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.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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.
Saturday, January 09, 2010
TOUGH DAY AT THE OFFICE
tough day at the office
There have been moments today when I wondered whether I had been killed on the road to Jodhpur and wafted direct to Paradise - though a quick perusal of my past puts paid to the possibility. In love with a building? Why not? And not to love the Umaid Bhawan is impossible. The same is true of the staff. Whether senior management or gardener, all are both charming and considerate. Obsessive myself, I am stunned here by meticulous detail after detail both in the architecture and in the service. In late afternoon I strolled down the garden to the heated outdoor pool. Beyond stood the great fortress of Jodhpur, massive on its rock plateau. Behind lay the palace, sandstone glowing in the evening sun.
Friday, January 08, 2010
OFFAL ORGY
Back home in Herefordshire Roger Gill from Cradley and I take turns cooking a weekly lunch of those dishes we relish and which our loved ones won't eat. Offal is most frequently on the menu. So this Blog is for Roger Gill. Dinner at the Umaid Bhawan Palace, Jodhpur. The Palace boasts three restaurants. I chose the Indian. Spiced lamb liver and kidneys lightly grilled to begin followed by a curry of minced sheep's brains together with breast of chicken curried in a cream and cashew nut sauce. Good? Outstanding!!!!
ART DECO GLORY
The art deco Umaid Bhawan in Johdpur and the Persian Itmad-Ud-Daulah in Agra do it for me. Those two alone make as visit to India worthwhile. To create a palace as vast as Umaid Bhawan demanded extraordinary courage from the architect and an obsessive attention not only to detail but to a continuity of decorative vision. The result is breath taking. Check out the web site.
HEAVEN
Bronchitis and dysentery combined with the pollution and insane traffic of India's heartland left me exhausted. I fled to the deserts of Rajasthan, four days of crystal air in Pushka, pilgrimage town both for devout Hindus and Western Dreadlocks in search of enlightenment through Bhang lassies. I worked! An article for The Lady and an article for MCN - very different in tone and content!
Today I sped westward on an almost empty road to Jodhpur where I have been invited to stay at the Umaid Bhawan Palace, most glorious of Royal residencies. I arrived at 6 p.m. and had a blissfully hot shower before basking in a vast hot tub. A second shower after the tub and I am ready for dinner.
Today I sped westward on an almost empty road to Jodhpur where I have been invited to stay at the Umaid Bhawan Palace, most glorious of Royal residencies. I arrived at 6 p.m. and had a blissfully hot shower before basking in a vast hot tub. A second shower after the tub and I am ready for dinner.
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