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The
Golden Triangle They say you can smell India before you see it. Even before we left customs at New Delhi airport, there was no doubt where we were. Our Indian tour guide for the week, who had a quite unpronounceable name (so JK for short) quickly and efficiently manoeuvred us into the minibus where we were greeted by our water wallah, who ceremoniously placed a floral garland over each of our heads. We hadn't planned to go to India at all; we were going to Egypt - a week on the Nile, 3 nights in Cairo and a few days relaxing back in Luxor. But then just as we were due to pay the balance, the situation in the Middle East became volatile. Would it escalate or would it subside? As it happens, it subsided, but not before we had decided our lives were worth more than the deposit. The question was, where should we go instead? A package to the Med didn't seem very adventurous or exciting but a trawl of the Telegraph Travel website soon revealed alternatives - Canada - too cold in November; the same applied to China. Four or five pages later a picture of the Taj Mahal jumped out at me and in no time at all we were booked onto Voyages Jules Verne's trip to 'India's Golden Triangle'. Our fellow travellers made up a small group - Jane and Ian from Cumbria, Val and Mick (who might be distantly related to us), Val and Hugh from Essex, Lena and her father Joe from Birmingham (Joe was born in Bombay and could eat anything without ill-effect), Sue and Lee from Wales and Cliff and John from the north, a quiet pair whose names we didn't discover till the end of the trip. Our first morning was free so we slept late in a room smelling of sandalwood and mothballs and breakfasted on egg sandwiches we'd brought from Heathrow and shoved in the fridge, before emerging into the peaceful gardens where some of our group were already in the pool. However, by lunchtime everyone was assembled in the bar and ready for a tour of old and new Delhi. Old Delhi was an eye-opener, plunging us rapidly into culture shock. Close to the hotel a new flyover was under construction, bringing the 21st century to Delhi in time for the next Commonwealth Games, but beneath it a tarpaulin was pitched like a tent to provide a home for a family. There are no pavements in this part, just dirt, tent dwellings and derelict concrete structures dotted everywhere, providing shelter for many while barefoot under-fives begged at traffic lights. They have no sanitation, their environment is an open dustbin, a standpipe in the road their only water source and their washroom. The streets are swept by hand, a besom-type broom shifting the dust from one spot to another, but never removing it. The roads are a nightmare - lane discipline is non-existent; vehicles shoot out from junctions without stopping and pass with inches to spare, wing mirrors turned in, but still somehow manage to miss each other most of the time. The road is shared between rusty old cars and expensive cars, wide open windowed, vomit-smeared buses, lorries, motorbikes, tuk-tuk taxis, bicycles, rickshaws often piled high with goods, donkey carts, horse carts, camel carts, cows, pedestrians carrying their goods on their heads or just going about their business - the confusion is beyond description, and the noise! They hoot. They hoot when passing, when following, when being carved up or even, it would seem, when bored. And the traffic pollution lingers all day like an early morning fog which has not quite lifted. The Sunday market had drawn hundreds of people into the city centre - we passed a family of five all on one motorbike! Endlessly we passed stalls lining the streets, but the bookstall caught my attention - with books all laid out on the pavement. We pulled in beside a rickshaw stand, where JK had to wake the head driver from a drunken stupor to organise the seven rickshaws which were to hurtle us, holding tight, through the back streets beneath thick, heavy, dusty cables, past street traders, their wares set out in front of closed shops, weaving in and out of motorbikes, taxis, people and cows until we screeched to a halt at the steps of the Jama Masjid (Mosque). Those rickshaw drivers deserved much admiration for pedaling us all that way at such speed! It was close to prayer time, but the mosque was still open to visitors so we climbed the steps and, leaving our shoes for a few rupees with the shoe wallah, entered the vast arena marked with hundreds of white lines as a guide to kneeling. Through the gateway opposite the Mehrab (altar) was a splendid view of the Red Fort; the road between was congested with people, so many people, heading our way. We drove on into New Delhi, past the Parliament buildings and carefully manicured lawns, past India Gate, the World War I memorial, to arrive just before closing time at the Ghandi memorial. Here we followed Ghandi's last footsteps to the site of his murder, to join a solitary pilgrim paying homage. I'm not a lover of Indian food, so it was a relief that evening to find the hotel offered international cuisine. Later I was to survive on tomato soup, naan bread, dahl and rice. The following morning we were to move on to Agra (pronounced Argra), but before leaving Delhi we squeezed in a visit to the majestic Qutab Minar, a 73 metre red sandstone minaret, which stands at the entrance to an ancient city and is the oldest landmark in Delhi. This and all the adjacent buildings are intricately carved with geometric designs and excerpts from the Koran dating from medieval times. However, it is now believed the minaret was built nearly 2,000 years previously as a giant sundial. The old road to Agra is full of pot-holes, which the lorries and donkey carts weave around. We passed through numerous small towns and villages, none of which displayed a place name. It was noticeable that whilst life in the city was Victorian, rural life was medieval, biblical even. We saw people drawing water from the village well, and bathing at the pump and while the women worked in the fields, the men generally sat around talking. Entering Agra late in the day, we could only call briefly at Akbar's tomb; there was no time to go in but we continued to the Clarks Shiraz Hotel, where the food again was intercontinental. We ate in the Maharajah's restaurant (which also served Chinese) at the top of the hotel, sold to us as having views of the Taj Mahal. However, by the time we ate it was dark so we were unable to substantiate this. Standing in the half light outside the huge wooden, studded gates of the Taj Mahal at 6.30am, it was chilly, but we were first in line. Hawkers were already trying to sell us film and camera chips and the cows plodded who knew where along the dusty street. The doors, towering above us, opened slowly and after a body search we were admitted to the grounds beyond. Still in darkness, we walked quickly through the garden, turning to pass through the magnificent gateway. Now we walked very slowly for there before of us was our first breathtaking sight of the Taj Mahal, ethereal in the half light. Keeping our gaze on the Taj, we moved slowly forward to the edge of the platform. As the day began, a purple glow spread across its walls, to be replaced slowly by pink and then white. Moving then down the path alongside the pool, we came to the famous seat to have our photographs taken before continuing on to the Taj Mahal itself, where we donned overshoes to enter the mausoleum. The tomb of Mumtaz Mahal is placed centrally and that of her husband to the side (the tomb was built just for her and it was an afterthought to place his body there too). Surrounding the tomb is an exquisitely carved screen decorated with flowers made from precious gems. Shah Jahan was so thrilled with the final result, built by the most skilled craftsmen in India, that he couldn't bear the idea of anything else being built to surpass it, so he cut off the hands of each and every craftsman. Behind the Taj is the rather muddy River Yamara and beyond, Agra and its industries. The World Health Organisation has classified the city as a "pollution intensive zone" and over 200 industries have been ordered out of the area and motor vehicles have been banned from coming within 500m of the Taj. The pollution is so bad that there is a permanent fog hanging over the city and the marble of the Taj is becoming discoloured and brittle, though thankfully not yet to the public eye. An hour later, we returned to the gatehouse and took our last look at the Taj. The sun had broken through the early morning mist, throwing a perfect reflection the full length of the pool, lining up in perfect symmetry with the fountains. After breakfast back at the hotel, we set off again, this time to Agra Fort, the Mughal's seat of power throughout the 16th and 17th centuries. It was built by Akbar but completed by Shah Jahan. A shaded room overlooks the Taj Mahal and it was here that Shah Jahan spent his final years, gazing day after day at the mausoleum of his beloved wife. Beautifully sculpted, much of the interior is decorated with tiles depicting floral art. After lunch in an Indian restaurant (where I found omelette & chips and Lena had something which made her ill) we returned to the hotel for a couple of hours rest. Later in the afternoon we set off again for the Baby Taj, a much smaller mausoleum but most picturesque in the evening sun. The day was ending for Agra too, as three young lads hitched a lift home on the back of a buffalo cart. The following
morning we were back on the road heading for Jaipur. The early morning
trip through the city revealed people washing at the standpipe in the
road and a man shaving at a mirror hung from a tree at the side of the
road. A woman was doing her washing in a bowl in the middle of the road,
while her son stood in his underwear, watching, waiting for his trousers
to come out of the wash. Children were collecting litter, depositing it
in a sack for later sorting and recycling. A new express highway is under construction between Delhi and Mumbai, but the present road is littered with the ever-present potholes so it was a long, slow journey which took the rest of the day. Now and again we would pass a stretch where one half of the road had been cut back for re-surfacing. To keep motorists off, boulders were strewn copiously about the carriageway - but that didn't hinder the lorry drivers or the donkey carts who expertly dodged through the gaps. On one occasion we faced it out with a donkey cart approaching us on our side of the dual carriageway - he was taking a short cut to the field! Our hotel in Jaipur, the Raj Mahal, used to be a Maharajah's Palace. Val and Hugh were delighted with their Maharajah's suite complete with chandeliers. Ours must have been the maid's room - it was awful, tiny and due for refurbishment at least 30 years ago. We had been promised a stay in a Maharajah's Palace, so were bitterly disappointed, but after a few significant words with the management a beautiful suite miraculously became available and we were able to relax happily in the garden with Val and Hugh and a large gin and tonic. The next day was to be our busiest and we were up at 5.45 for a 7.00 departure for the drive to the village of Amber, a few miles outside Jaipur. The early start was important if we were to avoid an interminable wait for an elephant ride to the Amber Palace. As it was, we still had to wait an hour, but at last we were able to climb the massive mounting block and onto the seat on our elephant's back. As it plodded and swayed up the hill, our driver told us all the elephants are owned by the state and are only allowed to do a set number of runs per day and must finish by midday. They are not allowed to carry people down again as it is quite difficult for the elephants to walk downhill, even on their own. The Amber Palace is most beautifully decorated. The Ganesh Pol gate, leading to the private apartments, is a magnificent blend of Rajasthani and Mughal decoration: floral motifs, images of gods, glass mosaics and carved screens, as is much of the rest of the Palace. Room after room, wall after wall, is decorated with beautiful tiles and mosaics. The views from the top are stunning and stretch for miles. We descended by jeep and were taken on that all-important part of any tour - the jewellery factory. There were some beautiful jade ornaments, but of course everything was extortionately expensive. Returning to Jaipur, our next stop was the Observatory, the Jantar Mantar, built by Jai Singh II (1688-1743, ruler of the kingdom of Amber, later called Jaipur). Although it was not the first open air observatory built in India (the earliest was in Delhi), it was the first built in stone and consists of: * Nari Yantra
- a sundial consisting of two cylinders placed at an angle; the one to
the north was used in winter, the other in summer. Immediately behind the Observatory is the Hawa Mahal - Palace of the Winds. Highly ornamented and built from the pink sandstone typical of Jaipur, it is really just a façade. Built at the end of the 18th century by Maharaja Swai Pratap Singh for his wives, courtesans and their attendants to observe city life and processions while remaining unseen in purdah, it has 953 latticed windows and balconies constructed in such a way that the slightest breeze would cool the observers they concealed. It is only one room deep and has no solid back wall, but the top floor offers wonderful views of the colourful city streets below. We were flagging in the heat by this time, so JK came up with one of his daily banana energy breaks. It was then just a short walk to the City Palace Museum, the Chandra Mahal (Moon Palace), part of which is still occupied by the royal family. The Palace now houses a textile museum displaying the finest royal outfits in silk, muslin and cotton, embroidered coats, pashmina shawls and block-printed fabrics. The prize exhibit is the quilted robe of Madho Singh I who stood 7 feet tall and weighed 500lb. There are also royal toys and musical instruments, pottery, glass and a gallery of royal portraits. Outside its magnificent entrance stand two massive silver vessels, which were said to have been taken by Madho Singh II in 1901 on his visit to London to attend the coronation of King Edward VII, filled with drinking water from the Ganges, so that he would be sure to have clean water throughout his visit! For lunch, JK took us to a very nice restaurant behind some shops. Wonder of wonders - they had English loos and loo roll! Well, now for the carpet factory. However, it was quite interesting seeing a demonstration of block printing, and all the subsequent manufacturing processes. Lena bought a carpet; we were tempted but couldn't think where to put it back home. Our final visit of the day was to the 'market' (small shops), with an hour to explore by ourselves! Taking our lives in our hands we quickly crossed the constant stream of congested yet fast moving traffic and strolled around window-shopping, while some of our party bought gifts and souvenirs. Every shopkeeper we passed pushed saris, shoes - even tiny baby shoes at us. Wandering down a side street we found cows roaming, motorbikes roaring and behind the dung heap, a grubby doorway, clearly the entrance to someone's home. A couple of smart young schoolboys stopped and stared at us with obvious curiosity and smiled profusely when we photographed them. The majority of Indian children don't go to school. So many communities are remote it would be impossible to enforce in law. JK was expecting it to be cold at Kuchaman where we were going next day as there had been snow in the Himalayas and people in our group started to feel ill. They had been warned not to eat meat but hadn't listened. Kuchaman, south west of Jaipur, was to be our introduction to the 'real' India - a small town off the tourist route. We passed through a number villages on the way, the most memorable being a place we named 'Marbletown', source of most of the world's marble and mile after mile of white dust. Mining towns are never pretty but it was interesting to see the huge chunks of marble stacked by the roadside or filling the back of a lorry. We expected to cover the 115 km in three hours but it took eight in all because of the state of the roads and the motley selection of traffic. We stopped at one point to watch a camel train pass. As the minibus rolled into Kuchaman town late in the afternoon, locals waved and called 'hello'. We left the bus in the square at the foot of the hill and continued our journey by jeep, one reserved for the luggage. As we wound our way up the narrow cobbled mountain road towards our hotel, the town receded further and further below us. The tourist guide describes it as follows: "As you go winding up an undulating mountain road, towards the massive portals of this magnificent fort, you travel back, back in time, only to be swallowed into the inside of this ancient world of strange mysteries, of secret chants and mantras, of classical music and ragas, and of fine arts and murals. The Kuchaman Fort. Beckoning, inviting, waiting to welcome you as it rises proudly into the clear skies, at the top of a 1,000 feet high sheer rock cliff." Kuchaman Fort is situated on the top of a solitary hill, in the middle of a vast plain along what was once a Central Asian trade route in the Nagaur district of Rajasthan. It was once known as an impregnable fort, its five gates arranged in such a way that it is impossible to enter without being attacked from every direction. Built in 760 AD it came into its own around 1400, but its 16th century transformation into a Palace brought decorations of beautiful miniature paintings and murals. Its 200 year old underground swimming pool, highly decorated with murals, is temperature controlled. It was part of the Jal Mahal, built for the queens and princesses. The courtyard of the fort is designed like a chessboard, on which real men would stand as chess pieces. In 1989 the current descendent of the Maharajahs converted the Palace into a hotel with 34 well appointed rooms, tastefully furnished to complement the ambiance and history of the fort. We were shown to our room. The large mortice key turned in the lock of the huge studded wooden door and we entered from a balcony running in front of a number of rooms and with an infinite view over Rajasthan. Through a triple archway stood the bed and in the alcoves along the back wall were murals of lovers from an earlier time. A notice in the bathroom stated that hot water was available only from 6-9 am and 5-9 pm and that the 'tep' (tap) should be run for 10-15 minutes for the water to come through. We discovered it was heated by a log-fired boiler on the roof of the fort, manned at these specific times by 3 men piling logs onto the blaze, then piped hundreds of yards to the hotel. Not wanting to wait for our guided tour in the morning, we set off to explore the hotel, but very quickly found ourselves high above in the old fort itself. Little cobbled paths led here and there; a small storeroom revealed ancient cannon balls, waiting to fulfil their forgotten task; and a tiny mosque, regularly used by the hotel staff. As we headed back down to the bar for an early aperitif, we came across the owner who invited us to the top of the fort to see the sunset and, not knowing at the time that our tour guide JK had planned this for the following evening, we accepted. From here we had a perfect 360°, 50 mile view of the surrounding countryside. The waiter followed us all the way up with a tray of gin and tonic (actually gin and 7-up as they were out of tonic), and there we witnessed the most magnificent Indian sunset from the top of the world. It happened to be Ian's 51st birthday, which was perfect as the hotel had arranged entertainment for our evening. As we sat on the bar terrace, sipping our drinks, musicians appeared, quickly followed by colourful Indian dancers and finally a fire-eater. We dined al fresco (it wasn't as cold as JK had thought) on an Indian buffet before returning to the bar to finish the evening with a puppet show. The little puppeteer wanted to shake my hand and was quite offended when I refused, but recovered quickly with a smile when I bowed, hands together, in the tradition manner. I was up
half the night. I'd been so careful and think it must have been lunch
or maybe I just licked my fingers. As JK predicted, Immodium doesn't work
on Delhi Belly. I was lucky as my husband Bob reacts badly to anti-malaria
tablets so was taking Doxycyline (an antibiotic) as a replacement. It
happens that this is also a treatment for traveller's tummy, so I took
one and, within a very short time, I felt fine. I'd never have anticipated
such a quick reaction. I didn't eat much that day, but I was well enough
to join in with the day's activities. Not so Mick and Lee, who were ill
and confined to bed for most of the day. Shortly afterwards, we piled into the jeeps which were to transport us all into Kuchaman town. JK led us through narrow streets bordered by open, but bridged drains. Kuchaman is a much smaller town than we had seen before, and the air much cleaner, but still goats, cows and dogs roamed amongst taxis, cars, trucks, bikes and rickshaws in muddled confusion and pigs mated in the middle of the street. The shops were open to the narrow streets, with merchandise displayed on the platform outside and all around the walls beside the entrance. Shopkeepers sitting barefoot on the platform, their shoes deposited neatly on the earth outside, waited for custom. We were attracted by the variety of architecture, every building a different design or different colour, our only distraction being a camel cart or motorbike needing to pass. We chatted to a shop-keeper who told us his grandfather had been educated up at the fort alongside the Maharajah. Rounding a corner we were greeted by a profusion of colour as we entered the vegetable market. Women in saris of the most vivid reds, yellow, greens and blues sat cross-legged on the ground, their wares spread before them in wicker baskets. In front sat a boy with a stick to fend off marauding cows and dogs. Vegetables of the highest quality were displayed and we were very tempted to buy. More upmarket, at the other end of the street, were fixed stalls, selling single items - one selling only bananas and another selling only ginger. A welder sat cross-legged in the gutter turning a piece of scrap metal into something useful and children posed before us with huge smiles fixed upon their faces, willing us to photograph them. Wearily we returned to the Fort, pausing to explore the craft stalls at the entrance and spend our last few rupees on gifts and souvenirs, before retiring to our rooms for our one and only afternoon of relaxation. With drinks pre-ordered, JK led us to the top of the Fort where once again we witnessed the setting sun from the top of the world. We hadn't the heart to tell him we'd been there the night before - he was so excited to be giving us a 'surprise' and the waiters valiantly climbed once again to the top with the gin and 7-Up, this time giving us a wonderful demonstration on how to wind a 10ft strip of fabric into a turban and secure it on the head. Actually I think they enjoyed half an hour off work to watch the sunset themselves! The jeeps came for us at 9.30 in the morning to deliver us to our bus. As we drove back through the town, the women and children waved to us and called 'good-bye' as they also did as we passed through the villages. After a short drive, the bus pulled into the side of the road and our water wallah and the driver led a short, impromptu party by producing a celebratory plastic glass of Old Monk Rum with Coke and spicy crisps. It was a lovely final touch. Just outside Ajmer we stopped for lunch at an excellent hotel where, for the first time, I actually enjoyed an Indian meal. Collecting toasted cheese sandwiches for the train journey (ever cautious), we piled into taxis which took us to the local railway station. The porter collected our cases, bringing them to the platform piled high on his head! The Shabtadi Express was already in the station, doors locked. A railway worker pasted the passenger list to the side of the carriage, so we all crowded round to see which seats we'd been allocated and were amused to find our ages were also listed, albeit inaccurately. I was 20 years younger than I am and Lena 15 years older! As we waited, the beggars hovered; an old woman and a small child of 4 or 5 with shaven head. We thought perhaps she'd had lice - until we later saw a businessman on the train with a fine, thick black wig... At 4 pm the train pulled out of Ajmer on its way via Jaipur, to Delhi. Throughout the seven hour journey, refreshments were constantly served. First a tray with cup, tea bag and flask of boiling water. An hour later, a sandwich. Then an ice cream, followed (seemingly quite closely) by dinner of curry and dessert. We avoided everything except the cup of tea and ate our toasted sandwiches. We went straight from the station to New Delhi airport for a midnight check-in. As I changed in the ladies for the flight and cleaned my teeth, I realised the attendant was fascinated by my folding travel beaker. She was delighted when I gave it to her¦ NB Unfortunately at Delhi airport, the security check is at the gate so there is no opportunity to buy water 'airside' before boarding the plane. BA had none for sale on the plane, despite it being an eight hour flight so we had no alternative but to plague the stewardess all night for drinks of water, which did not amuse her! Tough! We were not served water otherwise by the airline until breakfast. Tips for avoiding illness in India: * Be strictly
vegetarian First
published in VISA issues 77-78 (Feb - Apr 2008) |