India by train - a luscious green paradise, what a treat for the senses.

A luscious green paradise – the experience of riding the train through India. I had been waiting for this moment for a long time, that highly anticipated train journey had finally arrived. Just 45 km from South Goa to Gokarna, but nonetheless it was here. 

Whereas previous dusky bus journeys had removed the zest out of this green canopy, today’s afternoon sun, illuminated it brilliantly. The treetops had that effervescent shimmer, like a wet sandy shore glimmers under the hazy sunshine, here the trees were glowing too. A bronzed jungle scene whirling across before my very eyes. What a feeling. Happiness, gratitude, joy. It was all there. The jungle stood motionless, and it was my hair that whipped frantically across my face. It gave me the feeling that I too was part of the jungle. I was that. I was a tree in the wind, branches swishing violently; each strand of hair, human branches, rooted in my scalp. Any moment revealed a surprise. First we plunged into darkness, a tunnel of some description, pitch blackness, darker than nightshade, eyes fought to form shapes that would not reveal themselves, it was only the interior of our shuttle that showed itself. This was when the ceiling presented its thirty ceiling fans, in just the one carriage. The necessity alone for this high number made the sweat begin to trickle down the nape. Luckily we were blessed with the winter, and the 33 degree heat it still brought!  Soon enough we re-emerged into the sea of blanket of green, and the mind could establish that we had just ploughed through a whole mountain. The joys of Indian rail.  

The next pearl revealed itself in a glittering pool of water, sparkling like a diamond, reflecting the gorgeous sun, India was really flirting with it’s train travellers. The beautiful peacock, symbolic of this country, came to mind, and the parallel between India and her mascot became evident, this country really did dazzle when it had the chance. It was interesting looking out from the barred windows, rather than looking in. The latter, revealing the many, many faces of the Indian travellers, crammed in, always brought a sense of melancholy. All those eyes peering out, evoked some kind of sadness, but now I see I was wrong; here was a sense of pride, plus a feeling of safety, of security. We, on the inside, are the riders. We get to look out at the world and stare, no need to move, no place to go, caged animals we were not, we were the regal passengers of the Raj railways, quite a changing perspective. 

The platforms with their white picket fences and small pigmy trees dotted with tiny white five leafed flowers, were like floral starfish adorning a sea of green. Beyond larger trees of golden yellowy green, not unlike a tortoise, mottled with the sun. It was a mixing palette of colour, an utter delight. What appeared to be the ocean appeared, a vast sheet of rippled glass, again like diamonds, as far as the eye could see, the treasure was bountiful. Boggy swarms with stumpy mangroves popping out, the image of the screaming mangrove babies of Harry Potter sprung to mind. Bulbous barky pot bellies, popping out from the boggy waters, and shrivelled little clumps of hair, funny little creatures.

Walls of earth appeared – hills - but hints of being manmade evident; patches of dry grass, thinned to reveal piles of stones, housed in chicken wire, rolled out with a hay coloured coat of grass, anything goes in God’s house. And back in the jungle again, thick scrub rolled out before the train; greens, ambers, brick-reds and pale pinks, so many colours when the eye really paid attention. Writing was a beautiful gift. It made you pay attention, analyse with a magnifying glass. 

The sun shone violently off a corrugated tin roof; next it kissed the coconut trees, whilst simultaneously bathing the forest floor in its golden glows, capable of so many different caresses all at once. The air smelt earthy, almost no smell at all, warmth, homeliness, calmness, all of these things, somehow masked in this non-smell. The warm breeze soothed legs gently and blew cool kisses up the insides of my arms, I felt held by nature here, the full personification of  Mother Nature, come to life. A twisted tree trunk made itself f known to me, and with it the smell, of burnt coal on the wind. Next I notice the sharp juxtaposition of a hundred shiny mopeds, parked row after row under a small concrete slope, the final leg of the journey, for commuters going home. I’d never noticed this contrast before, between nature and machine, as right now, journeying with Mother Nature, from state to state. Ride with me as you read. I will cease my writing so as to give my full attention to my host and guide, Mother Nature xxxxx

India by bus - The Open Road to Mumbai...on a sleeper bus!

My sleeper bus bounces along haphazardly, through a beige world of rocks and hills. A variety of shades of green are present, distinctly lacking vibrancy, in the hazy afternoon sun. Fronds of olive-green ferns, co-ordinate themselves with the army-green battalion of leafy trees; sky-scraping palms tower above, their umbrella of flora jutting out in all directions, the Side Show Bob of this rural terrain.  Hardy, spiked, branches poke up in tightknit clusters, appearing like candelabras on the table that is the sandy mounds, which line the Bombay-bound road. In the distance, dusky, grey hills, form a carpet that spreads as far as the eye can see. The tawny brown earth glows with a rusty-copper tone, illuminated slightly by the descending sun.  Rocks, boulders and stones litter the roadside, adding a river of slate-grey to the brown and green backdrop.  Now and then small, redbrick buildings pop up, corrugated tin roofs, pinned down by large, jagged rocks, the only apparent security in covering these shed-sized shanti shacks. The only sign of life comes from motionless washing lines, dotted with bright bits of fabric, pegged out by a mother’s hands.  Quickly another, rather more ominous, signal of human life registers - tons of disused, plastic bottles and mountainous bags of waste. An accumulation of local folks’ day-to-day existence forms scattered piles, left for a waste disposal solution that is yet to, or may never, arrive.

The deep hum of the double-decker sleeper bus, bellows up from the tarmac below, occasionally overpowered by the roar of a bright yellow tractor, appearing to float backwards as it passes the open window.  The smell of the Earth fills the cool, breezy air; a smell of dirt and dust, and nature. With attention, a cacophony of differing horns cans be detected, varying in pitch and tone, all screeching out their presence, alerting each other of their advancement, weaving together in an uncalculated yet synchronised flow. 

Travel around India is easy, with private buses being an affordable and swiftly organised approach to getting around.  Sleeper buses double up as accommodation; waking up and stepping off into a new location, provides a stimulating jolt of happy anticipation, quite difficult to be beaten.  Bunks are amply sized, couched by a soft(ish) mattress, curtains and sliding glass doors. Privacy is A* and usb-port charging outlets provide in-house power for all devices to whittle away the time as you please.  Periodically buses take pit-stops, pulling up with a shudder at what could be likened to a roadside service station in the West.  Wallahshop on touting water and tea, or rush along pass the windows outside, bearing deep fried snacks or namkeenof some description.

I’m yet to experience the train, leaving it too late with my booking for this journey to secure a seat, but as a solo female traveller, there is no complaint I could possibly make about this transportation system and would recommend it highly to any wander-lusting considerate.  I have also come to conclude that non-AC is my personal preference, the offensive jets of cold air, undesired during these colder months. Plus, this also allows for a sliding window, to the outside world, it’s opening enhancing the journey through this sensory rich land. 

I am heading south from Udaipur to Mumbai, where I will idle the day away, before hopping on another overnight vessel, delivering me in Goa.  From there we’ll see what is to come…

Udaipur - the Venice of the East - a vision of white!

‘Udaipur! Udaipur!’My 5am wake-up call, the bus driver wrapping on the sliding window that serves as the entrance and exit to my coffin, I mean, compartment, on the sleeper bus from Jodhpur. 

I slowly rouse from my slumber; the darkness of the early morning is no help here. Slipping down from my upper bunk and along the narrow aisle lined by empty beds, windows open, crumpled blankets the only sign of life existing here for the seven hours prior. Small food carts, seemingly pitched as close to bus doors as possible, welcome weary travellers with pots of steaming chai and huge round woks, brimming with towering, piles of bright yellow speckled with green – poha – flattened turmeric rice sprinkled in coriander, peanuts and various namkeen, a personal breakfast favourite. I am served up a portion, a perfect handful atop two pieces of criss-crossed newspaper. The opportunity to take a seat on the small plastic stools, eat a little something, drink a thimble-sized black coffee and contemplate my next move is taken readily.  Surprisingly, despite numerous rickshawdrivers awaiting their next move, not one hassles me with their services. A good sign. Phone in hand, google maps open, I seek a trusty stead to cart me off to my chosen hostel and before I know it, I am tucked up under a blanket on a roof top bed, left to catch a few extra zeds until a more godly hour arises.  

I awake to the red hues of a huge Japanese sun shining fuzzily through the open archway windows which line the walls.  If Jodhpur was the blue city, then Udaipur should be named a City of White. As I look out across the landscape, a scene of water and white buildings, I remember that this town does indeed have its own nickname – the Venice of the East, a suiting moniker for this relaxed, romantic place. This city of lakes glimmers beautifully under the morning sun. Cream and off-white buildings, covered in delicately carved balconies, arched windows, rooftop domes and the odd piece of stained glass, reflect the Mughal and Rajput style.  It’s a stark contrast to what I have seen of Rajasthan thus far. A true gem in this land of treasures.


It is apparent from the room rates here that guesthouse owners know too well what a desirable destination Udaipur presents itself as, especially after many a travellers’ journey through the cities of Jaipur and Jodhpur before ending up here. It feels a little bit like one of the seaside resorts which line the south of the British Isles, big white hotels, overlooking the water, a quiet, relaxed atmosphere and costing a pretty penny to stay.  In India a pretty penny is still only a fraction of what it is back home but nonetheless, when compared to the rest of the trip, Udaipur is expensive. Tomorrow marks the three-month anniversary since my departure from the UK and throughout my adventure I have yet to pay more than 300 rupees per room, roughly £3 a night.  In Udaipur I am offered a room for 3000 rupees, this mark up speaks for itself.  I settle for a 500 rupee dorm room, the rooftops in these places serve as the perfect chill-spots that little time is spent in the room, simply a place to shower and sleep, a dorm is more than doable, and fifteen quid for three nights certainly isn’t bad at all.

My time in Venice of the East was packed with tours and exploring and various escapades, and it seems, as I edit this blog post, I neglected to find the time to write any further. Let’s just say – visit Udaipur, it’s beautiful!

Blue City. Sun City. Gateway to the Desert. Hello, Jodhpur!

Gateway to the desert, the Sun-City, welcome to Jodphur, a city of blue!

This evening I write from the sky-blue wooden box that is my resting place within The Blue City. Wall to wall doors and shutters give the feeling one has climbed inside a giant wardrobe, a blue cupboard room in a fairy-tale land. Thatched windows bring in the bells and warbled mantra drifting up from the street below. Jodhpur would be equally named Rainbow Town, blue playing centre stage on a background of candy coloured pinks, purples and green. Rajasthan is a wash of vibrant tones and the second biggest city in the state brings its architecture into the canvas of colour, along with the usual fabrics, flags and motorised vehicles. 

‘Bob Hostel’ is a small family run gig, and the building itself, a tall, narrow interior, dotted in fairy-lights, of course in the signature blue. There is always an interesting chat to be had with the younger guys that will succeed the proprietor, often a nephew, son, or close family friend.  Today I meet Rafi, a trendy, young thing, dressed of course in a dazzling shirt and Rajasthani slippers, heralding from Jaisalmer, but running this place here in Jodhpur to support those back home. Rafi enjoys telling me about his family and showing me pictures on his phone, he’s excited to be going back to visit in a couple of days, having not seen them for months.  His small corner of the reception area, which serves as his bedroom, has posters of Bob Dylan and The Beatles, talking points to which Rafi has little to actually say.  I find it surprising when local people profess to knowing Manchester, my birth-town, yet rarely do the words Manchester United register any recognition. In a country of cricket lovers, the cricket ground can sometimes get a nod, but it seems for many Indian people the world outside of their vast, sprawling land remains largely unknown. After chai with Raf’, I have to excuse myself to escape further tea with the guest-house owner, who is already summoning a roaming chai wallah to the door.  

I am beginning to see that Indian folks love to ply their guests with tea, a liquid adhesive to keep them around, seemingly just for further chats and company, welcome with little else to do; but right now I want to get out and see the city, so I run out the door with a quick goodbye. 

On arrival in a tutktuk, Jodhpur seemed to strike the same chords as Jaipur, loud, busy, dusty, hot, but now, as I traverse the small chock-filled streets by foot, it appears to have a more relaxed vibe.  Both sides of each and every long, paved, lane is lined with shops; tiny, hollowed concrete cubes, crammed full with wares, contents of which appeared undecipherable, boxes on boxes, shelves chock-full.  Each shop front houses a large, square, white cushion and pillow, a comfortable seating place for a day and night of trade.  Old men with grey hair, perch, cross-legged, smoking hand-rolled local cigarettes and chatting to their market neighbour. Life seems easy here, despite being in a country where, for some, life is a struggle of survival. 

However, as I wandered homeward, hours later, through the same bizaar, the same faces sat in the same spots, seemingly not having moved, a long, long, day, stationary, in a small claustrophobic lane, endless scooters and tuktuks assaulting the senses, in a constant stream. Perhaps this sedentary life appeals to a weary traveller, the soft sofa cushions would be a nice place to rest and watch the day’s activity go by.  Yet an hour or so sitting relaxing here, drinking chai, does not akin to a lifetime on these streets, day in, day out, hour after hour.  This is real India. Local life, a lifetime spent in a fishbowl.

Yet these faces do not display misery or solace, no sympathy required here. The people of Jodhpur are happy, their faces content, with dancing eyes.  It strikes me again how they differ from those of the other places I’ve visited on this enchanting journey through Rajasthan.  Whilst the Rishikesh folk were blissed-out and the Jaipur crowd stern and surly, the people of Jodhpur were not about the hustle.  I sense a relaxed laisse-faiz air, life just was what it was here.  Traders didn’t force their goods on to you, shouting Maam, Maam, Maam, like a broken record, or closer still a relentless five-year old.  You are left to your own meandering devices, the only interactions, ones of curiosity, at the stranger in their midst, ‘where you going, Maam?’ ‘What country?’ ‘Your good name, Maam?’ and many smiles. As I weave my way into the blue neighbourhood, the intrigue from the people grows.  

Every, single passer-by utters a gentle, hello, Namaste, hi.  It seems they are genuinely delighted to greet a foreigner in these small back-streets of their ‘hood. Children dart around laughing, coming close and giggling before running back to their friends. ‘How are you? Are you fine?’, a chance to practice the common phrases learnt in school.  A small, group of young boys appoint themselves as my escorts, maybe ten or eleven years old. The boldest of the crew peppers me with questions, and warns me from a direction where there are some ‘bad boys who will disturb you’.  They instead lead me to an old, refined, gun-metal haired fellow, tooting on a great, silver trombone.  He plays me a tune, his face alight with amusement, and waves me off as I depart. I like Jodhpur. Once away from the hustle bustle of the lengthy bizaars the streets are alive with happy energy, even the old ladies occupying the stoops, radiate an energy of peace, this is life, sit down and take it as it comes. 

I spend my two days wandering around slowly, simply enjoying the vibes and sights to be seen.  Small temples dotted all around and the magnificent fort, high up in the distance, appears grandly at every turn, visible through the gaps between buildings, up on the hills that hug this city.  The blue buildings bring a coolness to the alleyways, one of the suggested reasons for their tone. The other being that they beam blue like the colour of Krishna, an equally logical motive, in these parts. 

The fort is surrounded by a desert park, a sprawling  78 hectare area, in which the local flora and fauna have been recultivated over the last ten years, bringing the desert landscape back to it’s natural state, after an outbreak of a rogue exotic species caused an epidemic wiping out everything else.  Trekking around this park one is reminded, this was indeed, the edge of the desert, the gateway to the Thar.  Jodphur, I salute you.

People Watching In Pushkar

People watching over Pushkar, a delightful relief from jostling Jaipur, it jostles still, but in a much more spacious, laid-back affair. Men wrapped in amber and ochre, women draped in fuscia pink and emerald green, young guys in paisley shirts and pashmina scarves so common in the Rajasthani state. The sounds of slow, beat-heavy Hindi play out from the ‘Baba Rooftop Café’, remixed by the high-pitched beeps and honks of the horns emanating from ground-level; if India was to be summed up by a sound, surely after the holy aum, the horn would be it.  

The pilgrimage town of Pushkar is constructed around a holy lake, forming the centre stage of this destination.  Fifty-two gates surround the pious body of water, elaborately painted in Hindu iconography and the aesthetically pleasing Sanskrit script.  Pigeon filled, concrete steps and ghats for bathing line all sides of the lake, a vision of stone and water, mountains and sky.  The landscape is a cluster of low storey, straight edged, buildings - blocks of concrete covered in square windows, mostly off-white or cream, with the occasional, and beautifully contrasting, baby pink or azure blue.

From within this Lego brick town, elaborate spires and rounded domes protrude, reaching up into the sky from the temples below.  Palatial buildings pepper the cityscape, their majesty best absorbed from afar, with sweeping bell-shaped rooftops and countless arches lining their walls.  On closer inspection, the arches are intricately yet perfectly carved surrounded by decorative painting and tiled mosaic, so beautiful despite the dirt and dust gathered over many, many years. 

Long tailed langurs hop from ledge to ledge, bouncing gracefully over concrete that appeared to give little purchase.  But the most eye-catching of animals in this town had to be the birds which circled the lake in swarms of hundreds.  These pigeons were clearly more refined than their urban, city-dwelling cousins back in London, feathers smooth and clean, glimpses of purple and green flashing in the sun.  They collected on the ghat steps en-masse, pecking at corn scattered by purity-seeking pilgrims, and lined the corrugated steel rooftops that jutted out over the concrete steps surrounding the area.  A sudden, whoosh roars from above, seconds later a grey cloud of birds takes to the air, briefly taking flight but only so far as to the neighbouring rooftop where they simultaneously take their seat. Minutes later the whoosh booms again, and the army of feathered comrades rise up and return back to the preceding perch.

This pigeon ping-pong continues, undecipherable to the human eye, as to the reason for this continual switching of rooftops. I could happily stand here a while enjoying the avian storm, the bird’s thunderous take-off followed by the lightning fast flurry of wings a sensory delight.  However, this place is rich with such sensory nourishment and meandering strolls are bountiful with further sustenance.  

Across all edges of the water semi-clad bathers absolve their sins, with cupped hands they scoop up the holy water, lifting it over head, placing droplets across the crown, before moving fingertips down over closed eyes, ears and finally to the throat.  This ritualistic gesture, a bath of purification, clearing away samsara and sin.  ‘Priests’ are numerous, offering puja, a personal blessing, yet some wear Adidas jumpers and Nike shoes, not what comes to mind when you conjure up a mental image of such a person. Unsurprisingly, such charlatans will affirm that the more money one donates the more good luck for their family, an amusing interpretation of God’s way, akin to a heavenly bodyguard hired for protection, ‘you give ten pound English money for each your family member’.  I proffer that I don’t think God works like this before giving one good, old, English pound for my whole clan. Protect us all, dear God, that’s at least 10p a head. 

Moving away from the lake, it is not long before the tourist driven stalls echo the small lanes of Laxman Jhula back in Rishi’. The usual collection, silver bangles, macramé bracelets, mirror-clad embroidered bags and tie-dye clothes. No harm to peruse and much less hassle from the sellers, window shopping is an enjoyable pastime here.  Gemstones feature highly, being a central item of Rajasthani trade. Everything from camel-leather bags to clipper lighters are adorned with round, polished stones. Tiger’s eye, labradorite, turquoise, quartz, jaspers in all the colours, a meteorological mecca. Brass jewellery and pretty, painted bowls and ashtrays glitter in the afternoon sun.  Cheap, easy spending, purchases you could never really need. Gorgeous embroidered door hangings, fabric archways covered in coloured thread, mosaic tiled lanterns, a decorators dream for interior design.  

Further along stalls become more practical, fruit and veg traders, flower sellers, chai,panipuri, and katchori, a mung bean filled, spicy spaceship shaped snack, deep fried pastry not unlike a samosa.  Following the locals is always the best tactic here, the stall attracting the most patrons always the wallah of choice.  The sweet and sour mango sauce teamed with the heat of the curried potato filling is rewarding, this fifteen-rupee breakfast stupid to resist. 

Freddie Mercury, the chai wallah

A selection of almost identical rooftop cafes provide further opportunity for relaxing and surveying the surroundings.  Common to all are the painted wicker chairs, the red, yellow, green so synonymous with the Rastafarian culture which easily overlays the shanti shanti Indian way, pictures of Bob Marley and paintings of babas smoking chillums cover the walls.  Cotton lanterns swing from the rafters, fake, gaudy flowers dotted across the tables, ceiling fans painted messily in bright, fluorescent paint. My former days in Thailand endow me with the fitting phrase same same, but different, and this comes to mind often here. Same shit, different diaper might be another perspective of this phrase. 

What surprises me most is the lack of any congregation of travellers. I see couples and singles, the sign of the traveller often being the loosely draped pashmina scarf and baggy harems. But here and in Jaipur, I have been yet to see places brimmed with backpackers, areas where many tourists can be spied in close proximity.  Here I begin to deepen my understanding on the sheer size of this country.  Unlike the small countries of Thailand, Vietnam, Cambodia, where wanderlusting westerners cannot avoid becoming part of a mini-microcosm of its own, here the vast lands of India allow for a more sparse, spread-out dissemination.  In the space of twenty hours I have frequented five of these rooftop residencies and each time have shared the space with only two or three of my travelling counterparts.  It’s nice. An easy, peaceful affair.  Pushkar differs from Rishikesh in this respect, back in Rishi’ the cool, chill out cafes often throng with spiritual seekers, lounging lazily on futon mattresses, propped up by bolsters, gazing out over the flowing water of Ganga Ma. Cafes and restaurants have no shortage of orders for drinks and food, a steady stream echoing the river, flow on from morning until night. In Pushkar the pace is much slower, but a trickle compared to the former. Again, it’s nice.  Chefs take time preparing dishes and creamy matar masalas and spicy palak paneers showcase this readily.  No rush, shanti shanti, fresh food and fluffy chapatti worth the wait. 

And herein contains a perspective-altering take on life, to a life where this is no waiting, instead only being, and thus enjoying things as they come.  In a country where there is so much to observe, admire and meditate on, no time need be considered waiting, a wait implying an imposition, a window of lacking, awaiting fulfilment of a desired service. Instead all time is just being, presence, peaceful occupation, free from thoughts or pressing matters. Watching the comings and goings before one’s eyes, easy amusement to keep on entertained.  This kind of time is then punctuated with the arrival of sweets, drinks, snacks, the bus or train – just points at which the experience is varied or enhanced in some way; we are not waiting here. We just are. Here. In India. And it’s magnificent.  

As the smell of rose water wafts by my nose I bring this to a close and head off for another dose of Pushkar, a place where the energy is light and comforting, like a gentle hug and pat on the back, or perhaps more fitting, like sitting in the lap of the the Gods. Interestingly, Pushkar houses one of the only Brahma temples in the world, thus perhaps it is the energy of Brahma, the creator, which is felt here.

Om Satchit Ekam Brahma, I offer my prayers to Brahma who is one with the universe. 

A peachy day in the Pink City of Jaipur

After just one day Jaipur exceeded any kind of idea that I might have had about the place. I hear ‘big city’ and I think silver, shiny, metal, glass, straight lines, pavements, cityness. The Pink City is certainly none of these things. Arriving on a sleeper bus - plush mattress, bunk-bed cabin, very fitting for a futuristic Japanese scene -from Rishikesh, bidding goodnight to the Himalayas and grand risings to the desert state of Rajasthan. Eyes opening, sleepily gazing through the window of the bus, not expecting to be greeted by the majesty of a huge, rugged elephant, slowly and steadily plodding along with his load. The mahout lying atop limply, reflecting the early hour of the day. Next the pink hues of the city begin to register; walls, gates, scaffolding, everything a dusky shade of pink. We pass the gates to the city for the first time, their grandeur and beauty suddenly yet subtly, stirring something within, like a wide eyed child spotting the candy floss at the fairground. Jaipur, here you are, you stately, old, gent! There is a masculine energy in the air here, an air of pride and refinery. Amid the pale rose facades and salmon bollards, a feminine beauty that cannot be denied, the male presence evades. The atmosphere is vibrant, the morning hour bringing the chai drinkers to their source. Small food bizaars bustle with the chit-chat of morning business, and bold dark eyes roam unrestrained on the two foreigners sharing the breaking of fast. Unrevealing faces slip easily into smiles at the faintest grin and kind eyes twinkle as the grin spreads. No words are required in a country such as this, together smiles and eyes express warmly the greetings and curious recognition of the other. The eyes of the people are different here, in Rishikesh faces exude the very essence of the people, shanti shanti, peace and love shine out from relaxed eyes.  In Jaipur the eyes are piercing, intense stares reveal dark depths. Here are faces which reflect a lifetime of striving, eyes accustoming to darting around quickly, continually assessing the environ, ready to detect the next potential source of fruition, hungry eyes, a hunger for opportunity. 

Chill Out hostel - our open air bedroom :) and Ajeet :)

Short tuk-tuk rides turn quickly into promises of unforgettable days of sight seeing and chauffeur driven Jaipur jaunts, our driver, Bilal, has a sweet yet hard edged veneer. With little planning and even littler stress we find ourselves at Chill Out hostel, its rooftop beds and bohemian lounge instantaneously had us beaming. Perhaps Jaipur is not going to be a one night stop off after all.  Our finely clad host, Ajeet, beard full and groomed, attentively chats, showering smiles and compliments, those kinds of meetings full of energy and happy enthusiasm. He takes my compliments on his fine, paisley shirt and curled toe Aladdin style leather slippers gracefully, that he was nothing more than scruffy in his mother’s eyes.  Ajeet was a cool guy. Not long passes until he returns, pen and paper in one hand, fat joint in the other, eyes shining, and plonks down himself down with a list of his recommendations he’s already begun. The list continues to grow, as he excitedly recalls other places he wants to add, here is a man clearly with much love and admiration from his home city and it was nice to receive this heart-felt, home-felt, itinerary thoughtfully put together by a fellow that, half hour ago had yet to know us. Indian people are like that, they will help you to the last degree, if they can, which they often passionately enthuse that they can, because sub kuch miliga, everything is possible. In India it probably is.

After some time spent chilling on the rooftop we hit the streets to take a stroll and catch our bearings. Much amusement is to be had doing simple things, like looking at all the different sweets and crackers in the sweet shop; sugary gulab jamon, rich, creamy barfiand peda, spicy namkeen, aka Bombay mix, to you and me, a captivating array of colours, shapes and textures. Buying biscuits on the street is an even more titillating matter, pointing at boxes, wanting to try everything, throwing in many small Hindi words, vah, yah, thora, chikki, only glimpses of a language, said with an air of fluency, enticing a flurry of hard and fast Hindi from the dawdlers hanging around this candy wallah.  The next shop brings pineapple juice, sweet and yellow, freshly and readily prepared, served immediately, no wait at allm as we parked our behinds on the old, plastic stools, ubiquitous with Asia. The paltry fifteen rupee recompense for this satiating cold drink was just one of the small smiles and surprises India often brings. 

No surprise we end up in another tuk-tuk and this time, after a stop at the fruit wallah, a trip this driver was kindly bestowing upon two papaya desiring stoners, our driver takes us to his family’s textile shop and we are, before we know it, the audience to a impassioned pitch displaying the elaborate and desirable cloths and silks of Rajasthan. Layer after layer of cotton and silk are thrown over us, soon giving the rise to the Raj within, feeling quite queenly a top the sofa adorned in throws.  What started as a firm resolution that there was nothing in this shop that I could possibly want, I’m soon shaking hands on a deal for a block printed Rajasthani bed sheet, a cotton and silk bed cover and a soft, silky pashmina just for good measure. Right there, right then, the feelings was as if I had indeed sought out this shop for these items, I was chuffed. I’d found the things I didn’t even know I wanted, and yes, no problem that I will have to find a post office and mail this to England and blah blah blah. Hahaha, it was just a bewitching experience indeed. I guess this was enhanced by, Ali Baba, the shop owner, reading my aura and telling me all kinds of existential things about myself – which has actually happened a few times here now, and weirdly, or maybe not so, they all say pretty much the same thing. I take my leave after around twenty minutes of prophesising with my sage, not to forget the meeting with his guru that has been arranged for tomorrow.  His words will make my hairs stand on end, or so Ali Baba assures. 

Round about now, the days fares are calling for a retreat to the rooftop and more chai, until we suddenly realise we are no longer in Uttarkhand – Rishikesh, and there are actually beer shops here! So a few Kingfishers are secured and we head up to spend an evening doing much chilling, little moving, nice chatting. A great, great first day on the road. The energy of Jaipur is vibrant. 

Day Two in Jaipur brings a different energy, the frenetic traffic and incessant honking of horn is enveloping, the warm air heavy with dust and the invisible poison emitted from the sea of a diverse array of transportation streaming in every possible direction. Dusty, clapped out cars, bright yellow and green, buzzing tuktuks, rickety, spindly, old rickshaws heaving, and grey buses, sapphire blue and pink lorries, hand-painted with Sanskrit lettering and the ever present Om, motorbikes and scooters, carrying one, two, three passengers, or balancing gravity defying loads, precariously ridden bicycles, the occasional camel, horse or even elephant, share the road here, in a chaotic yet subconsciously synchronised flow.  The horn is imperative, used differently in the West, this is not the angry admonishment from one driver to another, this is the beacon, the alert system, ‘I’m here, coming through, step not unto my path’ – and it works, no crashs, no collisions, just plenty of close calls, near misses, and exhilarating thrills for the brave hearted that ride this mighty beast.  Small children weave through the traffic touting items seemingly useless to the captive market. The kohl ringed eyes of a young girl appear through our tuktuk window, a small, thin wrist holds out a red balloon on a stick, just what I was thinking would be useful in this bubbling soup of traffic.  She remains despite a clear lack of a sale, until the road roars and she is forced to slip away, a faint smile leaving her lips as she holds my gaze with those deep, dark eyes. It is these moments, looking into the people’s faces that leaves one contemplating life here, to be born into such a unrelenting walk of life. 

Before long, it is evident that today’s driver, Abhi, is not the trusty steed, his stuttering English quickly becoming a source of irritation, requiring much time and attention every time he speaks. His intentions were fairly pure but with only one day to explore this city we wanted not only a guide who could show and tell us a little about the city, but someone able to give us a chilled out day cherry picking the best sights and cool spots, those off the beaten track locations, giving a snippet into real Jaipur. Abhi was not the man and after going with him to his textile shop yesterday and leaving laden with goods we harboured no guilt at our desire to replace him with a better model. Knowing the persistence of the Indian counternance the best port of call was to escape via the local market, where we had planned to stop to find food. Stepping out of the Asian golf-buggy, we grease Abhi’s palm with two hundred rupees, muttering changes of plan, we hastily disappear into the throng of people, not looking back, yet feeling a pang of something a leaving Abhi standing wondering what he had done wrong. It was easier then explaining that we just didn’t want to spend the day with him, stuttering Stanley, and his lack of tour guide intuition. 

The market served as an experience in itself, a suffocating, yet fun detour. The dusty floor littered with plastic, unidentified trash, heavily trodden, embedded into the ground.  Bodies moved forward as one, occasionally halting for a stream of people going against the grain. Tarpaulin covered stalls lined both sides of every walkway of the market, swarms of shoppers formed small crowds at each station, eagerly grabbing, quickly studying, and just as rapidly throwing back down whatever this wallah was trading, here was a lot of fabric and textiles, a lot, forming piles of colour at the feet of thin, old men, stroking long grey moustaches. This was a muslim market, contrasting the colourful saris worn by Hindu ladies, here the women wore top to toe black, faces covered, black-lined eyes, framed and thus beautifully enhanced.  I follow suit, adjusting my headscarf accordingly, over my hair and immediately feel the comforting shield of concealment forming somewhat of a barrier from curious eyes. 

We navigate our way to the perimeter and into a small alley, laughing as we mused if Abhi was searching the market for us. Nourishment was our aim, a local food joint should suffice, the journey yielding further opportunity to see local life by foot.  Our presence was clearly equally as interesting to the local folk, and one must become accustomed to being watched and studied at every moment.  It also helps to become familiar with unsolicited interruptions from unabashed Indian men, stepping face to face asserting something unknown in Hindi. At first my naïve nature assumed something was up with whatever we were doing, this food shop wasn’t open or this place was only for drinks but one quickly realises this is not the case, and we actually have a poacher in our midst. Indian people feel no shame at seeking to lead you to part with your cash at any opportunity, even when you have already sought a recipient for this particular transaction. We take our seats inside the dark hole in the wall that was our chosen dhaba, food spot, and begin to survey the scene and work out what we will eat here. The guy from the street has followed us in and stands over us, firing out questions. ‘What your country?’ ‘In India you how long?’ ‘You have sigret?’ ‘You come here my shop’. Eventually it pays off to point outside and politely tell him ‘tum jao udhar’, literally ‘you go there’, a subtler way to say GO AWAY! At these times I’m happy with my small but growing grasp of the Hindi language. I’m sure this will not be the last time this phrase is drawn from the bag.