Cashless in Kerala

By Helen Krasner

My partner David and I like holidays on boats.  Not ships, you understand; I've been on a couple of cruises, but I wouldn't go again.  A large cruise ship can't go to the smaller ports, and visiting places with thousands of other people alters the place itself beyond recognition; I know; I've been in a few towns when a cruise ship arrived and I've seen the changes.  But smaller boats… they give you the opportunity see the countryside in a unique way, and to relax and not have to keep packing in order to move on.  So when we decided to go to India, the first thing we looked for was a river trip.  And we found one – a cruise down the Hoogly in Northern India.  But there was a snag; it was horrendously expensive.  So I began to search the internet for something similar but cheaper elsewhere in India.  And that was how I found the company Kerala Connections, and their six-day houseboat cruise in Kerala, right in the south of India.

I had been to India before, and I loved South India.  But that was 45 years ago in my misspent youth.  And I'd never made it to Kerala; I'd heard it was beautiful and I'd intended to go, but I'd run out of time or money or both before I could make it.  Now I started looking into it.  Very green, very tropical, different from the rest of India in terms of religion and politics… it sounded interesting.  And it was intersected everywhere with waterways – rivers, lagoons, and canals.  Tourism was growing there, and the boats which had been used for transporting rice in former times had been turned into houseboats for taking tourists on trips on the waterways.  Everyone said a houseboat trip was the highlight of a visit to Kerala.  But most people only went for a day, or overnight, or occasionally two nights.  No-one seemed to have heard of spending six days on a houseboat.  Kerala Connections had had it specially arranged for their clients, it seemed, since some people wanted to spend longer on the waterways, and have the opportunity to get well away from the myriad of other houseboats and tourists.  We liked that idea too.  The company arranged tailormade tours, and they suggested the houseboat cruise as part of a longer stay in Kerala.  With that in mind, I came up with three nights in historic Fort Cochin, then the houseboat trip, and a couple of nights in other places afterwards.  I ran it by Kerala Connections to see if it was feasible and affordable – and it was.  We booked it, with Kerala Connections arranging flights, transfers and so on.  What could possibly go wrong?

As some of you may know, on 8 November 2016, the Indian government suddenly and without warning withdrew their largest bank notes, the 100 rupee (£24) and 500 rupee (£11).  The idea was to hit the black marketeers where it hurts, but in fact it hit ordinary people, who suddenly found their money worthless.  It also affected tourists who were already there.  We heard about this and phoned Kerala Connections, as we would be arriving in India on 14 November.  Not to worry, they said.  Their reps and drivers would show us the new 2000 rupee and 500 rupee notes, and we should have no trouble changing money. I should mention that it is impossible to obtain Indian money before you leave the UK.

They were wrong.  When we arrived, the everyday money situation was chaos.  We managed to change a small amount at the airport, but there was a limit of £60.  Banks were running out of money and closing, as were ATMs.  Smaller denomination notes were in short supply, the new 500 rupee note hadn't materialised, and nobody could change 2000 rupees, a small fortune for many Indians.  Tourists were spending all day trying to change money, with no success.

This is the sort of situation which makes you glad you've booked with a tour company and not arranged things independently.  Our Indian driver took away some of our cash, changed it and brought it back to us.  He even got us some small denomination notes.  We had no idea how he managed it and we didn't ask too many questions.  But that was a big problem – and to be honest our only problem – effectively solved.

So… on to the trip.  After a pleasant couple of days of sightseeing and shopping in Fort Kochin, it was an hour's drive down to Alleppey to pick up our houseboat.  And it really was ours for the week.   It was just the two of us, and three crew – the captain, the chef, and an assistant.  Wow; we felt a bit like royalty!  The houseboat itself looked very traditional externally, but inside it was utterly comfortable and quite luxurious.  We had a large bedroom with our own flush toilet and shower.  Both worked well, though they did use river water.  This was  a lot nicer than it sounds, as the waterways in Kerala aren't too polluted… yet!  Still, it meant bottled water for drinking, even for teeth cleaning.  There was a large living room/dining room, with comfy chairs, and a mattress in the front where we could sprawl out and look at the view as we cruised.  There was quite a reasonable kitchen, and the crew's quarters were down below.

We met our crew when we arrived.  Joss, the captain, spoke reasonable though rather idiosyncratic English, and was responsible for the route.  He knew the waterways like the back of his hand, having been a captain on the Kerala government ferryboats for 20 years before taking his present job.  Biju, the chef, prepared fantastic food, basically South Indian but very mild for what he thought was European tastes.  I love Indian food, so after a day or so I asked him to make it “a little bit spicy” and it got even better.  Wu the assistant spoke very little English, helped out where needed, and drove the boat when Joss needed a rest.  The very few boating mishaps we had occurred when Wu took over; he managed to get a rope snarled round the propeller one day, and scared us a little by how close he sometimes went to shore.  But I don't think most people would have noticed.  David, who spent five years living on a narrowboat before he met me, was very attuned to these sorts of things.  Indeed, although he had started out worried about how he'd cope with a very different culture, David found more similarities than differences between boating in the UK and boating in Kerala.  He felt quite at home.

So where did we go for six days?  The first couple of days we followed the same route as many other houseboats, and indeed saw rather too many of them for a couple who are allergic to other tourists.  But we also visited an uninhabited island in a lake, then walked to a village to see coir making i.e. making coconut fibre rope in the traditional manner.  We went to a bird sanctuary which didn't have many birds, probably due to being on the main tourist route and having too many visitors for any self-respecting bird.  This involved a walk of several miles in 33 degree heat and nearly 100% humidity, and after that we gave Joss an ultimatum – only little walks please, no more route marches.   We were able to do that since this was our boat and our trip; Kerala Connections had emphasised in advance that we could change the route or stops if we wanted to.  We stopped at a waterside spa for me to have an ayurvedic massage.  And we sat and watched waterways life -  fishermen, various types of boats, exotic birds such as kingfishers, herons, and egrets, tropical fish, even a watersnake or two.  We moored overnight in silent waterside locations, and woke to sunrise over coconut palms, and freshly brewed coffee before breakfast.  The crew did everything on board; indeed, we hardly had to lift a finger.  It was utterly idyllic.

In between stops there wasn't really much to do.  Luckily we enjoy just relaxing and taking in new surroundings.  We also read a lot of books!  And we got to know our crew quite well.  Joss was an interesting person; in his early sixties, he had two teenage daughters.  “I didn't get married until very late,” he told us.  “I had three sisters, and I had to work to earn their dowries.”  We listened, intrigued, as he told us of a father who was out of work, and so Joss needed to support the family.  Eventually his sisters were married, and then came his turn.  “I married a poor girl,” he said.  “So no dowry.”  However, he was saving for the dowries for his own two daughters.  We wondered many things – would he ever be able to retire, did everyone in India still live in this traditional manner and so on?  Unfortunately we never managed to find out.

Biju didn't speak as much English as Joss, so we didn't have as much general conversation with him.  But I'll never forget asking him to make Earl Grey tea for me.  I'd brought my own tea bags, and he was quite willing to use them – but he'd never seen a tea bag before and he didn't know how.  So he learned something too.

After a couple of days things changed a little, though it was very gradual.   We were heading south, away from Alleppey and the tourist centres.  We soon found ourselves well away from other houseboats, but with many villages and a way of life based primarily on the waterways.  Here the rivers and canals played a bigger part in everyday life than the roads, as they had done for generations.  Canoes passed us, transporting rice, cattle feed and building materials; women washed their clothes in the rivers, and the village children waited at bus stops by the side of the river for water-buses to transport them home.  We stopped at a number of these villages, as we had told Joss we were interested in how people lived.  He showed us around beautiful churches, as Kerala has a large number of Christians.  I think he was a little surprised at our interest in dusty village streets and ordinary small shops but, if that was what we wanted to see, that was fine with him.

One of the highlights was a visit to an important Hindu temple, well off the tourist routes, but a place of pilgrimage, with a large number of pilgrim buses visiting.  We visited with Biju and Wu, who were Hindus (Joss was Christian), and were allowed inside with all the pilgrims, something which I gather is very rare.  It was quite an experience. 

On our last day, we went to a part of the waterways rarely visited by anyone at all.  It was necessary to go under a very low bridge at one point, and we only just made it.  I don't think this was on our planned route, but Joss was a law unto himself as far as the route was concerned.  He knew the waterways, and he thought we'd like this area, so he took us there.  For several hours we saw almost nothing except abundant wildlife, not even local boats.  There were a few houses, the occasional person going about their business by the waterways, but not much else.  This was true rural Kerala, an area rarely seen by tourists, and probably not by many locals.  It was peaceful and beautiful, and I feel privileged to have been there.

And then...  It was back with the other houseboats, heading north to Alleppey.  Our last night was close to the finish, where we had a canoe ride up a narrow waterway.  It was supposed to be a highlight, and it might have been if we'd done a short trip, but we'd seen so much more...  The following morning we reached the houseboat centre, and said goodbye to our crew, giving them a well-deserved large tip… well, we had to get rid of our 2000 rupee notes somehow!  We had a couple of days left, but the main part of the holiday, and our primary reason for coming to Kerala, was over.

We both agreed that this had been one of the best holidays we'd ever had.  It was unique and fascinating.  But would I recommend it?  Well, if you're the sort of person who wants constant activity and plenty to do, who needs organised activities and night life, you probably shouldn't go.  If you do, maybe just do a day, or overnight at most, on a houseboat.  But if, like us, you like wild places, new experiences, and finding out about local life and traditions, then this might well be the holiday for you.

See keralaconnections.co.uk for more details

First published in VISA 132 (April 2017)

Where Sleeping Dogs Lie

By Tess Kamara

Taj Mahal

India is such a vast country that you can only see highlights on a two week holiday – in this case the golden triangle of Delhi, Agra and Jaipur. It was basically a whistle-stop tour of north India taking is some of the country’s most famous monuments such as the Taj Mahal. You don’t need many clothes for the trip – I wish I’d taken out half the clothing and filled the suitcase with Imodium and Dioralyte. The hotels are very luxurious but once out in public the sanitation and facilities are somewhat basic, to put it mildly.

Old Delhi is a maze of narrow streets pulsating with humanity, mostly male. India’s population is around 1.2 billion and most of them seem to spend their time outdoors. Nothing is finished – there were broken paving stones and piles of new stones waiting to be laid everywhere. Street drainage is minimal, if in fact it exists.  Everyone seems to have a job, no matter how small – shoeshiner, fruit and veg seller, newspaper vendors selling to drivers stuck in traffic, self-appointed tourist guide and so on. Men with little stoves squat on every street corner, making and selling chapattis. Even one-legged beggars could earn a few rupees helping foreigners cross the road. There are no crossings even on the main roads and the only way to stop traffic is to walk straight into it. Our guide advised us to walk like a cow – move steadily and without hesitation so the oncoming vehicles could decide which side to swerve round you. I tried to cross the road by myself once to get to an ATM and after about ten minutes wavering on one side of the road, I followed an elderly Indian lady as she strolled sedately into the path of a truck. The “cow walk” worked.

There was an inordinate number of stray dogs everywhere; not at all feral but rather placid, they were lying sprawled out in energy-saving style on the hot pavements. For strays they looked very well kept, although on the skinny side, and we were told the locals consider them lucky and like to feed them. I find it remarkable that people who can barely make a living can share what they have with stray animals. Whenever we went to visit temples we would see puppies – presumably the bitches liked to give birth in a quiet sheltered place out of the sun.

Traffic in Delhi is very dense and drivers seem to be able to do what they like. Officially they drive on the right in India but everyone weaves in and out, tooting furiously. I thought it was out of impatience but our tour guide said beeping the horn was considered a polite way to let the driver in front know which side you were overtaking. A feature of traffic is the ubiquitous green and yellow tuk-tuk, or motorised rickshaw - little three-wheelers that look like something Del Boy Trotter would drive. They are only supposed to hold two passengers but you would see seven or eight men in one, sitting on each other’s laps or clinging to the sides like barnacles.

Large animals amble through traffic everywhere – domestic cows, huge white Brahma cattle and water buffalo. They would wander back and forth across the road wherever a grass verge caught their eye and graze away, completely oblivious to the traffic roaring past them. I found out that cows very rarely got hurt in accidents – if you hit one you would have to pay its value, and were also subject to a heavy fine and possible imprisonment.

Old Delhi is home to the Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, built by Shah Jahan. On special occasions and religious festivals it can hold 25,000 people. It stands right in the middle of an old market in a warren of very narrow streets – I still can’t work out how the coaches get down there. Dangerous electrical wiring was strung precariously across the buildings and our guide remarked drily that in Delhi everyone pays the electricity bill, they’re just not sure whose bill they’re paying.

There are little shanty settlements all over old Delhi known officially as slums. That seems a bit unfair because the inhabitants don’t have any social security safety net – they have to scrape a living where they can. They are clearly resourceful because they could make a shelter from almost anything – cardboard, corrugated iron or a blanket slung between two trees. Delhi is extremely crowded and any nook or cranny between buildings was turned into a dwelling. We even saw a little house on the side of the motorway made from doors. In a country with so many poor people, nothing is really wasted. There were rubbish tips everywhere which looked unsightly but in fact were recycling centres. Vegetable waste was put on one side and the cows would come by and eat old fruit and flowers. Kids would look through the tips for things like sim cards and batteries, then the real waste would be burned. At one tip I saw a stray dog chewing determinedly on withered string beans.

The new part of Delhi was like another country. Government buildings are surrounded by well-appointed blocks of flats in tree-lined streets occupied by civil servants. Government employees get free housing and medical care until retirement, by when they will have saved enough to make their own provision. Normally tourists can photograph the government complex but security was tight due to a visit from the Israeli foreign minister, and our bus was turned away. Undeterred, the driver went round the roundabout several times so we could get pictures, each time held at bay by a guard with a bayonet. Security is generally tight in India and every hotel, monument and temple had metal detectors and armed guards conducting bag searches.

We visited the nearby India Gate war memorial, which looks rather like Marble Arch. It commemorates some 13,000 Indian soldiers who fell in World War 2. Opposite the gate is the George V Canopy, a relic of colonialism. The statue of the king was removed leaving just the canopy, accessorised by the inevitable sleeping dogs.One of the legacies of the British Raj was to give India a single unifying language, since the country has 22 official languages and about 16,000 minority languages. Most road signs and hoardings were in English, Hindi and Urdu. Some of the English business signs lost a little in translation, such as Harsh Services, Hovel auto shop, and my favourite, NIT (North India Technology) University.

We set off on a long drive to Jaipur in Rajasthan, the largest state in India, passing the headquarters of Tata Computer Services, a massive space age building in the town of Harayana. Evidence of Tata’s business interests is everywhere – trucks carry the livery of Tata Transport, we stayed in a Tata hotel and I even saw a sachet of Tata coffee next to the kettle. Harayana is known as the town of huge call centres that serve clients all over the world. In contrast to all these skyscrapers you’d see warthogs and water buffalo scratching around on the side of the motorway. Apparently the locals don’t eat pigs but they make handy waste disposal units. Buffalo dung is collected and left to dry in little patties that will be used later as fuel briquettes.

Just beyond Haryana there is a large monkey colony. Truckers stop to feed them because they consider them to be the embodiment of Hanuman, the monkey god. The monkeys are a real nuisance, break into houses and ransacking them, but the locals are reluctant to cull them.

On the way north we started seeing pairs of elephants on the street, being driven to weddings. Apparently February this year was a lucky month so as many couples as possible were getting hitched, and we were kept awake at night by wedding parties. The owners like to decorate their animals – many of them had painted toenails and makeup on their faces.

We spent two days at a resort in the Ranthambore game reserve in north India for a tiger photo safari. I thought it would take place from the safety of enclosed vehicles so was a bit shocked to find that we were being driven there in open sided jeeps. I was reluctant to go because if I can see a tiger, then a tiger can see me. We all soon got carried away with the wonder of it all and when we saw two of them close up, I was practically hanging out of the jeep taking pictures like everyone else. There was plenty of other wildlife to photograph such as monkeys, lynx, antelope and peacocks. Even when surrounded by five or six jeeps, the animals completely ignored us. At one point a tiger stalked majestically past two feet away from us, patrolling its territory. I didn’t even feel in fear of attack, reasoning that an animal with big juicy antelope and deer at its disposal wouldn’t bother with canned meat. At this stage, the party started to come down with the inevitable stomach upsets. Two women became violently ill, which they put down to the bumpy ride on the jeeps. By the time we got back to camp, there was a mass stampede for the toilets.

Arriving in Agra, we took an evening spin past the Taj Mahal on the banks of the Yamuna River to see it in the dusk. Traffic was terrible but the Taj looked impressive even in the gloaming. February 15^th had been declared an auspicious day so all sorts was going on – wedding carriages with decorated horses trotting by, processions celebrating the festival of Shiva, and cremations by the riverside. By now I’d succumbed to Delhi belly like everyone else but I was still up at 4am for a dawn visit to the Taj Mahal. Pictures don’t do justice to it but we were snapping away as it gradually emerged from the mist. The Taj is built from white marble with specks of mineral in it that shimmer and sparkle as the sun hits them. Of course this didn’t show up in the photos but at least I have the memory of it. We also posed for the classic tourist “Diana” photo, depicting the day she told the world about her failing marriage by sitting all alone on a bench in front of a magnificent monument to one man’s love for his wife.

By now some of us were so ill with dysentery that we had to call a doctor to the hotel. We’d been advised by the tour operator to use hand sanitiser gel after handling money but most of us hadn’t, and that was probably our downfall. It was unlikely to have been food poisoning as we only ate in recommended establishments where the food was delicious and obviously fresh. In fact if it hadn’t been for illness I probably would have come home a stone heavier. I assumed I’d be making an insurance claim but the doctor’s visit was surprisingly cheap – the equivalent of about £12 including antibiotics

We took a trip to Varanasi (formerly Benares, which the locals still call it) to take a boat trip on the Ganges. February is the month of the festival of Shiva so the town was crammed with devout pilgrims in orange robes. A lot of them are rake thin and have walked for hundreds of miles barefoot. The ceremonies take place at dawn and after dark so it was another 4am start then a rickshaw ride to the riverside, as the roads are too narrow for buses to get through. It was very atmospheric - processions of musicians drumming and chanting, hawkers everywhere selling food and flowers and the red dot or bindi on the forehead. It was extremely crowded and someone put a bindi on me before I could stop him. Then he asked for money, when I had no rupees on me. He followed me for a while shouting "Dollar! Euro!" We took a boat ride and were immediately followed by rowing boats laden with tourist tat. One rower pulled alongside us and called out hopefully "Supermarket?" 

Swimmers bathe in the Ganges, which looks very murky, but apparently nobody ever caught anything from it. There were dobie wallahs on the bank, washermen who pound laundry on the rocks then spread the washing out to dry. Again the banks looked muddy and murky but due to the miraculous powers of the Ganges, the blankets end up clean. They also burn bodies because devout Hindus want their ashes scattered on the river. There are men building huge pyres all along the bank but you don't really see anything apart from smoke and mist.

Even though the trip was somewhat marred by sickness, it was still a marvellous experience, the highlight of course being the Taj Mahal. I’d recommend it to anybody but I’d say make sure you have all your injections and take along the suggested medication. Don’t forget your best friend, the hand sanitiser gel. Oh, and learn to walk like a cow.

Teaching in India

by Rachel Kruft Welton

Somewhere in the blurry past I must have made the decision to teach in India, but thinking back I can't quite remember how it came about. I think it must have been one of my eight year olds who persuaded me, with the enthusiasm of small people completely devoid of any actual idea about what ‘Going to India’ really means. I threatened them with the heat, humidity, monsoon season, nasty intestinal episodes, biting insects, over-enthusiastic stallholders and the strong aroma of elephant dung, but somehow they remained resolutely undeterred.

The school in which I taught is called BLD Public School. It serves children from nursery age to 15 years old. The outside was very orange. Everyone was friendly, from the gate guard to the Principal and her son, who also worked there. There were three storeys. The recently refurbished ground floor was well decorated, with bright murals on the walls. The nursery rooms themselves were full of new toys and there seemed to be enough teachers to go around. The first floor had younger children - up to Year 4 (age 8) - and the second floor had kids up to Year 10. These floors, I was told, were due to be refurbished soon. They looked very shabby, with damaged paintwork and ageing infrastructure.

Each classroom had a set of metal framed desks and a blackboard (or piece of black-painted wall). There was nothing else except a ceiling fan. The rooms did not have lighting. Chalk was fetched, if needed. Each ‘year’ consisted of about 25 children who remained in the same classroom all day. The teachers went from place to place.

Year 10 drew the short straw in this arrangement, as their ‘classroom’ was a partitioned area at the head of the stairs. It was so cramped that the desks touched the front wall and the teacher unavoidably blocked the view of the board by standing in the only available spot between the two desks at the front.

Teaching in India seems very different from the UK. I am used to teaching practically, being a science teacher. I like my lessons to be hands on, practical lessons, with the children actively participating in their learning - drawing, writing and making things. The Indian method, by contrast, is much more bookish. They read the textbook, then they might do some questions from it, if they have something to write on and something to write with. Not all the students do, though. Some students share a notebook, others just come to listen.

The text books themselves are incredibly detailed. Certainly for science the level of detail required, even at year 10, is not introduced until A level in Britain. What I am used to teaching seems horribly simplistic compared to the textbook learning they do here. British children wouldn't stand a chance, as they have forgotten how to rote learn from books. On the other hand, Indian children do so much passive learning that they struggle to produce anything from their own creativity. They will copy, but cannot annotate.

Additionally, for historical reasons, English is seen as ‘better’ than Hindi or Tagalog or Gujurati, despite the fact that this is what the children speak primarily. All this bookish learning is done in English. How much is understood, and how much memorised and regurgitated when asked, is debatable.

Finally, to add to the woes of this impoverished school, there appeared to be three teachers between six classes on the top floor where I was teaching. The instructions were written on the board and the class was left to get on with it. Amazingly they did. This wouldn't work in the UK.

The first day I went there, the monsoon had been the night before. The roads were flooded and we had to wade (knee deep) the last few hundred yards.

‘You can teach Class VII,’ said the co-ordinator as she showed me to their room.

‘What should I teach today?’ I asked, thinking it was a reasonable question.

‘Anything you like,’ came the answer as she left.

I was now alone with a world of possibilities, a sea of curious faces and a jabbering of questions from the children. Maybe that approach works if all you do is open the textbook and read, but my Ofsted conditioning wouldn’t let me do it. I wonder how the just-out-of-college backpacker, clutching a TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certificate, would cope. Even as a seasoned teacher, that baptism of fire was daunting.

Fortunately I had some photos of my school and the kids to break the ice. By the time I taught them the following day, I had some ideas for lessons, so it was easier. I suspect half the TEFL backpackers would be heading for the hills after the first day, but we hung in there. The kids were lovely, and I quite enjoyed it. They were eager and well-mannered, which makes a pleasant change from some of the children I teach at home!

The school organised a trip out, I think as part of the Independence Day celebrations. We paid our money and joined the 50 or so students on the bus. The place we went to was north of Delhi, so it took a couple of hours to get there. It has the bizarre name of Fun and Food Village, though I really don't know where the 'food' bit came into it, unless you count the snack stalls or the fairground ride where toddlers could be propelled around a track inside a giant plastic cucumber. Fun was much more in evidence. The place was basically a funfair attached to an aqua-splash park, with everything from water slides to wave machines. It was the first real entertainment we'd had since we got here. After a compere-style warm up in the car park, where students were expected to sing a song or dance, we were finally allowed in. We had a go on a few fairground rides, but soon headed for the pools.

Swimming isn't big in India and pretty much everyone rented costumes. The Western version of a women's swimming costume is considered risqué. A bikini (not that I would be seen dead in one) is positively obscene. Indian costumes have short sleeves, a frilly skirt and short leggy bits to conceal the thighs. I just wore a pair of shorts over my costume, and no-one seemed to mind.

At various points the music would start up and the teenagers would all start dancing in the pool by the arena. It was nice to see them unselfconsciously dancing to Indian pop, knee-deep in water, being sprayed with jets from a plastic palm tree, as if they were in Malibu or somewhere.

At home I swim all the time and both Donny and Mel can swim too. Some of the girls noted this and asked if we could teach them to swim as well. Our outing turned into an impromptu swimming lesson. Another child said she was getting the hang of swimming, as she had now been to this place twice in her life.

There was more dancing, singing, compering and a round of musical chairs. It was won by one of the teachers, because the students were too polite to boot her out of the way to get the vacant seats. Then it was time to leave. We all received a gift of a pen from the Fun and Food Village. All the adults also received a plastic plate with the logo on.

The bus ride home was picnic time. All the kids got out their rice, chapattis, spiced dahl and so on. The teachers handed out crisps and cups of Coke (disastrously messy on a jolting bus).

When we got back I discovered that we were all sunburnt again, adding to the area of skin that I'd previously damaged. Next day I read in the paper that it had been ‘unseasonably cold’ at a mere 30C, a whopping four degrees below average. It is no wonder we burnt, yet not surprising that I thought we wouldn't. It is amazing how fast you acclimatise. I was now peeling as if I had a dodgy skin disease, except for my blistered shoulder which looked like it had the skin of a shiny red rhino.

On another day, our host and volunteer co-ordinator, Vishy, suggested we spent some time at the all-girls orphanage over in Sector 15. This is mostly a well off neighbourhood so the orphanage is surrounded by large houses and spacious parks. There are 85 girls there, some with extended family in the city, others with sponsors and some with no-one but the other girls. Contact with the outside world is kept to a minimum, so life revolves around the orphanage.

Usually there are classes during the day followed by religious observance, but today was a festival, so there was a lot of milling around going on. Rooms are multi-functional. Bedrooms, the dining room and the main hall all double as classrooms. The kids make their own clothes from donated remnants and the orphanage is well supplied with six sewing machines. There is a TV in the main hall, which the girls gather round to watch. There is also a room with three computers, though they aren't connected to the internet, and a collection of books, though I didn't see anyone reading them. I saw this again and again here: they didn't use what little resources they had.

I also wonder if the kids really know how to play. Even outside the orphanage, kids start school before they are two. They are taught to hold a pen in hands that have hardly learnt to grasp. The academic cramming doesn't let up until after university, but it is all rote learning. After school classes the orphanage kids have nothing to play with, but they seem unwilling to use their imaginations instead. My kids would happily create a whole castle out of a set of stairs or a spaceship out of a bed. The orphanage girls just milled about, bored, listless and unable to alter their situation. It was heartbreaking and disturbing. It was a much deeper malaise that just having nothing to play with. They had had no-one to show them how to play. They lacked that adult attention that stimulates curiosity and wonder. They were not intellectually challenged.

Do you remember the state of the Romanian orphanages after the fall of Ceaucescu? Neglected children had been tied to their cots, some for years. There was a huge rush to adopt, but this sort of abuse takes its toll on the mind. Younger children (less than two years old) readjusted and grew up mostly unaffected. Older children, however, couldn't shake off the effects of abuse and exhibited what looked like autistic spectrum disorders (though it probably has a posh name). I'm not suggesting this all-girls orphanage abuses the kids in any way. They do their best for them, but there is still a social and emotional deficit, which is leaving the children hollow, and you could feel it when you walk around.

The older girls go out to a girls' high school, but are not allowed to have friends back or to visit friends' houses. They are kept away from the opposite sex and modern influences. They know nothing of drugs or politics or even how to use money.

They are lacking in life skills. From an early age they are taught that an arranged marriage leads to happiness and a ‘love’ marriage leads to divorce. Nearly all marriages are arranged here, and the orphanage provides this one last service before letting the girls go. Local boys’ families are attracted to the girls because of their assured purity and submissive conditioning.

The orphanage takes in girls that have been abandoned or orphaned. There are many more abandoned girls for cultural reasons. Girls are undervalued here. The dowry they require makes girls expensive to raise and marry off. Many baby girls simply disappear; so many in fact, that the gender ratio is skewed to nearly 40:60 in favour of boys. That is one shocking statistic. By those figures, these girls are the lucky ones.

After our visit to the orphanage, I formed a cunning plan. The school’s dining room was in a shabby state. An estate agent would have described it as ‘in need of modernisation’. Basically it hadn't been decorated in 30 years by the look of it. The paintwork and even the plaster had been eroded away by the passage of time and hundreds of small people brushing against it. I reckoned a couple of days work and a lick of paint would sort out the majority of the mess.

The other volunteers were up for it and Vishy cleared it with the woman who ran the orphanage. We got hold of sand paper, and putty for the cracks, and set to work, whilst a hundred brown eyes peering at us through the windows. In the end only Alexis (a volunteer from America) was able to help me, Mel and Donny with the work. We raised a hell of a dust sanding the flakey bits off the walls. A painter and decorator here would develop respiratory problems in no time if they worked in that dust and grit every day. Donny and Mel looked like ghosts, their faces and hair coated.

The putty was a mix-it-yourself job from powder. We didn't have enough so we just filled in the largest holes and cracks and left the rest to get painted over. Several girls helped us clean up the dust bath we had created. We had to wipe every surface.

We left the painting until the next day for a number of reasons - the biggest of which was that we had no paint. Instead we set up an art class in the big hall. Earlier in the day we'd been down to the stationer's shop (a backstreet cavern where we could only peer at the wares across the counter which blocked the way in). For the cost of about a fiver, we got enough colouring pads and sketch books for 85 girls to be well entertained.

Well, the first few kids were a bit tentative but after they got settled in and started colouring more and more joined in and the class took on a life of its own. I take back my earlier statement about the kids not being able to play. They need things to play with and someone to organise and encourage them, then they are quite capable of playing. What I'm unsure of is whether they will play with the resources they squirrelled away if there is no-one there to motivate them. I wonder if they will just hoard the pens and colours and stampers in their lockers instead of using them.

We went on a hunt for paint in the Sector 15 market. We finally ended up at Pooja Paints, run by a pair of Sikh brothers. For five amazing minutes it was like being in a modern hardware store. We could choose colour from a catalogue and the paint machine mixed it for us. Donny and Mel chose "Peach Passion" for the walls, which went nicely with the brown and orange tiles already there.

Back at the orphanage we made an extension for the roller from a piece of bamboo. Alexis did the rolling and I did the edging. Mel and Donny did a bit of both and really got stuck in. We got about two-thirds of the way around the room before we ran out of paint and had to go and get some more. Alexis, Donny and Mel decided they'd had enough for the day and went off to play with the girls. I carried on edging the ceiling, standing on tiptoe, balanced on a table.

Some of the girls came in. Manju, who was 15 years old, said : ‘Can you help me?’

I said: ‘Do you mean “Can you help me?”’

She looked understandably confused and I could feel the conversation slipping into the surreal, so I handed her a roller and showed her how to put paint on it. She got the hang of it really quickly and only hit the ceiling the first couple of times; she was really careful.

After that I had so many girls slapping paint, on with more enthusiasm than accuracy, that I had to employ the ones without brushes as splatter-removers. I gave them a bit of rag each to rub off the excess paint around door frames, tiles and off the floor. It was a hive of industry. I think it is hugely important for the girls to have contributed to their own environment - to 'own' the process of improvement.

We went back the next day to finish off the last bits. Alexis started painting the door a deep orange with gloss as thin as water. It got everywhere. I drew round all the kids’ hands with markers to make a snake across the back wall. I wrote their names in each one. It looked really good. I finally feel I have achieved something here - maybe, just maybe, for a brief snapshot in time we have made a small difference to these girls' lives.

**

After we returned from India, we decided to raise funds for the orphanage. I had spoken with Vishy and he listed other items needed, such as air conditioning units, clothing and sheets. Even then, this is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what they really need. The list of essentials Vishy gave me would cost around £1200.

Subsequently, my kids' school had an auction of the harvest festival produce and this has raised £368. By February 2009, Alexis raised over £2000 with a fund-raising evening, which kitted the orphanage out well for the moment. My kids' school raised another £50 and the school I work for raised £50. The £100 has gone to buy a computer for a group which treats people with leprosy.

First published in VISA 87 (Oct 2009)

India in Two Weeks by Train

by Neil Harris

 

The Taj Mahai in Bombay, one of the world's top hotels, provided a haven away from the constant pestering by beggars and street hawkers found in the surroundings of the 'Gateway to India'. Alas, my budget did not run to staying there, only to a lunchtime buffet in air-conditioned comfort.

 

In India there are times when life can crowd in on a traveller, and the chance to escape is taken with open arms. On one occasion I dived into a taxi just to flee the attentions of a particularly persistent beggar, a mother and her baby, determined to extract some money out of me.

 

For a person used to the ordered life of Southeast England, India can come as quite a shock. Luckily I had made other trips to Asia, so I knew what to expect. I had 15 days to see India using an Indrail travel pass. My intention was to see as much as I could.

 

The first day and a half was spent in Bombay, not the most fascinating city that I have visited. There are a few interesting buildings from the colonial period: Victoria Terminus, possibly the most ornate railway station in the world; the 'Gateway to India', built to commemorate King George V's visit to India in 1911; the list is not endless!

 

The most memorable aspect of Bombay is the people. Life in India takes place out in the open; modesty would appear to be the luxury of wealth. Washing clothes, bathing, cooking and other domestic activities take place in the street. The poor have no privacy. Beggars are everywhere; the sight of a ten year old girl running whilst dragging her crippled brother, he sitting astride an old skateboard, as she tries to get within begging distance, all for the sake of a rupee (about 2p), is enough to make even the most hardhearted feel generous.

I was booked on the overnight Rajdhani Express. My second class air-conditioned berth proved adequate. Indians have the capacity to make themselves at home wherever they happen to be, especially on a train. This can involve bringing an inordinate amount of luggage and being blind to fellow travellers' needs. Surprisingly, the train arrived in New Delhi only five minutes late.

 

The heat was oppressive, around 100F, as I went in search of a hotel. Fourth time lucky, I found a vacancy at a friendly hotel, Hotel 55, on Connaught Circus. Connaught Place was built in the thirties, as Delhi's equivalent of Oxford Street and Knightsbridge all rolled into one. It is still the main shopping centre of the city, but has the feeling of a market town, rather than the capital of the world's second most populous country.

 

Walking about requires concentration; how many capital cities have cows wandering around? The traffic seems to observe Brownian Motion, without actually colliding. Taxis, auto rickshaws, buses and the occasional private car, circulate around Connaught Circus at breakneck speed. Crossing the road requires forward planning and a fair amount of agility and luck! The centre of New Delhi, designed by Lutyens and Baker in the twenties, is spacious and worthy of such a large country. The view from 'India Gate', down the Raj path, to the Viceroy's House (now called the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the house of the President ) certainly conjures up the arrogance of the Raj and, by Indian standards, is amazingly clean and free of undesirables.

 

The midday train to Varanasi left on time. The totally flat Ganges Plain provided little in the way of a view, but did offer an insight into the vastness of India. The land between towns was extensively farmed, but no sign of a tractor, only human harvesters and buffalo driven plough. Why? I later discovered that the Indian government taxed tractors out of reach, to preserve jobs in the countryside and to stop rural depopulation. The train arrived in Varanasi, the Hindu's most holy city on the Ganges, at 0550. On time again, this could not last.

 

Varanasi has a population of around one million, but has the feel of a small town. It is located on the west bank of the Ganges, on which about fifty bathing ghats (steps down to the river) provide access to the holy waters for the faithful. There was the usual bedlam of an Indian city in the narrow streets, cows, cycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws and the general population. I innocently passed an apparently docile cow, only to be head butted in the backside. Luckily I had some travel tissues in my back pocket; this probably saved me from any injury.

 

The de rigueur tourist trip in Varanasi is a dawn boat ride on the Ganges, to see the pilgrims taking their early morning holy ablutions. Unfortunately it was cloudy, so the promised perfect light for photography did not shine on me. Even so the trip was definitely worthwhile. The pilgrims go through their devotions, with apparent lack of interest in the boats passing within a few feet, and not noticing the clicks of overactive cameras. In between the bathing ghats are some cremation ghats (no photography allowed). These are on the go for most of the day, the remains of the bodies put into the river once burnt. Judging by the two bodies, one of a baby, seen floating downstream, the process is not always completed. On my second day I was due to catch the early evening train to New Jalpaiguri, a few miles from Siliguri, the starting point for the Toy Train to Darjeeling.

 

The train had to be caught from Mughal Sarai, about one hour from Varanasi. This trip was taken by auto rickshaw. These vehicles are three-wheelers with a small diesel engine. Cramped, noisy, smelly and with no noticeable suspension, they cannot be said to be perfect cross-country transport. The road was not only very busy with clumsy looking Tata lorries, but also rutted with bone jarring potholes. They say size isn't important; on Indian roads it is everything. Priority is decided by bulk. If a lorry is on your side of the road, it is up to you to avoid it. Luckily, we did!

 

Mugtial Sarai station showed all the chaos that is typical of India. Families were sleeping on the platform, child beggars after the odd rupee, sellers of everything from fresh nans to china ornaments, and one or two holy cows and mangy mongrels thrown in for good measure. This assortment produces a cacophony of sound that drowns out the occasional announcement in English. So, from my seat in the optimistically named first class waiting room, I sat awaiting the arrival of my train.

 

It never came! Nor did the next one, three hours later. The stationmaster suggested waiting for the next train, not due until 6.40 the next morning. I was resigned to spending the night in the waiting room I've known more comfortable sleeping arrangements, and better bedfellows than the huge rat that ran across the floor in the small hours of the morning. Needless to say the morning train did not arrive either. What to do next?

 

I hired a taxi back to Varanasi, driven by a Sikh (suicidal Singh ? ) who seemed determined to kill both of us. The horn is used excessively in India and usually means 'I'm overtaking, get out of my way'. The extraordinary thing is that people do. Due to lack of time, I could no longer get to Darjeeling, so I booked a berth on the overnight train to Howrah (Calcutta). This train turned up, thank goodness, and ran almost to time.

 

Just outside Calcutta the train stopped at a small halt. This was the cue for various pedlars to hitch a lift to Howrah, hawking their wares through the carriages. A street child of about ten, armed with a tatty brush, swept the floor, then expected to be paid.

 

The crush on the platform at Howrah was most unpleasant. Passengers were getting off, while others were desperate to get on; in India it's first come first served, the concept of queueing being almost unknown. A quick taxi trip took me to the Lindsay hotel, booked from the West Bengal Tourist Office at the station.

 

Calcutta contains some of the poorest slums in the world, poverty being everywhere. It also wins first prize as the most polluted city I have visited (worse than Bangkok!) The choking smell of stagnant diesel fumes sits heavily over the city, made more suffocating by the steamy heat of the monsoon season. I visited during the Puje festival (a Hindu holiday, similar to our Christmas) so at least the streets were relatively free of traffic. Alas, the museums and other noteworthy buildings were shut, although I did visit the Victoria Memorial, a marble tribute to the late queen, built by Lord Curzon at the turn of the century and designed to compete with the Taj Mahal. It certainly is photogenic, and well worth a visit.

 

The beggars in Calcutta, especially at the station, were as persistent as any I came across and in many cases the most deformed. It is a sobering thought that these deformities are often inflicted by parents to increase a child's begging potential. The best curry I've ever tasted cost under a pound in a restaurant on Chowringhee Road, Calcutta's main thoroughfare, the local speciality 'Mutton Malai'.

 

Time was running out, so I booked a berth on the Bombay Mair. This takes one and a half days to make the 2173 km trip to Bombay and alas, I had to travel in a non air-conditioned second class berth due to its popularity. I shared a compartment with an Indian schoolmaster kitted out in army uniform; he was accompanying 24 CCF cadets, an obvious throwback to the Raj. The journey brought home the vastness of India, and the poverty of rural life. That said, almost every village had a huge satellite dish, incongruously sited on the roof of a 'mud hut'. How exposure on television to an apparent 'better life' away from the countryside will affect the rural poor is anybody's guess. Could it sow the seeds of revolution?

 

The train arrived at Nagpur, an industrial city of over a million, just before dusk on the second day. The crush to get on the train was, even by Indian standards, quite ferocious. People pushing to climb into the second class ordinary carriages, a pincer movement both from the platform side and by clambering across the rails from the opposite side. I was thankful for the bolts on the door to my compartment, as the corridor became full of people singing and chanting. A 'not very nice' rather than an 'angry' mob: I gathered from my fellow traveller that they were untouchables, India's lowest caste, on their way back from a protest march. The mob gradually dispersed at stations along the line, leaving some peace and quiet for an overnight sleep.

 

The train pulled into the Victoria terminus in Bombay about 5 hours late, at around midday. The one thing Bombay is not short of is taxis. They are everywhere. How do they all make a living? Partly by never doing any repairs to their dilapidated vehicles (almost exclusively Ambassadors, based on the fifties version of the Morris Oxford). The state of some of them made one understand the prevalence of Hindu shrines sited above most taxi dashboards. I spent my last day and a half wandering around the city. One beggar, whose patch was near my hotel, had the ability to surround me, even though he only had one leg he moved with surprising speed. Usually for me my last minute shopping produced little in the way of bargains to bring home. Most Indian craftwork is very ornate, not to my taste. So ended my trip to India - not a holiday, but certainly an experience.

First published in VISA issue 20 (spring 1996).

The Roof of the World

by David Gourley 

We first visited the Himalayas region in 1998 (a trip described in VISA Autumn 1999). This year we decided to return, thereby revisiting Nepal, and adding Bhutan and Tibet to our ‘list of countries visited’. Cathy thus realized a long-held ambition to visit Tibet. For me, on the other hand, the main selling point was the opportunity to visit the remote mountain kingdom of Bhutan, as yet little penetrated by tourists. 

We flew to Bhutan via Delhi, the first part of the trip with Royal Jordanian Airlines, changing planes en route at Amman. The flight to Amman went smoothly, bur from there to Delhi was something of a performance. It was necessary to go though Indian customs, even though we were not for now staying in the country. Nor can Delhi’s Indira Gandhi terminal be classed as one of the world’s more customer friendly airports. We had to find our way to the poorly signposted departure area, necessitating going outside the terminal, then lugging our reclaimed luggage up a long flight of steps, as the solitary lift was out of action. Checking in was also good fun!

But we enjoyed our flight with Bhutan’s national airline Druk (meaning dragon) Air. There were marvellous views of the Himalayas, including of Everest. The in-flight hospitality was excellent. On this fairly short flight, we were served a tasty curry. It is interesting that this very small airline can provide such fare when all BA can come up with on its short haul flights to the Continent are tired-looking salads.

Bhutan was, until recently, almost entirely isolated from the outside world. Paro has the country’s only international airport and it opened as late as 1983. Previously they depended on the road to the Indian border, a 7 hour drive from the capital, Thimphu, as their main link to the rest of humanity. Paro, spotlessly clean and built in the form of a Bhutanese dzong (a fortress-cum-monastery), is one of the nicest airports we have been through. I wondered why it was located here and not in the capital. The reason was obvious when we moved on to Thimphu: there is simply no room in its narrow valley for an international airport. Only the Paro Valley is wide enough; even here, steep ascents and descents are necessary.

We stayed for the night in the Gantey Palace hotel, a little outside the picturesque town of Paro. This really was built, in the nineteenth century, to resemble a palace, so is the kind of place that in England would have been converted by now into a luxury country hotel. It was actually fairly basic, but we liked it: it was decorated in the distinctive Bhutanese style and here, as elsewhere in this tiny country, the people were charming. Hotel meals in Bhutan are invariably buffet style. During our stay, we experienced the good and the not-so-good. One can count on any buffet including the national dish, a lethal combination of hot chillies, cooked as a vegetable, with cheese.

Tourism is still in its infancy in Bhutan. Until 1974, visitors could only enter the country as a guest of the royal family. Nowadays tourists are welcomed, but the industry is managed in such a way as to keep numbers fairly low. There is no use expecting the full array of Western-style tourist facilities. There is a hit and miss aspect to getting a decent bath. Going to the toilet is often a case of ‘fertilizing nature’ as our Bhutanese guide, Kado, put it. On the other hand, McDonalds, Benetton and so on have yet to discover Bhutan!

This remains an unspoilt country and the Bhutanese are one of the friendliest people anywhere - many were the waves from passers-by as we drove along, not our experience in the other countries visited. Bhutan is a poor country, though less so than Nepal. But we saw no stomach-churning poverty and begging is virtually unknown. On one of our stops, I expressed concern that a window in our unattended bus had been left open. “But this is Bhutan,” remonstrated Kado. There is scarcely any risk of being robbed or attacked, at least by the two-legged variety of animal (the four-legged variety i.e. the packs of wild dogs that roam freely around night-time Thimphu are another matter). Our small group of six had taken Bhutan to our hearts by the time we left.

Bhutan is not a democracy in the modern Western sense; rather, it is a paternalistic monarchy. As far as I can judge, the King, who apparently has a fairly simple lifestyle, has the good of his people at heart. I was impressed by the emphasis placed here on what is termed “gross national happiness” - spiritual as well as material. This makes a pleasing change from back home, where Tony Blair drones on endlessly about ‘modernisation” as if that were an end in itself. (Is all this “modernisation” worth it if we all end up more stressed-out than we’ve ever been?) 

There is also emphasis on preserving the country’s traditions and culture. There is even a requirement that, for their daytime jobs, men wear the national costume, comprising a gho. Any Bhutanese reader will, I hope, not be offended if I say that our nearest equivalent is a dressing gown. Kado wore his with a Nike T-shirt changing in the evening to a pair of tracksuit bottoms!

There are aspects of Bhutanese culture which might give us in the West problems. Certainly being obliged to walk around in national costume would not go down well in our country! Less acceptable still is that, to earn themselves ‘merits’ and thus stand a better chance of being reincarnated as something other than an insect, parents can decide to put their young children into monasteries. Moreover one has to stay a monk for life - “this is not like Thailand,” Kado told us.

Our programme in Paro included a visit to the National Museum, worthwhile for the architecture alone. A substantial area is set aside for an impressive collection of stamps. Bhutan is renowned in philatelic circles for its numerous and striking issues - there is even a ‘talking stamp’, to be played like a gramophone record. 

We then travelled up the scenic Paro Valley, as far as the mined Drukgyel Dzong. En route, we passed what is perhaps Bhutan’s most well-known landmark, the Taktshang Monastery, also known as the Tiger’s Nest, perched atop its cliff. In happier circumstances, we might have climbed up to it. But it was devastated by fire a couple of years ago. The King has decreed that it will be rebuilt, but the authorities have yet to set an auspicious date for work to start.

We moved onto Thimphu the next day, staying at the Riverview Hotel, which almost manages to meet the usual expectations of a western tourist. There are fine views over the city, though we were some distance from its attractive centre. Thimphu became the capital only in 1961 and is still more of an overgrown village than a city. Alone among world capitals, it has no traffic lights. Some were installed a few years ago, but the residents did not like them, preferring the traffic to be directed by gesticulating policemen in their picturesque pavilions. An unusual attraction in Thimphu is a petrol station shaped like a small dzong!

Dzong in Punakha

Thimphu has a large and impressive dzong, but we could not gain access as the monks were currently in residence. They spend half their year here and the other half in the dzong in the old capital, Punakha. It was here we headed the next day, returning to Thimphu in the afternoon. This entailed a day of serious travelling but the scenery en route was magnificent, including a pass with stunning views of the Bhutanese Himalayas, so no-one minded. 

One somewhat bizarre aspect of the Bhutanese rural scene, probably not replicated anywhere else in the world, is the adornment of the exterior of some houses with a depiction of the external genitalia of the human male. I surmised that this might be part of a family planning campaign, comparable to the jolly-looking condoms seen on posters in Nepal. Not so. The phallus evidently helps to ward off evil spirits.

Punakha does not in truth offer very much apart from its magnificent dzong. Much of it was, a few years ago, rebuilt in a new location nearby following disastrous foods. But given our fascinating tour of the dzong, as well as the superb scenery en route, we considered our day to have been very well spent.

Next day we headed south to the Indian border, pausing to visit another picturesque dzong, Simtokha. The road was wonderfully scenic though the going was hard in places as much damage had been caused by the devastating monsoons which had swept this part of the world a few weeks earlier. Possibly one of the most spectacular changes in landscape anywhere in the world is the descent from the Himalayan foothills (which are still very high) to the Plains of Bengal. 

We stayed overnight in the town of Phuntsholing. This is still in Bhutan but right on the border and feels more Indian than Bhutanese. It forms a single urban area with the Indian town of Jaigaon, the boundary being marked by a ceremonial arch across the main street. The immigration offices on both sides are located a good distance further away, so foreigners and locals alike can go back and forth across the border with no let or hindrance. Jaigaon is part of a strip of territory, known as the Duars, which used to be in Bhutan but was annexed by the British in the 1860s.

We next headed for the Indian hill town of Darjeeling. An Indian guide, Louis, took over from Kado. But he did not look very Indian, resembling more a Nepalese or Bhutanese. He explained to us that the Darjeeling area, whose population is predominantly of Nepalese descent, is trying to break away from the Indian province of West Bengal, whose main city is Calcutta. They are happy to stay in India, but want their own province, Gorkhaland. There has in the past been unrest in the area. When our daughter, who travelled round India during her gap year, wanted to go to Darjeeling, she found that it was off-limits to tourists. But all is peaceful now.

The scenery today was very different from any encountered so far, taking us through the flat Bengal plains, albeit with the mountains of Bhutan, and then Sikkim visible to our right. At one point we paused to look at some ladies picking tea. I felt we were being a bit voyeuristic, but Louis assured us that they didn’t mind and that it was OK to photograph them. Theirs must be a wearying task though at least, unlike rice pickers, they don’t have to stoop as the bushes grow quite high. They nevertheless managed, in their colourful saris, to present a picture of serenity.

After a while we were again climbing up into the foothills, along a road with, it seemed, countless steep hairpins. For the last few miles we followed the route of the celebrated Toy Train, which mostly runs along the road. This is by no means ‘touristy’. It is a vital link for this remote area, running all the way to the city of Siliguri, down in the Plains, to connect with the rest of the Indian rail network.

Darjeeling has grown considerably since the days when British settlers fled here to escape the heat of the Plains. The adjective ‘tranquil’ is not really applicable anymore! But our hotel, the New Elgin, still seems clearly rooted in bygone days. It’s charmingly old-fashioned, yet is still going strong. The nearby Windamere (sic), another Raj-era hotel which we popped into, looks, by contrast, as if it has known better days. 

Just one thing was wrong at the New Elgin - no plug for the bath. Reception told us that they don’t give guests plugs as there is a drive to conserve water. But we’re not shower people. Cathy, a member of the Guide movement for many years, had packed our own plug!

We had two nights in Darjeeling and I had fancifully supposed that at least for one day we could take things easy and maybe have a bit of a lie-in. So we got up at 4.00am! This was to go up Tiger Hill to see the sun rise. The punishingly early start was well worthwhile. This was a magnificent spectacle. The Himalayas stretched before us, with Kanchenjunga, the world’s third highest mountain, right in front of us and Everest visible in the distance. Afterwards, we came across some Indian tourists who’d organised an impromptu song-and-dance session, which they invited our party to join.

We did have a bit of spare time later in the day, partly spent browsing round the town’s historic bookshop, which has just about every publication going on the Himalayas Region. Our visits included the Tibetan Refugee Centre. This was a moving experience and neither Cathy nor I were able to stay entirely dry-eyed. It was set up by the sister-in-law of the Dalai Lama, just after he fled to India in 1959. 

It’s a going concern with a range of articles on sale, credit cards accepted. But it is sad indeed to see old ladies who fled with the Dalai Lama, and who will surely never see again their land on the other side of the mountains, though they dare to hope otherwise. The various workshops are adorned with pictures of the current (14th) Dalai Lama, which are strictly forbidden in Tibet itself. One finds, too, pictures of Indian Prime Ministers, starting with Nehru, out of gratitude, no doubt, for India’s hospitality.

This inevitably rekindled my doubts about whether going to Tibet is consistent with ethical tourism. On balance, I still think it is. The presence of tourists is a means of ensuring that the Chinese behave in relatively civilized fashion, compared to past misdeeds (nay, crimes), though the situation is obviously very far indeed from ideal. On the other hand, I definitely would not go to Burma. Is this being consistent? Perhaps not.

Next day we again descended to the Plains, closely following the route of the Toy Train for almost its whole distance, right into the suburbs of Siliguri. Then we veered right to the Nepalese border, where we said farewell to Louis. All we had now was a Nepalese driver who spoke no English. Our objective was the airport at Biritnagar, Nepal’s second city. It cannot be said that this was one of the more enjoyable parts of the tour. Our driver hared along at breakneck speed. At first we gave him credit for wanting to get us to the airport in good time but, before long, it became apparent that our bus had run out of brake fluid. A duck waddling across the road barely escaped with its life. It’s as well we did not collide with a cow. These animals are sacred in Hindu Nepal and killing one can result in a jail sentence. At the next town we came to a dramatic, but fortunately harmless, halt and some brake fluid was acquired.

Our journey was not through a part of Nepal that tourists come to see. This region, in the southeast of the Nepalese rectangle, is generally flat and uninteresting. All in all, we were glad when we finally got to the airport, a scruffy and rather chaotic place where we finally got our plane to Kathmandu.

Nyatapola temple, Bhaktapur 

It was still early afternoon and there was time for an unscheduled trip to the city off Bhaktapur (sometimes known as Rhadgaon), a dozen miles or so along the Khatmandu Valley. We had been here during our previous visit and were delighted to have the chance to go a second time. It is widely regarded as Nepal’s most beautiful city and may well be one of the most beautiful in all of Asia.

This is an unspoilt city, frozen in time. Thanks to our charming Nepalese guide, Mukesh, our tour was more comprehensive than last time. He left the very best bit to last, Durbar Square. Unlike in Kathmandu’s equivalent, one can wander round without being hassled by the world’s most assertive traders. We enjoyed a good dinner in our hotel’s Indian restaurant located on the top floor of this high-rise building, so affording fine views of Kathmandu by night.

Next morning we were off on our travels again, this time to Pokhara, to the west of Kathmandu, entailing a scenic drive of some six hours. We had done this same drive during our previous stay in Nepal hut on that occasion I had been in a somewhat apprehensive frame of mind for our accommodation that night was to be a tent - definitely not my scene (we were starting a four day trek, which turned out to be very enjoyable). This time our accommodation was to be very different. 

A little before reaching Pokhara, we turned off down an unmade track which continued a good couple of miles or so, past outlying settlements and farms. This did not look at all promising - where on earth were we heading? At the very end of this track was a surprise - a splendid new five-star hotel, the Fulbhari Resort.

I did have qualms about enjoying this five-star luxury in the midst of one of the world’s poorest countries. The fact is, though, that the Nepalese economy is vitally dependent on tourism. A number of new jobs have been created by this hotel. It was owned by a Nepalese entrepreneur, not an international chain, and has been sensitively designed to reflect the local culture. In the evening we enjoyed a show by Nepalese dancers, held in an outside courtyard.

Pokhara is the second most visited tourist destination in Nepal, though in my view it is not a particularly interesting or attractive city. “It’s not like Bhaktapur,” Mukesh told us, a trifle unnecessarily. People do not for the most part come here to admire the city itself, but for its location, which is alongside beautiful Lake Phewa, with the Annapurna range providing a spectacular backdrop. This is the starting point for a good many treks.

Local sights included a temple, our enjoyment of which was not exactly enhanced by the sight of a cockerel being prepared for sacrifice. We managed not to be around when they chopped its head off (In Kathmandu’s Durbar Square, by contrast, a living sacrifice is maintained, in the form of a goat tethered outside one of the temples. There is no threat to the animal’s life and it is well looked after. If I were that goat, I’d resent the loss of freedom to roam around.) The main highlight was our trip by canoe across to a small island in Lake Phewa, on which there is a Hindu shrine.

We would have loved to have at least one more night in Pokhara, to enjoy the hotel and draw breath after our whirlwind itinerary. But it was back to Kathmandu the next day. Our journey did not lack adventure. We had got out of Pokhara, and a bit beyond the river where coach drivers in underpants wash their vehicles, when we came to a queue of traffic. This was most unexpected and something, clearly, was wrong. Mukesh went to investigate. The Communist Party had decided to organise a demonstration against rising prices. As a result the road would be blocked for a couple of hours.

We were relieved that it was Communists, not Maoists, who were causing the hold-up. The difference is important. Nepal prides itself on being a Westminster-style democracy - yes, they do use that expression - and the Communists are fairly respectable, being the main Opposition Party and having actually been in power for a period during the mid-nineties. Maoist insurgency, by contrast, is developing into a serious problem for Nepal. It is confined to remote regions in the western part of the country so does not affect any of the areas which we visited. Maybe it is not surprising that there is unrest, given the extreme poverty in the regions concerned. But, in view of the proximity to Tibet, and the cruelties inflicted on it in the name of Maoist doctrine, I am rather surprised that anyone in Nepal signs up to, let alone fights for, that selfsame doctrine.

Mukesh wisely decided to head back to Pokhara for lunch. Here, in one of those startling contrasts one so often finds in this part of the world, we emerged from a noisy and crowded street into an oasis of calm, a restaurant on the shore of tranquil Lake Phewa, where I enjoyed, or all things, an excellent Wiener Schnitzel. Our second attempt to travel back to Kathmandu passed without incident, the demonstration having finished on schedule.

Lhasa, the Tibetan capital, was our next port of call. The flight over the Himalayas from Kathmandu must be one of the most spectacular anywhere. One gets far closer to Everest than on the special sightseeing flights. The landscape changes abruptly, once one reaches Tibetan airspace. The mountains give way to the vast, flat and barren plain, which is treeless because of the altitude. We really had arrived on the Roof of the World.

Passage through Lhasa Airport was remarkably smooth. No searches were made of our luggage albeit I’d assumed that they’d make sure we weren’t smuggling in pictures of the Dalai Lama or suchlike. Right outside was a tall post flying the in-your-face-red flag of the People’s Republic of China; the visitor is left in no doubt who are the masters here.

The airport lies a remarkable distance, a good fifty miles or so, from the capital. One travels along just about the only decent highway in Tibet. On our way into town we had the usual three tourist stops. First we were shown a monastery which had been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution - political correctness, Chinese style, nowadays permits this to be mentioned. We were told that there are plans to rebuild it. Next, as we drove along the shore of a large lake, we stopped to admire some yak skin boats, proudly displayed by their owners. Thirdly we came to the Stone Buddha, carved out of rock face. Soon in the distance the unmistakable image of the Potala loomed in the distance.

Lhasa was at first something of a surprise, with its wide tree-lined thoroughfares and modern buildings. In fact we were in West Lhasa, not part of the traditional city and mainly inhabited by Han Chinese immigrants. Here was our hotel, the Lhasa Hotel, formerly the Holiday Inn. That really is what the sign at the entrance says! The Holiday Inn chain pulled out in 1997, under pressure from pro-Tibet groups, but the brochures in the Lobby for their other hotels in the People’s Republic led us to surmise that some sort of link still exists. It is virtually the only hotel in Tibet which attains, more or less, the standards generally expected by westerners.

Shortly after booking our holiday, I’d stumbled across an interesting and entertaining book in Waterstone’s, Running a Hotel on the Roof of the World, written by Alec le Sueur, who’d spent five years as a manager at the Holiday Inn. Here he’d invariably been known as Mr Alec as the Tibetan employees could not cope with his Channel Islands surname. His stint had started in the late eighties but, as far as I could see, little had changed since. He clearly regarded the employees with affection, at the same time finding them exasperating. Trying to get them to understand what was expected of them in a four-star hotel was a major undertaking, which to this day has not been entirely successful. For example, a notice in the foyer proclaimed that there was a choice of no less than five restaurants. Three of these had closed down, presumably for the winter. This came as news to the receptionist. We suggested that she had the notice changed but of course nothing was done.

Similarly there is a fine new leisure centre. Pity though that the two restaurants there were also closed. And that the well-equipped gym was in darkness, as were the changing rooms. This was despite the fact that I had come (to have a look, not to exercise!) during the rather extraordinary opening hours, announced on the door as being from 5.00pm to 1.00am. There seemed to be some sort of staff presence, so I suppose someone would have switched the lights on had they been asked.

In the afternoon we explored the Jokhang temple. Our drive took us past the Potala. Someone in our group, who’d been to Beijing, remarked that the adjoining open space resembled Tiananmen Square. This is no coincidence. It never used to look that way. The Chinese had actually paved over a river in order to create this square. They are to be thanked too for a hideous statue of a golden calf, sorry yak, built to commemorate the fortieth anniversary of Tibet’s ‘liberation’.

The Jokhang by contrast lies in old Lhasa, the eastern half, and is utterly Tibetan. Cathy remarked how surprised she was that it felt so Tibetan - there was no discernible overlay of Chinese influence. It is an amazing place, almost medieval - yet one emerges into adjoining Barkhor Square to see a sign pointing one towards Internet and e-mail facilities! Monks go about their business and pilgrims pour in from remote parts of the “Tibetan Autonomous Region”. 

The smell of yak butter lamps, a new one for us, is all pervading. Religious tolerance exists, it seemed, and one could almost believe that Chinese rule is after all benign. The excesses of the Cultural Revolution are long past and some monasteries and temples have been rebuilt and repaired, including the Jokhang itself, which did not escape the attentions of the Red Guards. (The Potala was untouched only because Chou En-lai, the human face of Maoist China, personally ordered his own loyal guards to protect the building.) But one should not be lulled into complacency: this is a vicious police state still and the devout face continuing discrimination, albeit of a more subtle kind than in the past.

In the evening we dined at the Hard Yak restaurant, back in our hotel. What else could order in such a place but yak? (I hasten to add that the menu does offer other choices.) During our stay in Lhasa I had yak three times in all - yak in pepper sauce, sizzling yak, and yak with walnuts. But I didn’t get round to trying our hotel’s most celebrated offering, the Great Yakburger. I didn’t make any of the last bit up. Yak tastes a bit like beef and I enjoyed all three meals.

The next morning was devoted to exploring the Potala. This really is a magical mystery tour, an amazing experience. We paid a bit extra to go up on the roof, which, as might be imagined, affords fine views over Lhasa. The afternoon visits left us feeling sad and/or angry. Firstly we visited the Norbulingka Palace. Built as recently as the fifties, this is where the Dalai Lama lived before he fled to India. 

Close by was the newly opened Tibetan Museum. Insofar as this signifies that the Chinese do now accept, and maybe even respect, Tibetan culture, it is, I suppose, a good thing. But the political spin is sickening. The Tibetans are, one is invited to believe, a happy people enjoying the fruits of forty glorious years of socialism. Not a word about the Cultural Revolution, the desecration of countless monasteries and the persecution of their inhabitants, and the deaths of over a million Tibetans. 

One should not view pre-1959 Tibet through rose-coloured glasses: this was no Shangri-la. It was a needlessly backward and impoverished state, a theocracy in which the monks resisted just about any form of worthwhile change, including the establishment of an army worthy of that name, which might have provided some form of effective resistance to the Chinese invaders. None of this justifies the imposition of Chinese Communist rule, or the resultant excesses. The Tibetans should have been allowed to work out their own destiny. 

Historically China has exercised some form of suzerainty over Tibet, a point made ad nauseam in the Museum. But, under the Nationalist leader Chiang Kai-shek, China did not assert its authority and Tibet was effectively independent. Under Mao, it was not just Chinese rule, but Communism - a form of government to which Tibet is peculiarly unsuited - that was ruthlessly imposed, with devastating consequences, albeit in Lhasa, as elsewhere in the present-day People’s Republic, capitalism now thrives.

Will the Chinese ever leave? Even a dozen years ago, scarcely anyone believed that the USSR would ever let Czechoslovakia, say, go its own way, let alone constituent Republics such as Estonia. But it is hard to imagine China imploding in the same way as the USSR. The Tibetans’ best hope is that some day a Chinese Gorbachev will rise to power.

When we had booked this trip, we were supposed to have had a third night in Lhasa, the extra day to be spent visiting two important monasteries just outside the city, Drepung and Sera. Just a few days before departing our tour company informed us that our return flight to Kathmandu had been cancelled. The only alternative was overland with an overnight stop somewhere in Tibet. We were advised that the journey would be “arduous” and the accommodation “basic”. We would supposedly be travelling through “spectacular mountainous terrain”. We did not wish to cancel or postpone at this late stage a holiday to which we had greatly been looking forward, and the overland trip would be an interesting adventure.

All was at first well as we headed firstly towards the airport along the one decent highway. A metalled road of sorts continued as far as Shigatse, Tibet’s second city. Here we briefly paused, to admire but not visit, the city’s sumptuous monastery. The scenery was not at all mountainous or spectacular. Tibet is not a pretty place. For hour after hour, we were driving along the flat, treeless plain - barren, monotonous and really rather depressing. Moreover, away from relatively sanitised Lhasa, we were now perhaps seeing the real Tibet. The people in this oppressed country, to an extent we’d never seen before, even in the poorest of places, looked impoverished, dirty, downtrodden and unhappy. Here begging is the most aggressive that we have yet encountered.

Beyond Shigatse we found ourselves, despite being on the grandiosely named Friendship Highway, travelling along on an unmade road which, in many places, was little more than a rough track. Some three hours later we stopped for a very late lunch in a godforsaken dump called Lhatse. We ate in a truckers’ cafe and the meal was...interesting. I wished I’d remembered the advice in a guidebook: when in rural Tibet, go vegetarian. Any form of meat, even chicken, invariably turns out to be an unwholesome combination of fat, bone and gristle. Our party gave a couple of bowls of soup to some beggars, pleadingly peering into where we were sitting with arms outstretched. The toilets were grim, too, though we were forewarned.

The scenery was more of the same as we went on - and on and on - to our overnight stop in Tingri. Our accommodation here was, we knew, going to be “basic” but we still expected, reasonably enough, a room that was clean, if simple, in a tolerably pleasant lodge or whatever. What we got was the Amdo “hotel” - a squalid slum, which even the most hardened backpacker would try to avoid. The place was a nightmare and neither of us slept. 1 tried to keep my spirits up by thinking of Kathmandu - never was a word such music to my ears!

Some may think that this is a bit of whinging by a pair of cosseted western tourists, afraid of meeting ordinary people in their own surroundings. I do assure readers that we are not like that! This was not a chance to savour a bit of local colour. There was nothing redeeming about this place.

We counted the hours to 7.00am - and departure. The scenery was still uncompromisingly barren and the road very rough. An added bit of fun was that one of the tyres on our land cruiser burst, miles from anywhere. Fortunately our driver had a spare! We paused in the town of Nyalam - about the ugliest we have seen anywhere - to get the damaged tyre fixed. From here on, the scenery at last lived up to the tour company’s promise; this was now a spectacular drive through the Himalayas, though the road was still of very poor quality. The border town of Zhangmu is rather more pleasant than others we had driven through. It is spectacularly located on a switchback road on the mountainside and its long, straggling main street is very narrow. Trouble is that it is ill suited to bear the heavy volume of freight traffic that passes through - there is no by-pass! The bureaucracy at the border is not bad, but one can get considerably delayed just by the logjam of trucks.

At last we made it into Nepal, walking the last few yards across Friendship Bridge, with young kids gamely carrying our heavy suitcases. Somehow the air really did feel sweeter. We were back in the Free World! How great it was to see the smiling faces of Mukesh and of our friendly driver. The contrast between Nepal and Tibet is not just that between beautiful and barren scenery. Somehow the latter really does seem to be of a piece with the mood of the country. 
I had been struck by, and on occasions depressed by, the undoubted poverty in which all too many Nepalese live. And yet...there is, relatively speaking, an animation, colour and joie de vivre among the folk here, as well as in India and Bhutan, which is simply not to be found in an oppressive police state such as Tibet.

First published in VISA issues 40-41(spring - summer 2001)