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.

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).