Day 1. I have arrived in Delhi. It’s Saturday morning, I’ve just come off an overnight flight and it is HOT. Befuddled by tiredness, and trying not to think too much about just how far from home I am, I make my way through Delhi airport and find that it really is true what they say about India and bureaucracy. I have to queue to show my passport, my visa, have my fingerprints taken and have everything thoroughly scrutinised. I then have it all stamped by an official, before I join a new queue to show all the stamps and paperwork to another official in order to be allowed out of the airport.
Outside the main doors I’m incredibly glad to see a driver holding a board with my name on it – he takes my bag and expresses surprise that that’s all there is (I’m just going to get all the smugness out of the way here – yes, I travelled for two and a half weeks on hand luggage. All 7kg-and-a-handbag of it.) We set off into the early city morning and I feel like I need several more sets of eyes to take everything in – the colour, the people, the buildings, the sheer, well, differentness of it all. We whiz past tuktuks, and entire families piled on motorcycles, carts stacked high being pushed or pulled by wiry little men, lush gardens, huge ornate buildings behind high walls, and stalls which appear to consist of a tarpaulin leaning on sticks.
Just as I’m getting used to it all and wondering how much further the hotel is, the car pulls up and what looks like a rather nondescript building in a busy street. How appearances can be deceptive! I have not one but two people to show me to my room – one to lead the way and one to carry my bag. My room has a bed so huge I could lie across it and not touch either side and my bathroom has not one but two showers. I certainly never wanted for fruit bowls, bottles of chilled water, plates of biscuits or newspapers as they all arrived over the course of the day. Feeling a bit overwhelmed with it all, I crash out.
This is the view from my room. I thought it would be a bit rude to take a photograph of him, but on top of the low roof to the right was a man asleep, as you do. Back home it would be considered most odd for people to sit or sleep where they fancy but here? Quite normal. That evening, and not for the first time on this trip, the mind-bogglingly huge gap between the well off and the incredibly dirt-poor in India was brought home to me. I was sitting waiting for the others to be ready, dressed for dinner and reading the Hindustan Times while eating some cumin biscuits which had just brought for me, when I heard a noise outside and looked out. Just to the right of this photograph was an alley way, in which I realised some children were living under a plastic sheet. Kids, living in an alley, and their home was a bit of plastic. It makes you re-visit your priorities, I can tell you.
We go out for lunch (very much pleased to see paneer – it’s one of my very favourite things but can be hard to find in Indian restaurants at home. Here there are always many forms of it to choose from, not to mention vegetarian food being as standard as meat dishes), then this is our first proper visit: Gandhi Smriti, formerly Birla House, where Mahatma Gandhi was assassinated. He stayed here when he visited Delhi and was shot on his way to offer evening prayers, and the house and beautiful grounds are now a museum.
Quite literally following in Gandhi’s footsteps…
The Martyr’s Column, marking the spot where Gandhi was killed.
Day 2 and it’s early Sunday morning, which you can tell because the traffic is moving, unlike every other day of the week or time of day. I have never seen traffic like I did in India. There might be two marked out lanes, but usually there would be at least three, if not four, actual streams of traffic, all weaving in, out and around each other and jostling to be at the front. Indicators were almost universally replaced by the horn, as were brakes and, well, everything else. Indian traffic lights count down to a green light which doesn’t help; the shortest period of measurable time is that between a green light and the cacophony of honking (not to mention the pushing to the front – right of way is based on who got there first) beginning.
Most, but by no means all, traffic goes in a similar direction but should it be more convenient to travel on the wrong side of the road – as our tuk tuk did that evening – then so be it! Crossing the road on foot required a deep breath, sharp reflexes and the assumption that drivers will at least try to avoid you. The central reservations are usually full of people which makes the whole thing even more hair-raising as everyone is trying to change places with those going in the opposite direction, without anyone getting knocked off the island and into the traffic.
We’re off to Jama Masjid, a Mosque built in the 17th century by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan (who got a fair amount of building work done, as he also had the Red Fort and Taj Mahal built) and which is big enough to accommodate 25,000 people. It’s very very hot and we women are required to wear very fetching (and very synthetic, thus adding to the general heat) smock dresses. We all also have to take off our shoes – I have tiny feet so after several attempts to walk in the one-size-fits-clown-feet slippers provided, I go barefoot which, given the hot stone, is less than ideal but more so than falling on my face.
One thing that very quickly becomes apparent is our novelty value as foreigners – to start with I thought the people holding out their camera and gesturing wanted me to take a photo of them, but as soon as I nodded I was immediately surrounded by the entire family who all wanted a picture with me. It was the same for all the others in my group, and most odd. Is this how celebs feel? Our guide later explained that Indian tourists in Delhi may well have come from rural areas where they’ve never really seen white or black people before, so we were a novelty. My having red hair and freckles definitely seemed to be the cause of much staring, which is another thing: at home, we have it drilled into us from an early age that it’s rude to stare or point, but there’s none of that here. If someone wants a good look at you then they will, and they’ll probably point you out to their friends and family too.
Setting off for a rickshaw ride around the bazaars of Chadni Chowk, the busiest market area in Old Delhi, and the strength of the men who peddle us around these crowded lanes is seriously impressive. One of the other girls and I wedge ourselves in and, holding tight (no seatbelts!) as we jolt over a selection of Delhi’s potholes, we scoot past stalls selling drinks, cut fruit and scented flowers, metal workshops making everything and anything, and cart after cart of street foot which all smells amazing but I have no idea what any of it is. We rattle down alleyways filled with people studiously ignoring the staring tourists, and dodging carts and bicycles coming the other way. Despite the speed and lack of space, no-one ever seems to hit anything and there is certainly not the road rage that this would instill back home.
This photo also shows one of our party being hassled for money, something I found very hard to say no to when I was so painfully aware of their poverty and my comparative wealth. On this occasion it was a woman asking, but often it was little children, filthy, barefoot and literally wearing rags; a Dickens novel made real. Awful as it was to see, the even sadder truth was that most of them are trafficked, abducted and/or drugged, and working for gangs. It would have been nice to think that a 10 rupee note was 10 pence to me but a meal to a starving child, but in reality the money would go to the gangmaster sitting round the corner in his expensive car. Having to say no and avoid even looking at them in order to be left alone (saying anything else or catching their eye was a fast route to being followed all the way down the street with several of them tugging your clothes) was just heart-wrenching.
India Gate – designed by the English architect Sir Edwin Luteyns, who seemed to have had a hand in designing much of Delhi’s Raj-era architecture (as a historical architecture nerd I am torn between being in heaven at the buildings themselves and despair at the condition of many of them), it is the memorial to Indian soldiers who died in WWI. I never even realised Indian soldiers were involved in WWI, so you live and learn.
In the midday sun, we arrive at Humayun’s Tomb and I tell you something, they don’t half go in for a mausoleum here. Built in the 1500s for the second Mughal emperor, and now a Unesco World Heritage Site, it’s huge. It’s also incredibly elegant and one of the first buildings (apparently) to be built of the sandstone that appears everywhere. It’s set in beautiful quiet gardens where it was really rather nice to loiter in the shade and look at the little things – even the garden birds and plants are different here.
In the same complex is an earlier tomb – this one belonging to Isa Khan, an Afghan noble. There’s quite a few dotted about, including one belonging to a barber as being entrusted with a blade anywhere near the emperor’s throat was a position of honour.
Saffron tea, in one of the (several) Government-owned shops we end up in. On this occasion our guide brought us anyway but apparently they, and tuktuk/taxi drivers, are legally obliged to bring tourists to these if we asked to go shopping. One on hand it stops you being whisked off to their cousin’s/brother’s/mate’s shop where the prices are inflated and the goods are suspect, but these shops weren’t up to much either, being as they were stuffed full of incredibly expensive stuff aimed squarely at tourists. We listened politely then gravitated towards the door.
I heard later, when we ended up in another such shop in Connaught Square (Delhi’s upmarket bit) that the guides/drivers get paid if the tourists they bring stay in the shop for more than five minutes; often the price of a tank of fuel for their tuktuk. The Connaught Square shop was even worse than this one, as the politeness of the staff very quickly turned to hard sell. And in another, the prices seemed to shoot up as soon as we looked like we might buy anything (“1000 rupees? No, no, no – 2500 has always been the price…”) I had ideas of shopping in India being wonderfully cheap and in truth it was, compared to the UK, but I have no doubt that the prices we paid were often much higher than a local would have. We got round the problem in the end by offering our tuktuk driver the same money the shop would have paid him and then him being happy to take us to where we actually wanted to go.
The Qutab Minar (Tower of Victory) – it’s hard to show just how enormous this is! It, like pretty much everything else, is made of sandstone and marble, but this was taken from the Hindu and Jain temples it was built on, and it also marks the site of the first of Delhi’s seven incarnations. Until you’re close up you don’t see just how beautifully carved and ornate it is. The story goes that it was partially destroyed by lightning and not only was it repaired, but also made taller, presumably to prove a point.
The remains of another tower. This was just the inside of the base, which gives an idea of just how bloody massive they were. How many people would it have taken to build these?
Day 3 and we’re off shopping. We spend the morning amongst all the jewellery, silver, clothes, bags, shoes and fabrics we could want, and this is one of the clothes shops we visited. Everything is stacked up, but the shopkeepers will happily pull all of it out to show you if you so much as show a passing interest. Not this colour, madam? No problem, we have 23 more to show you… Or how about a different style? A scarf? A dress? They must spend forever putting it all away again when browsing tourists leave. I can’t even remember how long we were in here – long enough for one of the shopkeepers to offer to fetch us drinks, in a rather lower-rent version of the shopping scene from Pretty Woman.
A Hindu shrine – these are everywhere, this one was in a scarf shop. I love their vivid colours and, like so much in India, they are often highly decorated with candles, garlands and flowers. The ornamentation is one of the many things I love about India – even trucks are neatly and brightly painted and, especially in a country where there is so much poverty and inequality, it just feels so joyous. Indian visitors to the UK must wonder why it’s so bloody drab here.
Afterwards we took the “see how many people you can get in a single tuk-tuk” challenge” and that evening we had a hilarious – if slightly terrifying – drive back from the restaurant that night as the two drivers of the tuktuks our party squeezed ourselves into decided to race each other through the Delhi evening traffic. One of those things that’s great fun after you made it out alive.
You see what I mean about the buildings? Back home this would be listed and preserved and restored, not to mention having its own local conservation group. Here, well it’s OK if bits fall off from time to time, yes?
Day 4 (but only just) and we’re travelling on to Agra, which means a very early start at Delhi station. It’s about six in the morning and still dark. The the first two things that strike me is the sheer number of people sleeping just anywhere on the station – you literally have to step over them as they sleep on the floor of the concourse, resting against any luggage they might have – and the big signs warning tourists never to accept food from anyone offering it as it could be drugged, thus enabling them to be robbed.
Some of our fellow travellers. The station is rammed with piles of neatly stitched parcels (to try and prevent theft, parcels are sewn into white wrapping fabric to seal them) and all sorts of people going to all sorts of places. I try not to stare, not that we aren’t being stared at ourselves.
The sheer size of the Indian rail network is quickly made apparent; every few minutes enormous trains rattle in and out on their way to seemingly every corner of the country on journeys that can take days rather than hours. There’s a long list of different classes (none of this Standard and First, there’s Air-conditioned 1st, 2nd and 3rd, non-air conditioned, chair class, executive chair class, sleeper…and that’s before you get to the variation of ladies only carriages) and, when a train arrives, the carriages with booked seats have a list slapped on them by the door showing all the passenger names for that car. Once our train arrives we locate our names – executive chair class, darling – and hop in.
You don’t get this on South West Trains, that’s for sure. First of all we are brought hot towels. Then newspapers. Then a rose, and finally breakfast which includes a thermos of coffee (this is thankfully free of the chicory that often seems to find its way into instant coffee here), yogurt, hot stuffed bread, fruit and biscuits.
The clutter of Delhi, and people walking along the railway tracks, gives way to fields as we head away from the city, and I watch the sun rise over farm land. The light in India at sunrise and sunset is just stunning; it has an ethereal quality that bathes everything in a softly beautiful glow. The landscape is surprisingly green, given how hot it is. Through the dawn haze, labourers are ambling to work, livestock wander along and the world seems incredibly peaceful and calm. Gradually, however, the fields begin to fill with buildings again and we have arrived in Agra.
First stop, after dropping our bags at the hotel (and, in my case, a bit of sleep) is Agra Fort. A(nother) Unesco World Heritage site, and built (inevitably) of sandstone, it was the Mughal empire’s stronghold for the hundred years in which Agra was the capital of India. The scale of these forts is amazing, as it just how well they survive considering they were built in the 1500s.
Inside the Musamman Burj, a tower built by Shah Jahan his for one of his wives, Mumtaz Mahal (for whom the Taj Mahal was also built).
‘Ornate’ doesn’t even begin to cover this, particularly when you consider that the pattern was made by taking semi-precious stones like carnelian, lapis lazuli and mother of pearl, carving them into the right shape of the flower petal or whatever, carving a hole into the marble the same shape and inlaying it. Every single tiny little piece must have taken an age and everything here is covered in similar designs.
We later went to a workshop where the work men are all descendants of the men who worked on the stone work for this and the Taj Mahal. It’s absolutely stunning and the skill that goes into making something so incredibly intricate is just, well, incredible.
The hall of public audience, where emperors could address their people. They had archers stationed all around in case anyone got a bit uppity.
Music and dance as we go for lunch. More paneer! By this point I’m getting the taste for Indian beer – it turns out that Indian wine is a) incredibly expensive (around £11 for the cheapest bottle) and b) really not very nice. I drank some wine once in Spain that was 1Euro for a litre, and it was significantly better.
Outside the Taj Mahal, having made it through security. Understandably they take this incredibly seriously but it does mean being x-rayed and frisked. And a ride in the world’s hottest bus – essentially an oven on wheels – as non-official vehicles aren’t allowed near it.
The first glimpse. It’s…amazing. I’ve seen lots of pictures – who hasn’t, particularly when the Princess of Wales parked her backside in front of it – but the reality is just breath-taking. What they don’t tell you, and it’s why you should visit at dawn or dusk, is that it sparkles. I’m not quite sure how or why, but it does and it’s…well, I think I’ve run out of words at this juncture.
As the famous story goes, the Taj Mahal was built for Shah Jahan’s favourite wife, Mumtaz. The others must have felt a bit short changed.
Talking of Diana, you can queue to have your photograph taken on The Diana Seat but you have to hand over a couple of hundred rupees for the privilege. India might be cheap by Western standards, but you pay for everything…
Once darkness had all but fallen, we leave and make our way back to the bus. Hawkers are out in force, trying to sell us everything from bracelets to painted elephants on a string. (Gaudy as they are, the elephants-on-a-string made it home with me.)
Day 5. And I couldn’t agree more with this sign.
The abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri, with its vast red sandstone palace complex including mosques, tombs and halls of audience. It was later abandoned in the 1600s – no-one really knows why but it was probably due to a lack of a water supply. This is our last stop in Agra; despite its size there isn’t a huge amount more to see or do after this. After another lunch (I swear I’ve eaten more naan and rice in the last few days than I have collectively in my life to date) we get into our minibus for the five hour drive to Jaipur.
I have a conversation with our guide here, on a subject that had been bothering me since I arrived: collonialism. I feel terribly guilty for the way the British have previously exploited, pillaged and plundered their way around the globe in the name of the empire, and here there are so many reminders of collonial rule. I tentatively broached the subject and he shrugged: “Most civilisations would have done the same”. It doesn’t assuage just how much we oppressed and stole, which I’m still deeply ashamed of, but at least there doesn’t seem to be too many hard feelings about it.
Pit stop for bananas. The stall a little further along the roadside sold crisps (costing pennies a bag) and one of our group bought a bag each for the children. They were absolutely made up about it, which does really make you think about how much we have and how much of it we take for granted.
It was a long old drive – we had several more stops and rural Indian loos are exactly as you fear they might be – and Indian cross-country roads really are how you see them on television; lorries and buses will overtake with furious honking and aiming headlong into equally large oncoming vehicles. After a while I stopped looking because I spent significant amounts of time thinking we were all about to die. Apparently there is a certain element of fatalism in Hinduism, but careering at speed towards things bigger than you has got to tip the balance out of your favour, surely? We do, however, make it to Jaipur in one piece.
Day 6 and our first whole day in Jaipur (by the time we arrived last night it was dark). It’s easy to see why its nickname is the Pink City as many buildings actually are pink – apparently this was a sign of hospitality so the whole city was re-painted for a visit by the then Prince of Wales in 1876.
This is the Palace of Winds, or Hawa Mahal, that allowed women of the royal palace to see street festivals going on outside without being seen themselves.
More shopping. We spent more time in this shop than I care to remember – more clothes, shoes, scarves, bags and whatnottery than you can shake a sandal at.
First proper stop of the day is the Amber Palace. We have elephant rides to the entrance of the palace itself but I was absolutely horrified to read afterwards how some of the animals are abused. Thankfully, the Indian Government is considering banning these rides, and I shan’t feel sorry for their handlers either as they were incredibly rude and greedy for tips. These are such beautiful animals and I’m so very sorry if I have contributed to their suffering in any way. If you’re going to Jaipur, please don’t ride the elephants.
The Ganesh Gate, Ganesh being the Hindu god Lord Ganesh who removes all obstacles in life so passing through the gateway was symbolic for the Maharajas that lived here. This leads from the first Courtyard – which you reach on an elephant or what I should imagine is a very long walk up a very steep slope on a very hot day – into the Maharaja’s private palaces.
The Sheesh Mahal, or mirror palace. Exquisite and absolutely stunning.
Actual snake charmers, charming an actual snake. (All for the benefit of tourists and their pockets full of rupees, of course.)
Mmm, coconut water. They lop the tops off with a machete there and then for you, and they cost a fraction of what they charge at my local foodie market.
I sit and drank it overlooking the Water Palace in Man Sagar Lake. Lovely and refreshing it was too, much better than taking my chances with bottled water (most is legit, but some bottles get ‘recycled’, i.e. refilled from the tap, resealed and flogged on. Which I’m sure is fine for locals, but not if you’re a foreigner and unused to the gastro-intestinal delights of Indian tap water. A give-away is a bottle which is overfull, apparently).
Afternoon and we’re at Jantar Mantar, a collection of architectural astronomical instruments from the 1700s which calculated everything from the time and date to altitudes of celestial bodies. My abiding memory of this, however, was the unbelievable heat – it was ringed by a high wall which kept the heat in and the colour of the structures reflected it further. It was already pushing 40 outside, so I can’t even think what temperature it was inside.
I was torn between focusing on what the guide was saying and concentrating on not passing out. In the end I gave up and wandered around on my own in the shade. Our guide was a different one to our Agra guide, and miserable bugger with it. When we lost one of our party, he shrugged his shoulders and was all for setting off without him! He sat down in a huff when I told him we weren’t going anywhere until we’d found them, then sulked all the way back to the hotel when we didn’t give him much of a tip because of his surliness.
City Palace, formerly a Maharaja’s palace and now a museum and art gallery. The gallery kept having a power cut which certainly made it interesting as there were no windows. We are repeatedly plunged into total darkness and having to stand very still, so as not to accidentally fall over any priceless artworks, until someone could get the lights back on again.
Who’s for number 45? I must also admit that, while we were in Jaipur, we go to McDonalds, just to see what they served – after all, most Indians don’t eat beef or pork and/or are veggie so what do they substitute for all those burgers? Chicken and more paneer, it turns out (wish they served the latter back home). And we find ourselves ‘surreptitiously ‘ being photographed by other diners while we were in there. As I did in the queue for boarding the plane the following day – I think people genuinely don’t realise that you know that ‘selfie’ is more you than them.
Our hotel in Jaipur – a renovated Haveli, which is lovely, but a bit past its best, bless it. The gardens ae very British-Raj-esque though – tea on the lawn anyone? I have an extremely convoluted conversation with the staff when checking in who saw “Northern Ireland” on my passport (as in “Great Britain and”) and put me down as Irish, which wouldn’t be a problem except that the currency certificate wouldn’t match my passport if I needed to change it back. Imagine explaining the concept of Northern Ireland (“Yes, it’s called Ireland and it is an island, well a bit of one…” to someone whose English is a bit sketchy. In the end he looked at me like I was mad, scribbled out ‘Irish’ and wrote ‘British’ with a sigh of resignation.
We find a fabulous scarf shop in the basement of one of the buildings along the street and then go wandering along the road to find a sweet shop. I loved jalebi – effectively it’s sugar in sweet batter deep fried in sugar and then covered in syrup – before I went but fresh ones are AMAZING. Indian sweets are delicious but so sugary that even looking at the display counter is enough to give you diabetes.
And that was it for Rajasthan – the following morning we fly back to Delhi where my fellow travellers headed home, and I settled in for a 6 hour lay-over before flying to Bengaluru then Trivandrum for 5 days at a yoga retreat in Kovalam.
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Yeah…so that didn’t go to plan. I’m now in Kovalam but there’s been something of a change of plan. After travelling since 4am and arriving at Trivandrum well into the evening to find there was no-one to meet me, it transpired that the yoga place I had booked with had put me into another hotel without telling me and, well, let’s just say it wasn’t the ‘simple and comfortable’ place the website had promised. The rooms were grotty with useless ceiling fans (great in high humidity), there was no hot water, the walls were dirty and just when I thought I might just stay the night and try to move tomorrow, I pulled back the bed sheets to find they were stained. I tried not to think with what. I couldn’t get an internet signal on my phone, so I ended up ringing my parents to get them to make a booking for the only other hotel I knew of in the area off the top of my head (because I’d booked to stay in their Mumbai hotel as a last night treat). I managed to rouse the hotel manager to not only get a taxi but to retrieve my passport – he didn’t seem surprised, to be honest. To go by the registration book, I wasn’t the only one to have cut a stay dramatically short (I subsequently heard from a friend who stayed at the same place, and some of her fellow travellers had the same experience). 
So, that’s how I end up here, in a fabulous 5* resort (I decided I would worry about the credit card bill when I got home – it’s there for emergencies and if being stranded alone, thousands of miles from home in a dirty hotel down a dark alleyway isn’t an emergency then I don’t know what is). The staff couldn’t have been kinder to the exhausted and by-now-somewhat-dishevelled girl who arrives in reception and promptly bursts into tears, ushering me into a chair whilst a waiter whisks up with fresh coconut water, and a shell necklace as a gift. A golf buggy is brought to take me to my room, which is huge, scented with candles and blissfully, blissfully clean. I fall asleep to the sound of the sea.
I wake up to birdsong and the sun shining through the palm trees. I go to breakfast and this is the view! I eat what feels like my own weight in yumminess then lounge around for a bit catching up with the papers and eating biscuits. I go for a walk around the grounds and realise I’ve fallen firmly on my feet as it’s the most perfect place I’ve ever been – the rooms are all little stone houses in the tropical forest. There’s an infinity pool overlooking the Arabian Sea, two hot tub pools, a spa, a lagoon, gardens and a private beach. Nothing is ever too much trouble. The staff seem to think think I need feeding up and anything I order is supplemented by other things – I ordered a sandwich (even I had had enough paneer by this point) and samples of Keralan food from the buffet also arrive, I ordered a drink and a plate of desserts comes with it.
It is the sort of place where you order your coffee at breakfast one day and the following day it just shows up without you having to ask. I commented on how nice the orange juice was and asked for some the next day too, to be told “It’s just being made for you”. I always arrive back from my afternoon/evening walks to find someone has been in to light the candles in the bathroom and replenish the scented oils, not to mention remove the mountains of cushions from the bed (someone else comes in of a morning to put them back). Anything I leave lying around is folded with precision that makes a neurosurgeon look slapdash, and the tangle of jewellery I left by the one of the bathroom sinks has not only been untangled, but had everything neatly paired and lined up in order of size. I could get very, very used to this.
The beach. I’m right at the end of Kovalam and there aren’t many other hotels or whathaveyou around up here so I often have the beach to myself. It is hot and sunny during the days but a storm usually comes in of an evening when the humidity rises to a level that’s like walking through steam. I walked down here at dusk one day, watching the last of the fisherman head to shore with an almighty storm rolling in behind them – standing alone on the sand and looking out across the endless sea, with the waves crashing onto the rocks on one side and huge forks of lightning streaking through the sky on the other felt like Nature at her rawest. It was awesome. Literally.
One of the spa pools. I often have it to myself in the evening, so I float on my back watching the stars come out through the canopy of trees above me. I didn’t really have any plans for the Kerala leg of my trip, and I spend my time here eating, sleeping, sunbathing, reading and swimming, with the occasional walk into the surrounding winding lanes, past the lagoon or down to the beach. It’s utter, utter bliss.
Flower decorations are everywhere. There seems to be at least one person whose sole job it is to rearrange petals in bowls of water.
The view over the lagoon at sunset. It’s all of a couple of hundred yards from the main part of the hotel to here, and yet I am always offered a golf buggy and driver should I not wish to walk (I do, I’m not that lazy!)
Just an average Wednesday morning. I’ve lost track completely of how long I’ve been in India except that this is my last day in Kerala. While things haven’t worked out how I’d planned, it’s been awesome (if somewhat traumatic to start with) and if I was any more relaxed I’d be in a coma. I haven’t actually managed any yoga (the hotel did offer sessions every morning) as, well, those lie-ins with the papers and coffee don’t happen by themselves you know. That evening I have a last walk along the beach, where I sit on the rocks and watch the sea and later, when darkness falls, the fireflies darting in the night sky around me.
The last leg – I’m off to Mumbai. I travel back to the airport in daylight, unlike my arrival here, so I finally get to see what’s it’s like outside of the lanes around the hotel. I’m always amazed by the juxtaposition between the very rich and the very poor and Kerala is no exception – it’s not unusual to see a very large, very new house with gardens and huge gates (sometimes just the gates, no walls or anything…) right next to a shack made out of plastic sheeting on the edge of a puddle of stagnant water.
As ever in India, the colours are a sight to behold but here even the houses are brightly hued; every now and then buildings painted in shocking pinks and blues, lime greens and vivid yellows or oranges peep through the trees. When I get back to Trivandrum and I have to show my passport and ticket to get into the airport (India is – understandably – very hot on security) I realise just how pampered I have been as, for a split second, I’m confused as to why the guard hasn’t opened the door for me…and then I remember I’m back in the real world where I’m not bowed though every already-opened door.
As we come in to land at Mumbai I notice many squares of bright blue and marvel to myself at just how many people have swimming pools in such a crowded city. On getting closer to the ground, I find couldn’t have been further from the truth if I’d tried as they are actually the plastic tarpaulin roofs of houses in the slums.
Welcome to Mumbai…and a traffic jam. Still, at least the view is good. I had been warned about this but it really does take about an hour and a half to travel the eight or so miles from the airport to Colaba (which is where parts of Shantaram was set, for those who loved the book as much as I did – in fact, it was that book that made me want to come to India).
I like the system they have whereby you book a taxi journey and the receipt you are given has the number plate of the assigned taxi on it, which is good when you’re a woman travelling alone – but I’m less keen on being short-changed. I’m sure it goes on everywhere but I noticed it far more in Mumbai. Still, at least my taxi driver is friendly even if I don’t understand what he’s saying – after about an hour I realise he thinks I’m French and, whilst I speak that too, the Indian accent made it virtually impossible to understand. There was a lot of nodding and smiling.
Quick dip amongst the skyscrapers before dinner.
Good morning Mumbai! I open the curtains to find my hotel room looks out over Mumbai’s busy port.
It’s my final day in India and I’m off to meet my guide for the day, Pranav from Grand Mumbai Tours (who I would thoroughly recommend).
The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel. I had considered staying here but it was very expensive and, having popped in to use the loo (and using that as an excuse for a good look around), I’m actually rather glad I didn’t. It reminded me of Harrods; all a bit for show.
The Gateway of India, designed to impress visiting dignitaries, I was amused to learn that when George V and Queen Mary visited they only saw a cardboard version as it hadn’t been finished (or started) in time. When the last British soldiers left after India finally won its independence, they left through this gate.
Through the railings we peer at the University of Mumbai, looking remarkably British, with the Rajabi Clock Tower (modelled on Big Ben’s clock tower).
Then we head further along the leafy roads to the Bombay High Court. This is the only time (other than on a gin bottle) that I’ve seen Mumbai’s old name be used.
As we walk we pass large cricket pitches – cricket is almost as much a religion here as Hinduism – but also zebra crossings. Apparently few people know really what they are for so stepping out on one in the assumption that the traffic will stop for you is a mistake I suspect you’d only make the once.
Millions of Hindus revere and worship cows as a sacred animal and a symbol of the divine. Cows are allowed to amble where they please in more rural areas, to the extent that traffic will squeeze round them, but here it isn’t unusual to see a cow tethered at the side of the road where, for a few rupees, you can take a handful of hay and feed them, as many people do on their way to or from wherever they’re going as an act of veneration.
Another day, another UNESCO World Heritage Site… This time, the Chhatrapadi Shiaji Terminus (formerly the Victoria Terminus and built to mark her Golden Jubilee), it’s the largest station in Mumbai and easily the most beautiful and ornate I have ever seen. Network Rail take note.
The Indian Freedom Struggle Memorial outside the terminus, marking martyrs who died in the 1857 Sepoy Mutiny against the British East India Company, which ruled India on behalf of Britain. It still staggers me that a trading company was allowed to run someone else’s country.
Inside the station on the main concourse. This is where part of Slumdog Millionaire was filmed and, given the sheer number of people passing through every time as trains rattle in and out every few minutes, not somewhere you can stand for long without getting trampled. Similarly, the underpass we walked through to get here had the sort of volume of people that would make changing direction and going against the flow of the crowd nigh on impossible.
The Indian railway network is one of the most dangerous in the world (although, according to the guidebook, passengers can take comfort from the fact that it’s still significantly safer than the buses) and 2,000 people die every year just on the Mumbai rail network alone. It’s not helped by the fact that trains don’t always have doors and people hop on and off while they’re still moving.
(You’ll note the amount of parcel tape that appears to be holding the cab together)
And with that in mind, we board a train. We don’t go very far, it’s more for the experience, and it’s really quite odd to be able to hold onto the poles by the doors and hang out. Even more surprising are the tickets, especially for those of us used to British rail prices. A whole 5p – five pence – a journey.
Next up on our whistle-stop tour is the Crawford market and there is every fruit and vegetable you can imagine – and some that I’m not sure what they are – piled high, with vividly coloured foil wrapped gift boxes hanging from the rafters like Christmas decorations should you wish to have a fruit basket made up. (I avert my eyes at the areas selling pets and chickens as they’re stacked in cages in the street.)
We wind through the lamp-lit lanes of the market where there is everything from dried fruit, nuts, jewellery, flowers, baskets and sweets, to…er…stationery and possibly even wigs. The fountains that form crossroads in the passageways and paths were designed by Lockwood Kipling – father of Rudyard – and vividly decorated Hindu shrines regularly punctuate the stalls with their adornments of candles and strings of flowers.
I can see why people would want to retire out here. Private healthcare is cheap, the rights of the over-60s are enshrined in law and older people are treated with respect bordering on reverence. I’ve made a note for the future…
Mumbai’s Sri Sri Radha Gopinath Hare Krishna temple. From the quiet halls outside we take off our shoes and go upstairs, passing monks as we go, into the main hall. Brightly coloured paintings with carved teak surrounds line each wall and at either end sit two enormous shrines where banks of deities and figures of worship are decorated with gold, rich fabrics and vivid strings of hibiscus, jasmine and marigold. Everything is softly lit by chandeliers. It’s absolutely beautiful and very peaceful.
One of the many dabbawallahs. Across the city, thousands upon thousands of hot tiffin lunches are made up each day, usually by the women of the household (although I wonder what happens if they want to work too?), picked up from the from the house, collected and sorted, transported, then re-divvied up for delivery.
This is a distribution point, where different places along the wall represented different delivery areas, before the tiffins are strapped onto/hung from bicycles and taken off to offices across the area. Then, once lunch is over, the whole process is carried out again in reverse to take the tins home. It’s all worked out on colour coded symbols on the tins or their bags and, staggeringly, only a tiny percentage ever go astray, maybe one every couple of months.
A stop for lunch, and proper Mumbai street food. The street is bustling with everyone coming out to get their grub, and what a choice there is! It’s all freshly cooked in front of you: fat vada pavs – potato mashed with garlic and fried before being stuffed into a bread roll with coriander chutney – grilled kebabs, thick lassi, the sweet and sour puffed rice of bhel puri and…
…pav bhaji; a thick vegetable curry with heavily buttered bread, red onion and lemon. (The picture is a little blurry, it’s hard to eat and photograph!)
Our last stop: Dhobi Ghat, the laundry. Entire families live and work here, renting from the Mumbai Municipal Corporation. Each pitch has a huge concrete sink in which to wash the endless flow of items from hotels and hospitals, and stones on which to flog the fabrics clean. We watch as the clothes are soaked, beaten and then hung up to join the endless rows of neatly hung sheets and garments drying in the blistering midday heat.
Before I leave, I have a visit to the spa at the hotel, mostly just to get a shower (because it’s about 40 degrees again) but since they offered the use of the steam room and sauna… I later regret this somewhat as steam rooms aimed at people used to Indian temperatures are set at to level you could cook things at – I stay in for as short a period as I think is polite, as there is an attendant waiting for me and the last thing I want is for them to think I didn’t like it as this generally leads to all manner of apologising and arranging of substitutes. I have a choice of showers – standard and rainfall – and someone on hand carry out those onerous tasks like hanging up towels.
And that’s it! I’m on my way home, back along Marine drive (also known as the Necklace as that’s what it looks like when it’s lit up at night), past Chowpatty Beach (it looks lovely but apparently it’s terribly polluted. The beach is also half empty during the day as everyone stays out of the sun – I assumed to avoid the heat but it’s actually to avoid a tan as being pale-skinned is seen as a desirable thing. When I think how much Westerners spend on fake tan…). A festival is about to start, one in which each day is represented by a different colour, so the streets are full of people wearing every shade from the palest mint to lime and emerald, all heading towards the festivities. I want to stay and watch, to join in but before I know it I’m at the airport.
I have quite a wait and just when I think I’ve found an empty area to settle down with a book, an entire school trip arrives and sets up base around me. Not only am I now surrounded by over-excited children but every parent, grandparent, sibling and neighbour in Mumbai seems to be pressed up against the window to wave goodbye to their beloved on the other side of me. Once they finally go, a man comes along and sits down next to me to chat, something I’ve begun to find less startling – back home, we’re warned from an early age of Stranger Danger but here…not so much. If you’re a foreigner, people want to chat to you, to ask where you’re from and what you’ve come to India to see or do, to practise their English on you or just to be your new friend. It’s how I ended up in conversation on a plane with a chap who turned out to be a secretary of the Congress party. Without exception, they all press their business cards into my hand and remind me to call them next time I’m in India. I’m never quite sure what for but I appreciate the thought.
Writing this after I get back, I miss India so much it almost hurts. The people (yes there’s been rudeness from time to time but the vast majority I met showed nothing but friendliness and kindness, and I certainly never encountered any of the hassle that you hear of women getting), the idiosyncrasies, the noise, the beauty, the light, the food, the culture, the colour… I’ve been fortunate enough to visit lots of different places, but this country has really got under my skin. I’m already planning my return trip.