it had been a very long time since I had sat around doing absolutely nothing for a whole day. I also realised it was a great feeling. In the twilight evening, I sat, warm and more content than I could ever remember being.

The star of the film came out amidst a throng of fans, signed a few autographs, and then headed off in his limo. I dryly noted we probably would not be doing any filming that day after all. This was soon confirmed by our scout. The news was received with mixed blessings. Most people by this point – approx 7pm – wanted to go home. The young girl with her parents was absolutely gutted as she had her hopes pinned on starring in a movie. The rest of us just wanted to get out of the outfits we had endured for the day. Dinner was being served for everyone on the set, so we got changed into our old clothes and grabbed a bit before heading home. Then Merryl and I walked around the set one last time and sat and took in the ambience for a while before heading back to meet the others. As we got back we found everyone teeming with excitement. We were filming after all.

… Merryl, the Polish girl, and I are sitting with our red and blue sparkling glasses on a table at the side of the dance-floor. We have been moved three times already. Behind us the waiter has just dropped a tray full of swizzy, multicoloured glasses. This nearly incurred the wrath of the director, however, in the scheme of things, he has other things to worry about. We are inside the studio. The dance set is palatial to say the very least. Around 200 hundred dancers, chorus girls, hip and funky Mumbians, barflys, waiters, and cage-dancers are littered around the place. On the dance-floor there are dozens of beautiful girls wearing very little and pumped up young guys with perfectly waxed hair. Bodies are writhing everywhere. The choreographer is trying to get the shot in synch. She has run it through about 50 times since we have been there. The place appears to be complete agony. The stars aren’t even on the set yet. Their dance doubles are standing in for them. There is a camera fixed on a moving platform that is panning out across the whole set as it descends down to focus on the golden cage I saw earlier. The leading actor and actress finally come out. The guy keeps on getting his hair watered and checking it in a mirror between every take. We three are rolling our eyes and are in stitches. This is just too much. The male choreographer notices Merryl and I and tries to get us down on the dance floor. We both ignore him. The rest of the extras are dotted around the place. I spot the young German girl looking like she is having the time of her life. Bollywood Dreams…

We finally got out around 9pm. Our scout immediately told us we would need to film again that night. We all made an immediate executive decision to quit the film industry. We refused. He relented. We got on the bus and went back to our hotel. It had been a hilarious and wonderful day. Not one I would like to repeat though. I think our budding film careers were most definitely over.

Goa – Mumbai. 2 days.

Tick…

March 14th

Ok. First stop Mumbai. We got up early checked out and had a last breakfast in our local café. They were such a nice bunch. As a leaving present they served Merryl her fruit salad with rat-faeces in. I would never have known as I am not an expert in rodent poo. Merryl on the other-hand is doing her PhD in the study of epidemiology in water voles. She complained. They were so kind they removed the cost of her food from our bill.

We took a taxi to Anjuna airport and checked in. The flight was delayed. We had the illusion of time to kill. Airports are one of the strangest and most fascinating places for me. The whole concept of being at an airport is transience. No-one belongs in an airport. Every person here is passing through, or working to effect the passing through of another person. Major airports are as busy and as vivid as a city. Sometimes they are even busier, so many people, so much activity, twenty-four hours a day, with shops, bars, hotels, restaurants, fountains, chapels, mosques. They have every convenience, amenity, and comfort available, yet everything in an airport serves as a sole-function to enable you to leave. You would never just pop down to an airport to hang out for an evening, or to do some shopping, despite the fact that everything you need is available to you in one location. Alan de Bottain’s Art of Travel explores, in elegant and eclectic detail, the exquisite ennui of the human experience of travelling and the places that facilitate it. Planes, trains, and automobiles are oft considered the anathema of the backpacker the world over, however I don’t believe this is true. They are all part of the tao of travelling. There is nothing more focusing than spending 12 hours on a cramped bus, 8 hours waiting for a delayed plane. 10 hours on a train with people climbing through the windows and sitting on your lap. It forces you to live completely in the present, hones your mental acuity to accept the discomfort of life, and compels you to interact with everyone around you – whether you like it or not: Enlightment in a departure lounge.

We flew into Mumbai late in the afternoon. The airport was a teeming mass of opportunists. We were – to them – large bundles of rupees fluttering in the warm breeze. The average wage of a denizen of Mumbai is around 145$ US per month. The population of Mumbai is over 20 million and the density of the populus is 22,000 people per square kilometre. Here you begin to glimpse the dark underbelly of this vast country. India has 1 billion souls dwelling within her bosom. The number is growing exponentially. In ten years it is projected to reach 1.4 billion. I wondered, in a curiously macabre way, does the site of rich tourists walking through arrivals make a person salivate.

We fought our way through cries of ‘Sahib’ and offers of free help, free accommodation, and free taxis outside into the ever rising temperature. We haggled for a fare and jumped in a taxi via a rickshaw. For the sake of saving 200 rupees we had to head off away from the airport and pay in advance. I was kicking myself at being so naïve and was gearing up for possible fisticuffs with our driver who would soon ask for our fare once again, claiming he didn’t know the people we paid at the airport once we arrived, however it turned out to be ok. He did try to squeeze us for a little extra, but there was no elaborate scam going on.

The journey was long and hot and took us right through the centre of Mumbai. The city is vast and the slums are extensive. They are amazing and strange places and I was really hoping to get a chance to visit them. Partly to satisfy the perverse voyeur in that is compelled to wish to view such things; partly to genuinely seek to understand how people can live in such conditions. The poverty in Mumbai was a little less than palatable. Kids washing and running naked on the side of the road. Starving children trying to get into your taxi. Not just begging for money as professional beggars. They are starving. You can see there hallowed skin, sunken, bright, feverish eyes. They are not just asking for cash. They are asking for food.

We got to Colaba late afternoon. We had our bags dumped on the side-walk by the taxi driver who sped off. We tried out the first hotel, recommended by the Good Book. It was fully booked. We then tried out a second option. It was a real shite-hole but we took it. We took it because it was late in the day, blisteringly hot, and we were exhausted. It had a fan and a lock on the door. The shower was only cold water, but refreshing. The toilets were shared and were squatters [from this point on you can take it as read all toilets will be squatters with a jug and a bucket for flushing, unless otherwise specified].

We had barely put our bags down when there was a knock on our door. It turned out a scout was hunting for western people to star in a Bollywood movie the next day. The deal was 750 rupees (£10) to spend the day on a film set as extras. We told the enthusiastic rep we’d think about it as we only had 48 hours in Mumbai. But even before we’d discussed it we both knew we’d do it. Some things you just can’t miss out on.

After we’d settled in, so to speak, we took a walk up along the causeway road and stopped off for dinner. We then spent the rest of the evening hanging out in Leopold’s. This restaurant/café/bar has been immortalised in Gregory David Robert’s book, Shantaram, as the place to be seen in Mumbai. Everyone from Gangsters to Movie Stars frequented the place. It was a bustling hive of activity with marble floors and ornate booths perfect for skulking inside and watching the world go by.

India and the Great Cannonball Run.

… It is a warm Thursday afternoon and we have just rolled into Anjuna. We have to drop the bike off this afternoon but first we are going shopping in the flea market in Anjuna town. Then we are going to sit down and make our plans in solid water. We have 17 days left before my visa runs out for India. In this time we have 9 cities, and 8 places of interest to visit, 4 flights, umpteen train and bus journeys. Inter-spliced with this we need to obtain visas for Pakistan, and enquire into visas for China. Oh and it’s my birthday.

So it’s time to roll up our sleeves and take deep breaths. Thus begins the Great Indian Cannonball Run of Merryl and Philip...

Like a clock reflected in a mirror darkly, time is constantly passing through distorted perception, it is fractured and fragmented, shards and discards of moments I am now recalling. However the human mind interprets a fractured mirror. Perception is the beginning of a process of you lying to you. By the time you have taken a percept and subjected it to the many required unconscious processes in order create a memory, it is completely distorted. That’s the way the mind works. That is how we remember things: Wrongly.. fantabulously… it is a well-known fact that eye-witness testimony is one of the most unreliable forms of evidence. This testimony I am recording here is a fractured splinter of my overactive mind. But as far as I believe, it is the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth… after a fashion.

On the road again!

March 6th - March 13th,

It was time for us all to part ways again. Merryl and I wanted some time to ourselves and Marcus had plans to do a paragliding course in a town called Kamshet, about 100km SE of Mumbai.
We’d been hunting around for a bike to trawl the coastlines of Goa on. We’d hoped for a Enticer but there didn’t seem to be a decent hire bike anywhere in Anjuna. Things weren’t looking very hopeful until we bumped into Miriam who put us on to a mechanic who renovated bikes in Anjuna old town. We popped in to see him early one morning and he offered us a 350cc Royal Enfield for a week. I was a little dubious at first because I had never ridden one before and the gears and brake are on opposite sides to any bikes I’d been on before, but my reservations lasted all of five seconds. The minute I laid eyes on it I knew it was going to be the perfect bike for us for a week.
It was a perfect week.

… We are riding along the coastal road from Goa Old Town to Colva Beach. The scent of musky flowers hangs in the air intoxicatingly. The sun is gloriously hot. The road is long and stretches ahead of us along the side of a long valley. Luscious, verduous, forest greenery flows in every direction. The wind whips through our hair and on our skin. We are both in shorts and singlets as it is simply too hot to wear anything else. Our bags are slung on either side of the Enfield counterbalancing perfectly. The bike is heavy but not cumbersome. Enfields are delicate machines and need to be treated with respect. The gears are not to be stamped on, but must be treated gently, like a lover’s caress. The engine starts perfectly every time. First you must half crank the kick-start to bump up the amps, and then one kick and it purrs into life. It handles like a dream and it goes forever. Despite the heat, despite the dust, it is consistent and dependable. I love this bike. Later today, much later, we will reach Colva and Benolium and take a secluded beach hut by Arabian Sea. We will sit and eat and drink red wine and get lost in each other. But for now we are both right here in this moment, riding without a care in the world, without jobs, without responsibility, along a coastline of coconut trees, on an endless road of smiling people, and white – low-roofed – houses, and nothing but time on our hands…

The next week belonged to just Merryl and I. Nobody else in the world came into it. We met many people and chatted and had fun. But they just flowed into and faded out of our world. We’d waited a very long time to be selfish together. Something that didn’t depend on one of us working, being somewhere, or catching buses, planes, trains, visting ruins, meeting people, or leaving one and other. Something that just involved no-one and nothing but us. Life isn’t always fair. Sometimes you never have these things, sometimes nothing works for you and everything goes wrong and it all just falls apart; however sometimes things do go well, things do work out, miracles do happen, you do get a chance at happiness, and you can trust and let go and allow yourself to be happy just being. Keats may have got it slightly wrong. You cannot be too happy in thine happy lot. If you put your faith in the present - whatever may have happened in the past, and against whatever the future may have in store – then you can find something truly magnificent in yourself. May it happen for you.

We explored all of Goa’s coastel towns: Colva, Benolium, Palolem, Patnem, Agonda. We visited many of the places Marcus and I had, and many others we hadn’t. We did the tourist trail and got caught up in a life that involved, hammocks, beach life, and a care-free lifestyle. A week passed without us even realizing it, but that belongs to us.

Before we knew it, though, it was time to get the bike back to Anjuna and to evaluate our remaining time in India.

Goa, with Merryl.

March 2nd - March 5th,

Merryl and I spent the next few days in a fantastic little hotel with a huge room and beach-beds outside our room. It was reasonably priced and only 25 metres from the beach. It did have the unfortunate drawback of having a group of teenagers staying next door. They were constantly stoned and drunk and played loud music and stayed up all night. Bloody kids!

Marcus had taken to running on the beach every morning. We’d usually meet him for breakfast and then we’d all head down to a spot somewhere and grab a deck-chair or beach-bed and chill out all afternoon. Most places served food and drinks to where you were sitting on the beach. All you had to do was whistle. It was pretty much what you imagine paradise to be.

… We are all sitting outside Lilliput’s bar on the beach. We are drinking cocktails. The sun is gorgeous but I am sitting in the shade of a beach umbrella playing with my new i-touch Merryl has brought out for me. The sea is full of people jumping into the surf. The waves are nothing on Varkala's beaches but they are still pretty frisky. Cows casually amble up and down the beach in search of free food. If they catch you eating your dinner you end up in a game of musical deck-chairs as they are impossible to get rid of. Unlucky for the people a couple of chairs down as a white cow, with a huge sticky string of drool hanging out of its mouth, is trying to eat their lunch. The barbeque-cum-reggae evening is on tonight and the staff has just started the setting up the music and camp-fire…

Merryl managed to last a whole day before getting ill. I was impressed. She’d done better than us. I think it was probably mild food poisoning coupled with a complete change in lifestyle. She was laid up for two days in bed feeling very ill. It was a shame because probably the last afternoon rave was being held on the beach whilst she was ill. Marcus and I both headed up and grabbed some beers but I had to duck out to see how she was. It was quite fortunate as she’d decided to go for a walk on the beach and, shortly after I’d met her walking back to our room, she had a complete whitey and fainted in a café. After that we took things easy for 2-3 days.
When she was feeling better we decided to hire some bikes for the day and explore the north beaches again. Marcus was itching to try out a geared bike and Merryl was itching to get up and do something interesting. There was only one Enticer available which Marcus wanted to ride so we took a Honda GT 100. They are nice enough little bikes. A two-stroke engine has a slightly less cruisey feeling to it but it did have a cool little power-band at the top end of each gear which gave it a real kick. We headed up to Mandrem and then worked our way down back along the beaches to Anjuna. We also headed over to a tiny little town called Chapora. It was supposedly untouched by development but turned out to be overrun with European backpackers, Israelis, and aging Russian hippies. One with half his head bandaged up wandering around drinking vodka. It was an interesting place. It had a nice restaurant called the Yak bar in which we decided to eat dinner. I was pretty happy. Afterwards we had a little ropey ride home as Marcus’s bike had no back light so we had to shadow him and be his back light. I then dropped Merryl off and took the bike for a rag over to the nearby town of Baga to get some cash.

A long awaited arrival and an unexpected twist in the plot.

March 1st,

Saturday came around and Marcus was better and up and about. Merryl and Omar were winging their way across Europe and were due in at 5pm. We had been busy making plans for their arrival. As it was Omar’s birthday the next day we planned to pay for a massage for him and we asked our local restaurant to bake him a cake. They asked us what we’d like to write in icing on the cake for him. After much deliberation we decided on 'U R GAY'.

5pm came and went and there were no sign of them. I had originally planned to take a taxi to the airport but if the plane was delayed things would get complicated. So I left instructions for them to take a pre-paid taxi and gave them the address of the restaurant.

I finally went to check my mail and found out the internal flight (from New Delhi to Goa) had been delayed by an hour. Oh and Omar had forgotten to get a visa for India and had subsequently been deported. Mmmmm…

M finally turned up by taxi looking very tired and a little stressed but very happy. It was so good to see her. She confirmed the story that Omar had forgotten his visa in the UK. They’d tried everything they could think of but it boiled down to the simple fact: No visa no entry. H e’d been put on the next immediate flight home. If it wasn’t his 30th birthday the next day, it would have probably been funny. No, actually, it would have been hilarious. None of us had thought to ask him if he’d applied for his visa and it didn’t cross his mind. It was a simple mistake but we were all of us gutted for him. We sat in the restaurant feeling pretty helpless and downhearted about his misfortune. Then we decided the best course of action would be to have several birthday beers for him. We cancelled the cake. Probably a good thing all in all.

Then it was time for Merryl and I spend some time catching up.