WICKED WOMEN WITH MEDIA CAREERS

GOA: FEBRUARY 11
First I am pampered by the Taj. Then I am pampered by two Dutch friends who take me to a Burmese restaurant, Bombas, for dinner followed by a party at the home of a wealthy Delhiite. The dinner is as fine as any I have eaten. Prawns? Naturally - raw tuna, tender beef, chicken salad, etc etc etc etc etc, plus a gently lethal but delicious drink, the Bombas special. The Delhiite's home is modern and built on a lagoon. Water reflects overhanging trees. An Italian male struts his stuff in golden shoes and platinum self-regard. Two young women, Brits from west London via Solihull, grandparents from the sub-continent, coo their admiration of Italian men. Italian men have such wonderful taste. The Italian preens while the wicked ones extend their admiration to cover every aspect of male peacock self-adulation. Perhaps an hour passes before doubt creeps beneath the Italian's carapace. Doubt turns to certainty. He flees. His persecutors prance in victory. The Dutch drop me back at the Taj. Wash, teeth in a glass, heart medication, read birthday Emails from my children then lie in bed and call Bernadette. I wish she were here.
But a good birthday?
Yes, one of the best.

FAMILY FEELING

GOA: FEBRUARY 11






1) happy helmet








2) good place to work














Before leaving England, I wrote in a article for the London Times that I would beg, borrow or steal for a night at the Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodphur. The Umaid Bhawan is Paradise for any lover of art deco. I spent two nights in blissful comfort. Yet more important were the days of exploration with one of the front desk managers and the discovery of so many extraordinary treasures of the period.
For Christmas I stayed in the Taj hotel at Gwalior, a palace built by the Maharaja as a guest cottage for King George V. I was suffering from bronchitis which antibiotics had failed to shift. The chef blended a herbal tea that worked a miracle.
I write of these visits today because I am being so totally spoiled and need to say thank you. Thank you not only for the comfort and the cosseting, but even more for the welcome. One of the managers, Derek, yesterday took me for a drive up to the old Portuguese fort. Rather than a courtesy car, we used the hotel work jeep. Because they didn't think of me as a guest, Derek explained, but as a member of the Taj family. Derek is Goan with University degrees in everything from ecology to law. I had lunch today at the restaurant above the sea - pan fried sea bream. Delicious! Derek arrived with a two-man Happy Birthday orchestra and presented me with a ribbon-tied coffee table book on Goa. So do I feel special? Yes. Is this part of the Taj experience? Perhaps. And yet there is something more and it for this that I wish to offer gratitude - not only of being made to feel part of a family but of a family of which I am immensely proud.

BIRTHDAY BOY

GOA: FEBRUARY 11


1)view's good,too










2) birthday cake unveiled

















Today is my 77th birthday so please forgive me if I skip ahead to the present. I ride faster than I write - a disadvantage for a travel writer - and, though trying to catch up, have been unsuccessful. Daman is behind me. So is the charming small coastal town of Murud south of Mumbai/Bombay and Malvan a little north of the Goa border. And, yes, I have eaten many a prawn!
For my birthday I am staying as a guest of the Taj Hotel Group at their beach resort in Goa. I am housed in a small cottage, really a luxurious minny suite, though with a private garden rather than a terrace. I have been writing this morning at a table in the garden. A waiter has delivered a chocolate birthday cake with candles and a card from management. I feel treasured - a sentiment echoed this morning by a couple from the Cambridgeshire Fens.

CAMERONES, PRAWNS, WHATEVER

I have written often that Om never did it for me. Camerones is my key to a state of blissful oneness with the universe, the Spanish word for prawns - though Prawns doesn't carry the same mystical power. No need for the Lotus position. An upright chair at a table is fine and a waiter for Guru. “Camerones,” I pray, “Grilled with chillies and garlic...” or in a spicy Veracruz tomato sauce. Oh, the incense...
Rajasthan, being a desert, doesn't do prawns.
Now I am into Gujarat. Veradora is a one night way station. Ask for directions and I draw a blank while Baroda (the old name) achieves an immediate response (nor did any Indian I met at the Jaipur Literary Festival speak of Mumbai or Mollywood). I digress. My original intention was to explain why I am speeding down the main highway for the coastal town of Daman, once a Portuguese territory. Daman has good restaurants serving great sea food.

WOMEN ARE BEASTS OF BURDEN

Good-bye to the not-Maharaja and the good people of Dhariyawad. Off again on a narrow road through small villages and lush fields of wheat, borders shaded by trees, leaves stirring in a light morning breeze, scents of fresh cow dung and freshly irrigated soil. This is the India of my imagination, the India I came to visit. I am a country boy. Send me up to London for four days from my beloved Herefordshire and I am often back on the evening train. So remember, Old Man, don't get trapped again. Stop sight seeing. Start experiencing. Yet sight seeing is easy. A past of temples and fortresses and palaces protects you from reality. Read history rather than the newspaper. Don't notice, as I must, the trail of village women balancing on their heads loads of wood. The weight forces them to take small rapid steps. Beasts of burden, whether with child or cargo, such is their lot. And the men? Still gathered to discuss the implications of Sunday's election. Will this or that permit be more easily acquired? Or Is five years of obsequious attention to a minor elected official wasted? This is India's rural politics.

THE GIANT FLYING SQUIRREL HUNT

The hunt is on for giant brown flying squirrels. In fact they don't fly. They glide. And they are nocturnal. The not-Maharaja's majordomo is the expert. We depart at 1730 in the hotel's World War One jeep. So they didn't have jeeps in WW One. Nor have you ridden in the Dhariyawad jeep. It predates suspension. It probably predates God.
The squirrel sanctuary is 18 kilometers up the bad road on which I arrived yesterday. A painter of zero talent has painted squirrels on the tall stone walls surrounding the sanctuary. The majordomo parks on the roadside beside the well outside the gates. The squirrel warden brings a bucket. Well water transforms the jeep's radiator into a steam geyser.
Now for the squirrels. The majordomo connects a powerful flash lamp to the jeep's battery and points to the center tree of three, possibly mangoes, growing between the sanctuary wall and the road. The warden, also with a lamp, assures me that squirrels will materialise at 1845 hours. I sit on a stone bench beneath the trees and wait in company with a small cloud of mosquitoes. Fortunately the mosquitoes dislike Deet. Night descends. Warden and majordomo shine their lamps on the tree. I see a small black face with pointed nose and bright eyes, plump body, bushy tail - at a guess three times the size of the grey squirrels living in the cedar tree shading our garden.
The lamps discover two more.
The warden rushes me directly under the tree. The squirrels disappear. I saw them fly?
“Absolutely, wonderful...” or so I reassure the warden and tip him 100 rupees.
Back we bump to the Fort where I am served an excellent dinner on the terrace. So ends a blissful day. Thank you, Dhariyawad.

SNEER-FREE BANKERS!

Plastic is the magic wand enabling modern travel. Magic is unreliable. I expect the worst each time I insert my card in an ATM. Or to mix metaphors, the Sword of Damocles accompanies me. The thread snaps in Dhariyawad. I refuse to panic. Or I refuse to accept that I am panicking. I stroll back to the Fort, sit on the terrace and call Smile, the E-Bank. The Fraud Department has blocked my card. Someone has been trying to use it with the wrong Pin. Not me. My Pin is etched in my memory with emotional gore. The card is unblocked. I must now institute an unblocking procedure at the ATM. The procedure doesn't exist in India. I consult the staff at the Dhariyawad bank. They advise that the card will probably work in 24 hours, meanwhile why I don't I join them for tea and a leisurely chat...?

CLEAN SWEEP

fort terrace and garden

Sunrise in Dhariyawad. The Congress Party has swept the board. The spoils must be divided - small groups of male activists gather on the lawn below the hotel terrace. I watch the not-Maharaja mingle, affable, contented. Seeking greater privacy, a couple drift away. The elder gives instructions. The younger nods. Victory music blares from loud speakers in the bazaar. Later starts the victory procession. The not-Maharaja leads in his jeep. Small hatchbacks follow, motorcyclists two abreast. A tight group of women in sari glad-rags smile respectful support from beyond the arches - so much for equality of the sexes. The procession moves away through the bazaar and market square. The music stops. I am in search of an ATM. The majordomo leads, murmuring greetings left and right - a semi-semi royal progress. I follow in his footsteps – traditionally the woman's place. The ATM won't pay. Bloody Hell... Back to the Fort and back to work.
Firecrackers and drum beat herald Congress foot-soldiers. The brave spill through the archway into the Fort's parking lot. A fresh fire-cracker volley and drum roll encourages the timid. They have come to pay homage only to find the not-Maharaja absent. More fire crackers, more rattle of drums, then off they troop, supporters of no importance now the vote is in.

WHY VISIT DHARIYAWAD?

There is no logical reason for visiting Dhariyawad. To get there you take National Highway 79 east from Udaipur and turn south after Bhatewar down a crumbling single track road for fifty Ks – not a comforting experience for the nervous. The road passes through a forest, mostly teak. Teak, when shedding its leaves, looks more dead than alive. The forest is a wild-life sanctuary. Langur monkeys are common – as they are elsewhere. The fortunate may spot four-horned antelope, niglai, possibly a jackal or hyena. The miraculously fortunate (or imaginative) may even spot a panther stalk the shadows – though I doubt that even the evening flight of giant flying squirrels warrants the drive. So let me offer a very different experience: a rest from sight-seeing, escape from the tourist route.
Dhariyawad is an Indian country market town at the confluence of the Jakham and Karmoi rivers. No havelis here tarted up as guest houses, no restaurants promising veg and non-veg, Chinese, Italian, Continental (all of which taste the same), no tiresome tourist touts. Drive through the market and through the bazaar. At the T-junction turn right through the pointed key-hole arches emblazoned with a radiant sun smiling over a Rajput moustache - the massive wooden doors should be open - and you enter a 16th century mini Paradise. This is the domain of the eldest living son of the eldest son of the last Maharaja of Dhariyawad. The sixteen spacious rooms and suites offer total peace, comfortable beds, comfortable easy chairs and always a desk. Bathrooms are huge, water hot, proper towels. Dine outdoors on the terrace or upstairs in the dinning room. I am here for full moon. What could be more romantic?
Only at breakfast do I realise why I feel so at home. The Fort has the feel of a small manor house in an English village or off a Cathedral Close, though too small to be a Bishop's palace. Arches are a different shape, servants more numerous, home-made marmalade marginally less chunky. But the feel is there, peaceful, unpretentious, timeless, embedded in the community. What joy to be able to stay a month, ride horse-back, bird watch, explore tribal villages, wander the bazaar without being nagged with buy buy buy. Yes, and tell tall tales later of the panther seen while following a forest guide...

THE NOT-MAHARAJA

bazaar on election day


The owner of the Fort Dhariyawad hotel would be the Maharaja if such titles had not been abolished by India's post Independence dictator, Indira Ghandi. He is also President of the local branch of Congress, India's ruling and dominant political Party. This is election day for mayors and District assemblies - the village gatherings are explained. The not-Maharaja has been out marshaling his men (no women) to get the vote in. A moment to greet me, then back to oversee the count!

ROAD TO PARADISE

Following eleven days of imprisonment in Jaipur, the ride to Bundi was a confidence builder. Today I follow a minor road south west through dark emerald wheat fields and small villages. The oncoming traffic is mostly bikers delivering milk to town – presumably to a dairy to be transformed into cheese and curd. Four churns is the standard load. A few men manage six. The churns are copper and bell bottomed.
Here, way off the highway, riding through villages demands extra caution. The tarmac is already sun-warmed and the street is extra living space. A cow dozes in the sun; a woman combs out her hair; men gather round a spectacled reader of a newspaper. Men and women are dressed in Sunday best. The only people working are the milk delivery men and bus drivers. Is today one more of India's innumerable holidays?
An egret pretends to be a heron on the borders of a shallow reed-rimmed lake. The road zigzags up and crosses a barren plateau cratered with stone quarries, then down to more wheat fields and finally meets the four-lane Highway 76.
The highway is almost deserted. The concrete surface is excellent and the Honda cruises happily at 90 KPH (yes, I'm a real speed freak). Then follows 100 Ks of dilatory meandering down mostly single track tar. Men have gathered in every village. Serious faced, they squat and talk quietly in the shade of flat topped thorn or mango trees, few women visible, and most shops closed as I ride through the narrow main street of the bazar in the small market town of Dhariyawad. I turn in through the key-hole entrance arches to the Fort and my day is done. I have ridden 368 kilometers ending with 40 Ks of tinder-dry forest. My butt is numb but what a totally joyous ride.

ARE MUSLIM GRANDFATHERS MORE RELIABLE

I go in search of breakfast at a cafe across the street. A male toddler in a yellow bed cap tied under the chin, no pants, points at me. I point back. He giggles coyly. His dad sweeps him up and tells him to shake my hand. He whimpers. His mum grabs him and ducks back through a low doorway.
The teenage help at the cafe says there's no fresh orange juice because there's no electricity.
However, not all men are useless. Proof is a bearded Muslim grandfather in a white skull cap, knee-length white shirt and loose white cotton trousers riding four children to infants school on a older model Honda 125 – three on the pillion, one straddling the gas tank. I follow in his wake. Farewell to Bundi.

CASTE PROBLEMS

Sunday: January 31.
I love this room. Out of bed at 7 am. The Buddhist nuclear engineer is meditating. Eyes closed, he sits facing the morning sun in the lotus position. A josh stick has replaced the herbal. I pack and hump my bag and backpack downstairs and load the bike then return to an upper courtyard in search of a bill. The owner is a small kindly man of my generation. The haveli was built by his great grandfather, Prime Minister of the State in the days of the Maharajas. He his helped in running the guest house by family members. There is so much that could be done to improve the place: fix the lavatory cistern in my room, freshen paintwork, tidy the lake-side garden - simple tasks that, were this our home, Bernadette and I would enjoy. The owners are the wrong cast. They don't do manual and they can't afford help...so the lovely building crumbles.

MONKEYS DON'T MEDITATE

The roof is a way station for monkeys on their evening trek home to the fort. One picks up a torn black T shirt from the parapet and shakes it aloft. The shirt envelops his head. Blinded, he chatters with fear and tears at the cotton. The shirt catches on a water pipe and drags loose. Off he scampers. I go in search of a shave and dinner.

DON''T PANIC - OR MAY BE YOU SHOULD

I share a stone bench on the terrace with the Austrian Buddhist and gaze with joy across the roof tops at the palace cascading down the hillside. Ancient walls glow in the misty evening sunlight – so does the herbal cigarette the Buddhist offers. I decline politely and wonder that a Buddhist smoker should earn his bread as a technical engineer at a Swiss nuclear power station. Easy there, don't panic but do remember to say your prayers.

220 K DODDLE

Jaipur south to Bundi is a 220K doddle through flat farmland on a good road. Indian Bundi is an industrial city. Tourist Bundi is a thin strip of 17th and 18th century havelis converted into hotels and guest houses with roof top restaurants. For tourists the attractions are the 13th century fort and decaying palace. Both Footprint and Lonely Planet recommend Lake View Paying Guest House. The lake is a square tank half full with green scum. A kindly Austrian Buddhist hikes my camel bag up three flights of steep stone stairs and across the flat roof to my 400 Rupee room. I follow slowly with backpack and helmet and collapse on a king-size bed. Survive the climb and the room is heaven, sofa, easy chair and upholstered lolling space beneath arched windows that filter sunlight through stained glass. Murals of painted flowers and garden greenery surround the windows. The ceiling border is gold and blue. A mural of a smiling young woman livens the wall beside the bathroom door. So the bathroom is basic. Big deal...

PANASONIC BRONCHITIS

I am invited to a Muslim household for dinner this evening. Mutton biryani and liver are on the menu. Yum! India is great - however pollution in the cities is a danger to old men with a chest problem. One day in Delhi gave me bronchitis. Jaipur has taken eight days. I take the bus to Delhi and back tomorrow, twelve hours, to retrieve my camera from the vile (though official) Panasonic Agency. Has it been repaired? Of course not! I head south the following day for Goa, fresh fish and that essential of any Paradise, prawns grilled with chili and garlic. Brrrmmmm Brrrmmmm...

JAIPUR LITERARY FESTIVAL

Others were present, speakers both serious and comic. Of the comic, wondrous were Brigid Keenan recounting a King and I style solo dance with the President of Kazakhstan and Geoff Dyer queueing at an ATM in Varanasi. Larry White (The Looming Tower)fascinated with his knowledge of Islamic terrorism. Wole Soyinka was both poetic and regal. Of course there were more, Tina Brown, Tony Wheeler (founder of Lonely Planet) and a hilarious debate on Scotland as the West's Belarus between Alexander McCall Smith, Andrew O'Hagan, Professor Neil Ferguson and William Dalrymple. William Dalrymple was everywhere, even reading at length from his latest book from the stage during an evening of startlingly varied and always brilliant music.

JAIPUR LITERARY FESTIVAL

I am back in Jaipur for the Literary Festival. I leave the guesthouse at 8 a.m and return around 10.30 p.m. I have been doing this for five days. How was the experience? Always interesting. Sometimes hilarious. And best of all, new friends and an invitation to Lagos for my 78th birthday (should I live so long). Two young Nigerian writers listened while a third interviewed me at length. Why me? God knows.
We talked (or I talked) of my African experiences and of turning my back on Africa. Time I returned, they said, rediscover my original love for the continent. They will put me up at a boutique hotel, have me ride a way with the local Biker Club, try myself out on the dance floor, experiment with a new drink or two, give a few readings, a few interviews, film a little. And they promise me a few days recuperation out on the beach. No politics. Strictly fun - which is something I think I can hack.
Best of all was their energy and humour and their warmth.

THE 60s MOVED TO PUSHKAR

PUSHKAR, RAJASTHAN: January 20
I had thought that the 60s died. They simply moved to Pushkar...