FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 29
0730 on the roof terrace at the Sunset Guesthouse, Sikri. In the valley below, a thin mist lies across pale green fields bordered by trees. The Nepalese owner of the guesthouse feeds birds each morning on a smaller terrace. Five green parakeets watch me from the parapet while six striped squirels scavenge for yesterday's seeds. Doves wheel above the trees. Shrill children's voices argue with mothers in the nearly village, a drum beats in town. Here, on the hill, the sun burns through the mist and warms my fingers as I type. Staff appear rubbing sleep from their eyes. “Breakfast, Uncle?”
Breakfast would be great, coffee, masala omelet, toast.
The lower end of the fortress is now a faint grey line of stone teeth and the mist gentles the ghastly tower monument to Crunch Crunch.
The owner spreads seed on the bird terrace. Sparrows are first to the feast followed by a gray necked crow, now twenty or more parakeets. The parakeets are argumentative and drown out the village voices. The staff have a fire burning outside the kitchen. Woodsmoke faintly scents the air. Breakfast arrives.The diffident French couple come to table, muffled and gentle voiced. Next the Argentinian tandem bicyclist to drape laundry on the rail. Francis briefly surfaces to report that he is only running ten minutes late for our proposed 9 0'clock departure for Jaipur.
On such a glorious morning, time tables are for the birds.
Friday, January 15, 2010
NO, NO, NO...
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 28
While peacefully wandering the citadel, I am accosted by a small pugnacious Indian gentleman wearing a pale green suit and a felt elf hat.
“What do you think of this?” he demands without preamble or introduction. “Is it beautiful? Have you been in England? Have you visited Hampton Court. That is beauty. Built the same time as this. I know. I am history graduate.”
I attempt the smallest protest - surely we should imagine the citadel as it was: courtyards spread with carpet and cooled by fountains, every channel filled with water, great pots planted with lemon trees and pomegranates, sweet scented roses, beautiful maidens in embroidered silk...
“No, no, no – that is all only decoration with no importance. Hampton court is not needing imagination...”
We meet again later in the afternoon. He immediately launches a fresh attack on Akbar's citadel. He is accompanied by a tall well-built 30 something to whom I plead, “You have to listen to this?”
“Listen?” he says in one of those wondrously casual up-market Home Counties voices. “I've had to listen for three weeks. He's my Dad.”
While peacefully wandering the citadel, I am accosted by a small pugnacious Indian gentleman wearing a pale green suit and a felt elf hat.
“What do you think of this?” he demands without preamble or introduction. “Is it beautiful? Have you been in England? Have you visited Hampton Court. That is beauty. Built the same time as this. I know. I am history graduate.”
I attempt the smallest protest - surely we should imagine the citadel as it was: courtyards spread with carpet and cooled by fountains, every channel filled with water, great pots planted with lemon trees and pomegranates, sweet scented roses, beautiful maidens in embroidered silk...
“No, no, no – that is all only decoration with no importance. Hampton court is not needing imagination...”
We meet again later in the afternoon. He immediately launches a fresh attack on Akbar's citadel. He is accompanied by a tall well-built 30 something to whom I plead, “You have to listen to this?”
“Listen?” he says in one of those wondrously casual up-market Home Counties voices. “I've had to listen for three weeks. He's my Dad.”
CRUNCH CRUNCH, THE ELEPHANT
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 28
The researcher for Lonely Planet suggests that Akbar sentenced criminals (a loose term under all-powerful rulers, whether Emperors, Kings or Secretary Generals of the Communist Party) to be trampled to death by his favourite elephant. According to Lonely Planet, Akbar enjoyed watching. A stone tower decorated with hundreds of stone elephant tusks is said to be Akbar's memorial to Crunch Crunch. The FootPrint Handbook, though perhaps more prosaic, is more reliable in matters historical. Both have excellent description of the citadel while Eyewitness contains the best illustrations (this is a personal opinion). Yes, I travel with three guidebooks! And the brilliantly researched History of India by Keays...
LIBERAL?
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 28
For those who admire intricate stone carving, Fatehpur Sikri is superb. Building of the citadel commenced in the 1570s at the command of the Mughal Emperor Akbar. As Emperors go, Akbar was a liberal. Of his three favourite wives, one was Turkish Muslim, one a Hindu princess and the third a Christian from Goa. Of all the citadel, the Diwan-i-Khas (Hall of Private Audience) is most remarkable. Here Akbar sat on a throne raised high on a pillar and debated with philosophers of every faith. The philosophers sat in a circular gallery connected to the throne by four bridges. The pillar head is lotus shaped while the pillar is carved with motifs, Muslim, Hindu, Christian and Buddhist. Akbar is one of two protagonists in Suleman Rushdie's perceptive, gentle and witty novel, The Moor's Last Sigh. Read and enjoy...
WEIRD
FATEPHUR SIKRI: DECMBER 27
You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip though weird is a subjective judgement. I consider riding a tandem pedal bike from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple - plus the very tall, skeletal French couple communicating in plaintive whispers. The man combines careers as an comercially unsucessful musician and reluctant sound engineer in the French movie industry. She does something artistic with puppets (not a biggy in the earning stakes) and no doubt spends hours cooking taste-free vegetarian meals (why am so bitchy?). They have been on a duty visit to his mother who escaped to a Bhudist monastery fifteen years back. This is his third trip to India and he loathes pretty much everything – particularly the food. His companion is a novice. Traveling by bus has thrown her into mental shock and chili has done for her belly.
You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip though weird is a subjective judgement. I consider riding a tandem pedal bike from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple - plus the very tall, skeletal French couple communicating in plaintive whispers. The man combines careers as an comercially unsucessful musician and reluctant sound engineer in the French movie industry. She does something artistic with puppets (not a biggy in the earning stakes) and no doubt spends hours cooking taste-free vegetarian meals (why am so bitchy?). They have been on a duty visit to his mother who escaped to a Bhudist monastery fifteen years back. This is his third trip to India and he loathes pretty much everything – particularly the food. His companion is a novice. Traveling by bus has thrown her into mental shock and chili has done for her belly.
HEAVY TRAFFIC
DECEMBER 27
Last night Muharram at a Lonely Planet doss house in Agra, tonight a Tibetan owned guest house outside the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri discovered today by a few thousand holidayers. All standard accomodation is either full or trebled in price. A kindly local cop leads Francis down a dirt footpath beneath the fortress walls and across a stinking refuse tip into what has tried to grow into a village over the past hundred or so years. The Sunset Guest house is cheap (£1.50 for a single). The welcome is warm. Our fellow guests are a little weird.
ORCHA
ORCHA: DECEMBER 24
Joyful Christmas Eve. 7 a.m. and upright tufts of thin mist float down stream along the far bank of te Betwa river. The sun rises out of the jungle. A lone bird flies up stream, perhaps a cormorant. I must pack and load the bike. Taj Hotels have invited me to spend Christmas at the Usha Kiran Palace in Gwalior.
Joyful Christmas Eve. 7 a.m. and upright tufts of thin mist float down stream along the far bank of te Betwa river. The sun rises out of the jungle. A lone bird flies up stream, perhaps a cormorant. I must pack and load the bike. Taj Hotels have invited me to spend Christmas at the Usha Kiran Palace in Gwalior.
ORCHA
ORCHA: DECEMBER 23
Chaturbhuj Temple was built to contain an image of Rhama. The temple is cruciform to represent the four arms of Krishna. May be – yet stand within the towering space at the juncture of the arms and any European will recognise the familiar echoing majesty of a cathedral...
Chaturbhuj Temple was built to contain an image of Rhama. The temple is cruciform to represent the four arms of Krishna. May be – yet stand within the towering space at the juncture of the arms and any European will recognise the familiar echoing majesty of a cathedral...
ORCHA
ORCHA: DECEMBER 23
A glorious day of exploration accompanying Francis (the Hungarian raised in Germany, and Miyuki from Tokyo. Orcha was founded by the Rajput Rajas of Bundela in 1501. The two main palaces (11 in all) command a rock promontory within a bend of the Betwa river. Every room and every courtyard is designed to capture and channel the cooling breeze off the water. No need for energy-devouring air-conditioning here. What an example for modern architects...
ORCHA
Right, I have most entries transferred from my journal to disc.
Readers will be confused. So am I.ORCHA: DECEMBER 23
A glorious day of exploration accompanying Francis (the Hungarian raised in Germany, and Miyuki from Tokyo. Orcha was founded by the Rajput Rajas of Bundela in 1501. The two main palaces (11 in all) command a rock promontory within a bend of the Betwa river. Every room and every courtyard is designed to capture and channel the cooling breeze off the water. No need for energy-devouring air-conditioning here. What an example for modern architects...
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
OK, one more...
FATEHPUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 29
Last night Muharram, tonight a Tibetan owned guest house outside the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri today discovered by a few thousand holidayers. All standard accommodation is either full or trebled in price. A kindly local cop leads Francis down a dirt footpath beneath the fortress walls and across a refuse dump into what has tried to become a village over the past hundred or so years. The Sunset Guest house is cheap (£1.50 for a single). The welcome is warm. Our fellow guests are a little weird. You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip - though weird is a subjective judgment. I consider riding a tandem from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple.
FATEHPUR SIKRI: DECEMBER 29
Last night Muharram, tonight a Tibetan owned guest house outside the abandoned city of Fatehpur Sikri today discovered by a few thousand holidayers. All standard accommodation is either full or trebled in price. A kindly local cop leads Francis down a dirt footpath beneath the fortress walls and across a refuse dump into what has tried to become a village over the past hundred or so years. The Sunset Guest house is cheap (£1.50 for a single). The welcome is warm. Our fellow guests are a little weird. You probably need to be a little weird to seek a guest house the far side of a refuse tip - though weird is a subjective judgment. I consider riding a tandem from Barcelona weird. The riders are Argentinian. They probably think me weird, septuagenarian on a cafe racer. And Francis and Miyuki on a customised antique Enfield aren't exactly a standard couple.
DECEMBER 26.
From Gwalior I rode to Agra to meet with Francis and Miyuki. We planned to ride together into Rajasthan. We hit Agra on the holiest day in the Sunni calender, Muharram, the day of mourning for the assassinated son-in-law of the Prophet. Drums beat at every corner from dusk till dawn while eight loud-speakers directly outside my bedroom blare the incessant chant: Hassan Hussein, Hassan Hussein. Sleep is impossible. I watch from my window a ballet of whirling stick fights and wonder that Islam's schism should have followed so closely on the Prophet's death.
From Gwalior I rode to Agra to meet with Francis and Miyuki. We planned to ride together into Rajasthan. We hit Agra on the holiest day in the Sunni calender, Muharram, the day of mourning for the assassinated son-in-law of the Prophet. Drums beat at every corner from dusk till dawn while eight loud-speakers directly outside my bedroom blare the incessant chant: Hassan Hussein, Hassan Hussein. Sleep is impossible. I watch from my window a ballet of whirling stick fights and wonder that Islam's schism should have followed so closely on the Prophet's death.
I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day as the guest of the Taj Hotel Group in their hotel, the Usdhan Ka Pallace in Gwalior. The Taj housed me in a small suite. Windows to the East caught the morning sun across a wide lawn. To the north French windows opened to my private garden courtyard where, were this summer, I would loll on a stone bench in the evening and perhaps imagine myself very grand. For now I made do with a bubble bath. Though bath is a misnomer. Granite and mosaic pool is better to which I climbed two marble steps. Back home in England my beloved Bernadette lay curled round a hot water bottle. Our eldest son, Joshua, was home from Leeds for Christmas. When I called yesterday they had a stuffed boned duck in the oven.
My brother and sister-in-law have given my grandson, Charlie, a large twigwam for Christmas. Charlies insisted on it being erected in the living room. I called and my son and daughter-out-of law were in the tent! Charlie, very excited, shrieked what might be a greeting at his Grandpa Oops.
Later in the evening I called my daughter, Anya, in Duchess County, NY - snow and a turkey.The mini suite was divinely comfortable. I, unfortunately, was sick as a pig, coughing, coughing, coughing. Why as a pig? Are pigs sick?
My brother and sister-in-law have given my grandson, Charlie, a large twigwam for Christmas. Charlies insisted on it being erected in the living room. I called and my son and daughter-out-of law were in the tent! Charlie, very excited, shrieked what might be a greeting at his Grandpa Oops.
Later in the evening I called my daughter, Anya, in Duchess County, NY - snow and a turkey.The mini suite was divinely comfortable. I, unfortunately, was sick as a pig, coughing, coughing, coughing. Why as a pig? Are pigs sick?
ORCHA, DECEMBER 22
The bathroom is clean. I am clean. I lie at peace in a vast bed. Black beams divide the ceiling overhead into four. Each segment is painted with a freeze of green leaves, a vase of flowers in each corner and a pattern of pointed arches down the center. Midnight here, six-thirty in England. I call Bernadette.
The bathroom is clean. I am clean. I lie at peace in a vast bed. Black beams divide the ceiling overhead into four. Each segment is painted with a freeze of green leaves, a vase of flowers in each corner and a pattern of pointed arches down the center. Midnight here, six-thirty in England. I call Bernadette.
ORCHA, DECEMBER 22
Miyuki from Tokyo has a head cold and goes to bed. Francis (the Hungarian German Egyptian dive instructor) drinks his Single Malt in my room and talks of his fears of an imminent heart attack. Pains in his chest began shortly after the death of his father, of course from a heart attack. The fear has been with him for more than a year, in the first month so severe that he was unable to leave the house. He suspects that his panics are psychosomatic – or wishes to believe that they are, yet, unconvinced, seeks medical advice – though, as a precaution, deliberately choses doctors whose diagnosis he can discount. At this point in his tale I have to bolt for the lavatory. I get my pants down with a millisecond to spare. The first spasm doubles me up and I fall off the seat in mid defecation. I shout to the dive instructor that he must leave and begin cleaning myself and the batheroom. The dive instructor laughed at himself – so can I.
Miyuki from Tokyo has a head cold and goes to bed. Francis (the Hungarian German Egyptian dive instructor) drinks his Single Malt in my room and talks of his fears of an imminent heart attack. Pains in his chest began shortly after the death of his father, of course from a heart attack. The fear has been with him for more than a year, in the first month so severe that he was unable to leave the house. He suspects that his panics are psychosomatic – or wishes to believe that they are, yet, unconvinced, seeks medical advice – though, as a precaution, deliberately choses doctors whose diagnosis he can discount. At this point in his tale I have to bolt for the lavatory. I get my pants down with a millisecond to spare. The first spasm doubles me up and I fall off the seat in mid defecation. I shout to the dive instructor that he must leave and begin cleaning myself and the batheroom. The dive instructor laughed at himself – so can I.
BACK IN ORCHA
betwa river, orchaBa December 22.
Dinner with a a young American NGO married to a yoga-teaching Ukranian. They live in Cambodia,he running the office of a Conservation Trust while she has founded a Nursery school. A daughter (five?) tells me that her dog died. The dog, so she says, was untrainable and pooped and weed in the house so was kept in the yard. The vet proscribed the dog the wrong medicine, so the daughter says. Given the dog's habits, possibly the right medicine?
Also at our table are an attractive but mostly silent Japanese woman (Miyuki from Tokyo) traveling with a Hungarian born German who has built himself a house outside Sharam Sheikh, Egypt, where he runs a PADI dive school.
Miyuki and Francis met at and decamped from an Ashram in Kerala. Francis owns an ancient Enfield Bullet, much modified and a fast emptying bottle of Single Malt whisky!
BACK IN ORCHA
BUNDLSKHAND RIVERSIDE HOTEL, ORCHA, DECEMBER 22
Guests meet before dinner in a circle of easy chairs arranged round an open fire. Musicians play and sing softly. The hotel manager introduces me to a captain in the Indian Army Air Corps and to a young couple (architects) with baby daughter from LA. His family is from Pakistan, Moslem. She is Hindu. The daughter will have interesting choices. A young relative of the Maharajah sits beside me. He is waiting to be told of the approaching train for Delhi. A keen biker (Enfield Bullet and new Yamaha 250), he accuses we tourists of being interested only in fringes of the subcontinent and ignoring India's heartland. He extols a ride through gloriously forested hills where streams tumble into crystal pools.The station master telephones to announce the approaching train - no time for me to write down the magic route.
Guests meet before dinner in a circle of easy chairs arranged round an open fire. Musicians play and sing softly. The hotel manager introduces me to a captain in the Indian Army Air Corps and to a young couple (architects) with baby daughter from LA. His family is from Pakistan, Moslem. She is Hindu. The daughter will have interesting choices. A young relative of the Maharajah sits beside me. He is waiting to be told of the approaching train for Delhi. A keen biker (Enfield Bullet and new Yamaha 250), he accuses we tourists of being interested only in fringes of the subcontinent and ignoring India's heartland. He extols a ride through gloriously forested hills where streams tumble into crystal pools.The station master telephones to announce the approaching train - no time for me to write down the magic route.
EXCUSES, EXCUSES, EXCUSES
I arrived in India on December 8. My first rickshaw ride across Delhi did for my lungs - three weeks of bronchitis plus various days of dysentery. Add that most every place that I have visited suffers frequent electricity cuts - usually when I am about to upload onto the Internet - and when there is electricity the Internet connection is often down - then readers may understand why this Blog is chaotic. So here follows a few entries from my diary that never reached the net
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
COLD SNAP IN A HOT CLIMATE
JANUARY 13
7 a.m. at the Simla Hotel in the Rajasthan desert town of Jaisalmer and the day is trying to get light which is fortunate as the electricity cut out some time back. I am huddled under three layers of thick wool blanket. For the past hour, I have been reading Hunter S Thompson by the light of a Leathermam flashlight. Toby Brocklehurst insisted I would need the flashlight – wise advice given that electricity cuts are common as cockroaches.
North India is suffering a cold snap and under the blankets is the only all-body warmth available after sunset in Jaisalmer. All good restaurants in Jaisalmer advertise magnificent views of the fort from the roof terrace - great for a warm evenings, miserable in a cold snap. Miyuki and Francis have developed an antipathy to Indian curry and we ate Korean last night in the company of some forty Korean juveniles dressed for an Everest expedition (I am packed for the beach). The stew and the soup required two hours preparation. Miyuki telephoned our order in mid afternoon – as if ordering ahead would speed the serving. The cold was a reminder of Bernadette's favorite shaggy dog story: a baby polar bear questions whether he really is a polar bear. If I'm a polar bear, how come I'm freezing my butt off?
Polar bear stories don't do it for Miyuki. Disaster is Japanese humour. We were joined at dinner by a Japanese man whose entire Indian trip has been one ghastly rip-off after another. Miyuki shrieked delight at every detail. Now she is up on the hotel roof giggling away with the disaster prone Japanese, bitterly cold, no electricity, no hot water, the sun not up, and Francis suffering a bout of dysentery. Hilarious...
I do have hot water. I shall uncurl in a little while, shower, take my medication, dress in five layers and stroll to the German bakery for a breakfast of freshly baked croissant and strong coffee – and a wifi connection once the electricty comes back on.
7 a.m. at the Simla Hotel in the Rajasthan desert town of Jaisalmer and the day is trying to get light which is fortunate as the electricity cut out some time back. I am huddled under three layers of thick wool blanket. For the past hour, I have been reading Hunter S Thompson by the light of a Leathermam flashlight. Toby Brocklehurst insisted I would need the flashlight – wise advice given that electricity cuts are common as cockroaches.
North India is suffering a cold snap and under the blankets is the only all-body warmth available after sunset in Jaisalmer. All good restaurants in Jaisalmer advertise magnificent views of the fort from the roof terrace - great for a warm evenings, miserable in a cold snap. Miyuki and Francis have developed an antipathy to Indian curry and we ate Korean last night in the company of some forty Korean juveniles dressed for an Everest expedition (I am packed for the beach). The stew and the soup required two hours preparation. Miyuki telephoned our order in mid afternoon – as if ordering ahead would speed the serving. The cold was a reminder of Bernadette's favorite shaggy dog story: a baby polar bear questions whether he really is a polar bear. If I'm a polar bear, how come I'm freezing my butt off?
Polar bear stories don't do it for Miyuki. Disaster is Japanese humour. We were joined at dinner by a Japanese man whose entire Indian trip has been one ghastly rip-off after another. Miyuki shrieked delight at every detail. Now she is up on the hotel roof giggling away with the disaster prone Japanese, bitterly cold, no electricity, no hot water, the sun not up, and Francis suffering a bout of dysentery. Hilarious...
I do have hot water. I shall uncurl in a little while, shower, take my medication, dress in five layers and stroll to the German bakery for a breakfast of freshly baked croissant and strong coffee – and a wifi connection once the electricty comes back on.
QUIRKY HOTEL
JANUARY 10
We are booked into the Simla hotel within the fortress. The Simla is a six-room 550-year-old haveli of golden sandstone. The conversion is imaginative. Rooms descend in cost and comfort from first-floor quirky opulence to ground-floor somber meditation cells. My room was once the first floor cloister overlooking a small marble-paved central courtyard. Carved sandstone pillars support the ceiling of polished wood. One corner is walled off as a bathroom with steaming hot shower, hand-basin set in a marble slab and a sit-down lavatory with an effective flush. Much of the rest is an L shaped platform covered with good foam mattresses and piled with bolsters and cushions and pillows of every hue. Arabian nights quirky – so where is the hubble-bubble?
We are booked into the Simla hotel within the fortress. The Simla is a six-room 550-year-old haveli of golden sandstone. The conversion is imaginative. Rooms descend in cost and comfort from first-floor quirky opulence to ground-floor somber meditation cells. My room was once the first floor cloister overlooking a small marble-paved central courtyard. Carved sandstone pillars support the ceiling of polished wood. One corner is walled off as a bathroom with steaming hot shower, hand-basin set in a marble slab and a sit-down lavatory with an effective flush. Much of the rest is an L shaped platform covered with good foam mattresses and piled with bolsters and cushions and pillows of every hue. Arabian nights quirky – so where is the hubble-bubble?
JAISALMER
JANUARY 10
Jaisalmer is romantic. The 17th century citadel on the hill dominating Jaisalmer is built of golden sandstone as are the temples and havelis and palaces within the walls - in India there are always palaces. Perhaps unique amongst India's citadels, Jaisalmer fortress remains home to some hundreds of families so beware children and cows and goats as you ride the narrow, stone-paved streets. And beware the touts selling desert crafts and desert trips and desert whatever. They would sell the sand if they could...
But, above all, Jaisalmer people are friendly – as Pushkar people are friendly. Hence the town is way up there as a hangout for backpacker kids in search of enlightenment (or a bhang lassie).
Jaisalmer is romantic. The 17th century citadel on the hill dominating Jaisalmer is built of golden sandstone as are the temples and havelis and palaces within the walls - in India there are always palaces. Perhaps unique amongst India's citadels, Jaisalmer fortress remains home to some hundreds of families so beware children and cows and goats as you ride the narrow, stone-paved streets. And beware the touts selling desert crafts and desert trips and desert whatever. They would sell the sand if they could...
But, above all, Jaisalmer people are friendly – as Pushkar people are friendly. Hence the town is way up there as a hangout for backpacker kids in search of enlightenment (or a bhang lassie).
SLALOM TEENAGER
JANUARY 10.
Jodhpur to Jaisalmer is a great ride of 300 kilometers on a good-surface two-lane highway across the desert. Traffic is minimal. The Enfield bumbles along at a steady 58 Ks while I play teenager on the cafe racer, slaloming the central road markings. Two slender gazelle watch me. A covey of sand grouse scurry through thin scrub. A peacock stands on a dry stone wall at the entrance to a village.
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