Three-Wheel Adventures

Jaipur, Rajasthan, India
March 2nd, 2010

Our first impressions of Jaipur were marred by the fact that we were not having good luck with three-wheeled vehicles. To begin with, as we were walking down a busy street, a large, overloaded auto-rickshaw comes haring down the wrong side of the road and suddenly swerves to avoid an oncoming vehicle right as it passes us. You may be relieved to hear that the loud crack was not its impact with either of us, but unfortunately it did manage to hit Paul’s camera in its canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

Later, on the way back from the fort we had been visiting, we decided we would get a bicycle rickshaw home. We had encountered more and more of these as we travelled further north and I thought that I much preferred using them to the hassle of the many obnoxious auto drivers which inhabit large cities. To begin with, bicycle fares are supposedly around half those of autos, and if you do end up paying a little over the odds, these are some of the poorest workers in the city. And boy do they work! Half the time I feel like I should be getting out to help push, despite the fact that neither Paul or I could really be described as excessively overweight. It’s amazing how much they can fit on these contraptions; anything from enough bags of rice to feed a small village, to the furnishings of an entire house! During our ride I was marvelling at one rickshaw loaded with not one, but two complete three-piece suites – that’s two sofas and four armchairs being tugged along by a little man on a bicycle. Unfortunately, I soon after discovered the disadvantages of relying solely on the pedalling power of a man probably three times my age and only two thirds of my size: lack of acceleration. While making a turn across the road, a motorcycle whizzed through, bearing down upon us at full tilt whilst apparently contemplating his toes, as he definitely didn’t notice us straddling the road. Our driver yelled and threw his (rather insignificant) weight forward, trying his best to inch out of the way.

Inevitably, the shortsighted motorcyclist bumped into the side of our rickshaw, plonking himself down into the road and hopelessly bending the side tyre of our vehicle. The inescapable Indian commotion ensued, with rickshaw-wallahs who had witnessed from the sidelines hauling the startled motorcycle driver off to the kerb, while we were lugged back across the road and tried to avoid being dragged into the chaos. All the while, we were being honked at by the large jeep-like car behind, who obviously felt that we were rather inconsiderately holding them up. My mild surprise that no-one had got out to see everything was ok turned to astonishment when I saw who were seated inside. No less than the police, apparently unperturbed by the sight of a slight road accident involving a motorcyclist sprawled in the road and two very confused foreign tourists; they only wanted us to get out of their way. Just goes to show that while we may sometimes feel that all rickshaw drivers are scoundrels, they are apparently less so that the supposed figures of authority around there.

Happy Holi-Days

Jodhpur, Rajastan, India

Feb 27th-March 1st 2010

The day of Holi is an important holiday in India, but it is certainly unlike any religious festival I have ever seen before.
We inadvertently ended up first celebrating this festival of colour a couple of days early. The wonderful guest house we are staying at in Jodhpur, Durag Niwas, is also home to a charitable project working to empower local young women. I wandered upstairs to see what they were doing and join in with the games. Led by two nice European girls named Franzie and Nora, it felt a bit like Girl Guides, but with women of all ages and everything happening in Hindi, lending it the inevitable craziness of all that happens in India. Before I knew it, I was changing into my oldest clothes and being dragged out the door by one of the girls, to be met with a hosepipe and multiple people smearing purple all over my face and arms. For the next hour or so, all was chaos as girls threw coloured powder at each other, rubbed it into our faces and ran around yelling ‘Happy Holi’. They took especial delight in attacking us; by the end of it Franzie, Nora and myself looked more purple than white, and Paul’s previously pale blue shirt was a mixture of pink, yellow and green. He kept saying that it was ok, the liquid colour that had soaked me purple was just powder mixed with water, but I thought otherwise. I discovered that the small tin used with the hosepipe was labelled something along the lines of “100% Chemical: Industrial Dye”. Even our underwear was saturated with the stuff, and as for my skin/nails/lips/hair, after a good half an hour of scrubbing I was still decidedly rose-tinged. Govind, who runs the guest house, said that this was just a tiny percentage of what Holi proper would be like, but we thought that it really couldn’t get much crazier than the colour my skin was already.

Oh, how wrong we were!

For Holi itself, the water had developed from single hosepipe into a giant vat of water accompanied by numerous smaller buckets, bottles and water pistols. Powder abounded not just in purple, yellow and green, but every shade imaginable. And the industrial pink dye was joined by a dark greeny-blue, to ensure maximum staining of the skin to improbable colours which will last for the next week or so. Instead of a group of sweet young girls, the guests (including a couple of Brits, an Aussie, some Californian girls from next door, as well as Franzie, Nora and ourselves) were joined by a motley crowd of Indian men, mostly friends of the guest house family. Things started slowly, but soon developed into the largest, most colourful water fight Paul and I had ever seen! Not content with merely throwing water, the guys soon began just picking up the screaming girls and dunking us straight into the tub of pink water – I had this repeated no less than four times. The men didn’t fare much better; once they had been thoroughly soaked and covered in powder, a mob descended and literally ripped off their shirts in order to smear handprints across their skin. With the remains of a ragged shirt hanging from his arms and a complexion ranging from dark blue to fluorescent yellow, Paul looked more like an extra in some sci-fi film than an American tourist. I resembled some kind of alien, with a huge navy streak down the centre of my face and hair matted with a kaleidoscope of coloured dust. The end of the street turned into an impromptu party venue, with everyone dancing in the road and sipping on drinks – as long as you could keep your beverage safe from the various missiles that invariably sailed through the air towards the unwary. After an hour or so of carnage, we were loaded into various vehicles and driven to another family’s house, where we saw how the women had their fun. After they had been liberally hosed down by their husbands, brothers and cousins, the feisty female force too their revenge in the form of wet T-shirts, fashioned into makeshift whips and used to literally beat the men into the muddy ground. This colourful convoy continued on around the neighbourhood, causing carnage well into the afternoon, while the slightly dazed tourists were returned to the guest house to recover and begin the attempt to regain a normal skin tone.

From my multiple ‘holi-days’, all I can conclude is that Holi is the most aggressive and yet the most welcoming of festivals; everyone is included but everyone is a therefore target. No-one is safe, from the smallest child to the eldest grandmother. Even the dog had a maroon dusting to its coat by the end of the day.

Romantic Tea for Two

Udaipur, Rajasthan, India
Late February 2010

We had read in a few places that Udaipur, in Rajasthan, is considered the most romantic city in India. My reaction: how on earth can anyone think a city here is romantic? I can well understand how a secluded beach with swaying palms and stunning sunsets could be associated with amorous lovers, but a city? Our experiences up to that point had found them to mostly be dusty, dirty places with too much traffic and excessive numbers of people.

However, once we arrived, we realised just how wrong we had been. Udaipur is gorgeous. Many of the hotels are in old havelis, which were the private residences of rich families. Our room, for around $10 a night, had shiny tiled floors, latticed windows covered in blue glass and a rooftop restaurant with a stunning view of Lake Pichola. Past the jumble of picturesque alleyways leading downhill you could see ancient royal residences out in the water and the towers of the huge City Palace in the distance.

One of our favourite days was spent exploring this palace, which demonstrated all the opulence you would expect from the abode of many generations of maharajas. Part of the sprawling complex still occupied by the current reigning family, a portion is on display to the public and some wings have been converted into luxury hotels. After a few hours in the museum I decided that, English girl as I am, I would enjoy partaking of the high tea served in the Edwardian-style reception room of the Fateh Prakash Palace Hotel. For those unfamiliar with the concept of afternoon tea, this is no quick cuppa in a coffee shop. It is a full meal complete with delicately cut sandwiches, tiers of cakes and biscuits and pots of fine aromatic blends served in china cups. However, unlike traditional tea in England, there was a conspicuous absence of waitresses in frilly old-fashioned aprons. Instead, we were served by a giant of an Indian man wearing a sash and an orange turban. The whole thing cost us more than a whole day’s budget, but was entirely worth it for the experience.

Little did we know it, but this was not the end of our encounters with my favourite beverage. A day or so later we stopped in a little travel shop to try and book onward bus tickets. There we found the cutest little travel agent named Kumar who was one of the friendliest Indians we have met. He wasn’t so concerned about taking money from us as wanting to just sit down and chat. Taking a break from sightseeing, we were more than happy to lend him our company for a while. After a few minutes, he asked us if we would like to learn how to make what he termed ‘love tea’, essentially very sweet black tea flavoured with lots of lemon. Always happy to try something new, we followed him into the tiny kitchen behind his shop and cheerily squeezed, stirred and poured under his direction. Whether it was his special recipe or just the fact that we were having such a fun time talking to Kumar, the tea really did taste wonderful. I hadn’t noticed until Paul pointed it out that his relaxed manner and excessive verbosity may in part have been due to another type of beverage altogether, but this didn’t detract from the fun we were having.

With two entirely different types of tea in just a few days, I really did grasp the romance of the beautiful city of Udaipur.

Housekeeping Horrors

Ahmedabad, Gujarat, India
February 2010

Further to my comments on service in hotels, let me just take a moment to expound upon the wonders of Indian housekeeping. Standards are, to put it bluntly, not quite what they were in good old Big Sky, Montana.
To give an example, In the delightful town of Ahmedabad we arrived very early from the overnight bus and set out to find accommodations in the ‘historic’ (by which the guided book must have meant ‘crappy’) section of the old town. With limited options and an understandable desire to find a room and sleep, we grudgingly settled on a rather overpriced room which they said would be cleaned while we waited. However, as we ended up passing the time in the corridor outside, we witnessed first hand what their definition of ‘cleaning’ really was.
The only housekeeping implement in evidence was a small broom. The boy who had carried our bags upstairs flourished this around, sweeping the floor certainly, but mostly just consigning all the dirt to the corners as opposed to the centre of the room. Then he set to work on the linens. I saw him remove the sheets, then in the blink of an eye the beds were made up again without any recourse to a laundry cupboard. We were slightly bemused about where these new sheets had come from until he made a flipping motion with his hand and we realised he had simply turned the previous occupants sheet over. He seemed a little aggravated when I said that I really wasn’t happy with this and sent him to find more!
Bathrooms are further evidence of how Indian housekeeping wouldn’t quite cut it in Big Sky. Don’t expect piles of fluffy towels and neatly folded toilet paper; here towels are maybe available upon request and you often have to pay more should you want to use loo roll. Far from scrubbing the bathroom with various sterilising products which leave that reassuring “I’ve been cleaned” smell, the boy filled a bucket and kind of sprinkled water around the room. Ironically, this would have actually worked in the USA, where the water is chlorinated so has at least some form of disinfectant effect. However, the questionable tap water of a sprawling inland city – renowned as one of the dustiest places in India – doesn’t quite produce the same standard of hygiene. In fact, it didn’t even remove the black hair from the wall, the scum from around the sink or the questionable marks on the toilet seat. A little grossed out, I pointed out these defects to the boy and made motions of scrubbing while repeating ‘soap, disinfectant?’. He merely went back into the bathroom, closing the door this time, and from the sound of things just splashed water around a little more vigorously.
Once we had resigned ourselves to the fact that this boy wasn’t going to clean anything quite the way we wanted, I took the different approach of taking the dirty pillowcases down to the front desk to request new ones. There I was met with the same response – just turn it over. When I said that no, I really didn’t want to do that, I was told a boy would be sent up. Everyone acted like I was being the most demanding guest, but are clean sheets really too much to ask when you are paying for a room in a hotel?! The boy duly arrived at our door with…soap! Did they wish me to wash the laundry myself? I motioned that no, it was not myself that I wished to be clean, but the pillowcases. A little while later, with no knock or prior warning, the door sprang open and the desired items were literally thrown into the room. I’m not sure if he was trying to surprise me in a state of undress, or just avoid any more questions. Can you imagine the reaction of a guest in America if requests were met with objects being propelled into their presence by an indifferent employee without so much as an acknowledgement that they are in the room?
By this point we had been listing the number of ways in which he would have been fired had he been a member of Paul’s staff. The next time a guest in Big Sky complains about housekeeping because they haven’t received their complimentary shower gel or some such small detail, I wish they could see what people in other parts of the world regard as adequate standards.

Standards of Service

Auranghabad and much of the rest of India!
February 2010

Having spent quite a bit of time working in American hotels, sometimes I feel that I’ve been spoiled. Knowing how things should, and can, be done, my expectations can be a little unrealistic at times. American standards of customer service are some of the highest in the world; even England can suffer in comparison, so imagine how we feel when we visit budget locations in a country far removed from both our homes.
Now in India, as everywhere, there are distinct variations in front desk staff according to what kind of hotel you are staying in. Some are incredibly smiley and will refer to Paul as ‘sir’ four times in each sentence. Others are gruff and businesslike to the point of rudeness. Some young boys will be happy to show you available rooms, but will have a vocabulary limited to ‘bed’, ‘toilet’, ‘shower’, ‘fan’ – very well meaning I’m sure, but not that useful in negotiating a rate. Other guest houses are run by old men who speak English well enough, but are so grumpy about it that you feel you are inconveniencing them by staying at their hotel. The concept of professionalism seems to be entirely alien in most of the places we stayed; in one place it was so unknown that while checking in Paul was asked if he wanted to buy a certain illegal herbal substance by a reception guy who was very obviously under the influence of it himself for our entire stay. It made the employee very happy and friendly towards us, but less than efficient in dealing with any requests.
Other hotel services suffer in the same way. In Auranghabad, the simple dinner of naan and dahl we had ordered for our room took about two hours to arrive. I know for a fact that the first time I went down to enquire as to its whereabouts, the staff were all sitting outside smoking and had completely forgotten my existence. I was subsequently told about three times that it would be ready in ten minutes; I think I expended more energy running up and down the stairs than I actually got from the food! Again, the concept that the customer is always right is completely unknown – I think the staff of many budget hotels in India think that guests are an nuisance who interfere with their busy day of watching cheesy soaps on TV or talking on their phones. Woe betide any Big Sky employee found on their phone whilst on duty – paying attention to guests is what you’re supposed to be doing, and is, after all, the reason you are paid to be in the hotel at all. At least, that was what my attitude had become, but I don’t think this was shared by the many hotel employees who studiously ignored me.
Restaurants are another fun thing to compare to home. Food often arrives on ‘Indian time’, which you quickly get used to because complaining about it will do you no good at all. Some wait staff – particularly in small, cafeteria-style places – are so friendly that you are almost overwhelmed. In broken English they will attempt to explain the entire menu to you, repeatedly trying to make you order their favourite, even if it’s not at all what you want. The order will inevitably be mixed up or incorrect in some way, but they smile so much that you don’t have the heart to tell them that the sweet, milky broth in front of you bears no resemblance to black coffee (as Paul frequently found) or that you definitely did not order your eggs with ham (if you are a vegetarian like myself). However, over-attention does not always mean you are satisfied with the service. It can be a little disconcerting to have a silent, stern waiter hover – I mean literally stand right at the edge of the table watching you eat – for the entire duration of your meal. As a westerner I sometimes felt more like a chimpanzee on show than a customer in a restaurant. Then there are those who merely perceive you as a source of ready cash. If service is good then yes we will tip, but I find it a little off-putting to have an old guy stand over us demanding ‘service, service’ before we’ve even looked at the bill. And usually the ones who do this have forgotten to place your order, brought you the wrong drinks and then coughed all over your food when it emerges two hours later.
So perhaps it is no surprise that when we do encounter good service, we revel in it. Our ‘luxury’ Christmas treat to ourselves was entirely based on service; it wasn’t the rooms that sold the hotel to us, but the two incredibly professional guys at the reception. They did their utmost to sell us the room without being pushy and negotiated on prices and packages with as much skill as any Big Sky deskie. Every time I walked through the lobby they would stand up, smile and greet me with ‘good afternoon madam, how is your day?’ I think I was more excited at the fact that there were ‘real front desk staff’ than anything else. I may have been spoiled, but at least I now truly appreciate good service when I find it.

Cow Pats

Hampi, India
Mid February, 2010

So Paul has developed a liking for cows. Not cows in the form of burgers or steaks, as when we’re in Montana, but a genuine liking for the cows themselves. In some ways this is not surprising; in India cows are considered holy and believe me they are everywhere. Literally everywhere – fields, streets, temples, munching on rubbish, roaming into people’s houses. When we took a scooter out into the countryside, it wasn’t the traffic that was the problem, but weaving in and out of herds of rather unpredictable large animals with horns. But Paul doesn’t seem to mind. He thinks these big, stupid animals are great, and so his latest thing is to try and pat every cow we see. Which at the moment is quite a few, as Hampi seems to have a disproportionate concentration of cows, even for India. They provide him with hours of entertainment, from laughing at the silly calf dancing along behind him, to trying to pat on the head the ancient one with ridiculously long curly horns. At night they all park themselves in the narrow lane next to our guest house – an interesting logistical exercise when the power is out. However, this leads to another product of excessive numbers of cows – shit. There are cow pats everywhere. India itself at times feels like it is filled with dirt, but this reaches new heights when you have large numbers of bovines relieving themselves in the roads on a regular basis. It makes navigating the streets a tricky business if you want the hems of your clothing to remain unsoiled. So while Paul is chasing the jumping calves in the hopes of giving the cows a pat, I’m busy jumping along behind him trying to avoid the pats of the cows.

Waterworld

Allepey, Kerala, India
January 31st, 2010

When you mention Kerala to anyone who has travelled there, very likely they will ask, ‘Did you do the backwaters?’ For the unfamiliar, they are not asking if you partook of some form of extreme cleansing therapy, but whether you visited the network of lagoons and canals creeping their way inland from the Keralan coast.
The backwaters are well worth a visit, not just to witness the beauty of this unique landscape, but because it is a chance to experience a completely different world. Entire villages exist along narrow stretches of land, surrounded by a maze of waterways. The practicalities of living in such an environment mean that modes of transportation we would take for granted on land appear in very different guises. Instead of cars, motorbikes, or even bicycles, the canoe is the primary form of conveyance used by villagers to get around. Ferries chug their way down the major thoroughfares, with passengers hopping on and off as they would on a bus. Shops also adapt themselves to life upon the water; housewives don’t set out to the market to buy fruit, but merely wait for the fruit seller to float past their door. Junctions between canals are even marked with road signs, informing you of how far it is to various waterside towns.
Another common form of traffic is the houseboat. Usually a traditional rice barge which has been converted to accommodate overnight stays, they also feature many other modern conveniences such as televisions and hi-tech sound systems. The locals obviously feel such things are necessary to the comfort of foreign tourists who wish to fully enjoy the beauty of the surroundings. These exquisite monstrosities are the backwater equivalent to the RV on an American highway, and are about as prolific as the number of campervans you would find rumbling around Yellowstone National Park on an average weekend in July.
While I genuinely would have enjoyed spending a night on a houseboat, we instead opted for the more eco-friendly option of crossing the lake by ferry and exploring the quieter waterways in a guided canoe. It was here that we truly experienced how life proceeds at a very different pace on the water, with everything appearing calmer and surprisingly peaceful when you are away from the backwaters’ “traffic”. Once you pass under an arched little bridge and onto an obscure branch of a small canal, you really do glide into a different world. The water-lilies on the surface diminish sound to a hushed whisper and the light softens as it is filtered through the leaves overhead. Houses are not cramped on top of each other, but spread out along the winding curves of the channels. The whole place exudes an air of tranquillity. Lazing our way through in a shaded canoe, it was so serene that on more than one occasion our guide recommended we get out and walk alongside him for a little, otherwise we would succumb to the somnambulant atmosphere and fall asleep ourselves. As if in a dream, we drifted through this world all afternoon, and it was almost a struggle to return to the reality of roads and tuk tuks after our wonderful canoe excursion.

Sea, Sand and…no Sun?!

Varkala, Kerala, India
January 15th, 2010

We travelled to Varkala, a tourist beach on the coast of Kerala in mid-January to find that, quite by chance, we arrived a couple of days before a reasonably rare eclipse.
Now as much as possible when backpacking, we try to stay vaguely up-to-date with the news, so that via the internet and various regional newspapers we knew that this would be happening. However, I am well aware that when travelling it is easy to live in a cocoon, with no real idea of what’s going on in the outside world. I had merry visions of confused holidaymakers stretched out on the sand in their beach gear, wondering why the sun had disappeared in the middle of the day. Total darkness really isn’t an ideal way to get a good tan. However, my predictions of puzzlement were to be disappointed; it was only an annular eclipse. For those of you who (like me until a day or so before) haven’t a clue what that means, an annular eclipse is one where the moon passes in front of the sun, but because of distance and perspective it has a smaller circumference, so the sun is never completely obscured. We found this out from some friendly scientists who had set up their equipment on a rooftop. They were part of a group called S.P.A.C.E, a society with a rather tenuous acronym which stood for something like Society for the Popularisation of Astrological Communication and Education. They had all kinds of sophisticated gear set up for days beforehand in order to record the event in a proper scientific manner.
However, the rest of us less academically-minded people were reduced to less refined methods of seeing the sun (or lack thereof). I remember experiencing a total eclipse in England when I was younger and for weeks in advance you kept hearing of how important it was to have those little plastic UV glasses if you wanted to look at the sun without serious eye damage. Naturally, in India, health precautions weren’t quite so obvious a concern. While S.P.A.C.E. did have a couple of pairs of glasses floating around, the barging crowds of Indian tourists made these all but impossible to get hold of. Instead, there was a startling array of improvised eclipse-viewing equipment. We were lucky in that we found someone on the cliff top who had brought some kind of industrial foil. Probably not 100% safe, but when folded three times it gave a pretty good view of the crescent-shaped outline of the sun. Others were more imaginative with their choice of lens. Instead of one pair of UV spectacles, I saw people layering up three pairs of cheap regular sunglasses to peer up at the sun. CDs – quite possibly cheap pirated DVDs – were suddenly being interposed between eyes and sky. My personal favourites were the old X-rays that suddenly materialised to function as filters; it was hilarious to watch people viewing an important astrological occurrence through someone else’s broken fibula. All in all, it was an entertaining and even vaguely informative diversion in the midst of a relaxing beach break.

Accommodation Aggravation

Kodaikanal, Tamil Nadu, India
Mid January, 2010

One of the drawbacks of seeing the world is that you have to find somewhere to sleep whilst doing it. Travelling to different places is great, but each time we are faced with the same hassle of finding accommodation once we arrive in a new town. As we are on a bit of a budget, we have been trying to keep the costs down as much as possible, but standards and prices vary so much more from place to place in India that paying roughly the same in each location, as we did in Sri Lanka, has proved much more difficult.
There are also the delights of the accommodation itself. A prime example of a worst-case-scenario room was our hotel in Kodaikanal, a small town up in the mountains of Tamil Nadu. At first glance it appeared acceptable; if a little dingy, the room had all the requisite furniture at a reasonably cheap price, so crumbling concrete and peeling paintwork didn’t seem too much of a problem. We were so tired after a rather hair-raising bus journey up the mountain that we were less thorough in our room inspection than usual. It was only once we had checked in and paid the hefty two night deposit they that the flaws started to make themselves apparent. The room key was in the door, but it took five minutes of wrestling with the handle to actually get the thing to lock. Once we had set our bags down, I realised that there was an underlying odour of wet dog, possibly from the slightly damp blankets. When I actually threw back the sheets on the bed, I found what looked like dried grain of rice, as if someone had decided to eat their dinner under the covers. The bathroom was even more of a disaster. When flushed, the toilet merely dribbled, whereas the sink had a tendency to flood the whole room. I discovered that shower tap had apparently been welded shut and I was expected to wash from a single tap at hip height and a miniscule bucket. Then there wasn’t actually a light that worked in there, so after dusk I had to perform my ablutions in the dark. Thoroughly disgruntled, I tried to sleep in the mangy sheets, only to find that a pack of mangy dogs had decided to take up residence right outside our window and howled throughout the night.
Now, those of you who know me well will be aware that I am usually quite a mild-mannered person. I don’t tend to easily get in a temper or relish confrontation; in short, I am not prone to diva-esque tendencies, particularly in business-like situations. However, after a less-than-restful night in a scummy room with, I was less than happy. To put it bluntly, I was in possibly one of the worst moods of my life. Very soon after sunrise, I declared there was no way we were spending a minute longer than necessary in that place and headed out in search of alternative accommodation. It was one of those days where I was just destined to be disappointed in every way: the café we wanted to breakfast in was closed; I desperately needed a big mug of tea and instead got a thimbleful of overly sugared brown liquid; we’d planned on hiking (that was the whole reason for visiting Kodaikanal) but it was pouring with rain. Upon finding another (slightly more expensive but much, much nicer hotel), we returned to do battle with the “management” ( for “management” read “sulky hotel skivvy who was too uninterested to do anything other than feign a sudden loss of English language skills”). This provided me with the opportunity to give full vent to my feelings, taking full advantage of my experiences of the most haughty and demanding Big Sky guests. I may have only got a portion of our deposit back, but boy did it make me feel better!
In an effort to salvage the visit and retain at least some fondness for the town, the next day I dragged Paul down to the lake for a to rent a pedalo, which is apparently “the thing” to do if you’re a couple in Kodaikanal. He wasn’t quite as impressed by the cheesiness of this as I was, but at least my customary enthusiasm for even the most ridiculous things was returning (although I was very disappointed that we couldn’t get a swan boat and had to make do with Mickey Mouse). And when it rained on us again, I was relieved that we had a room with a hot shower to return to.
Needless to say, our trip to the beautiful hill country of Kodaikanal was not as wonderful as it could have been, but it did teach us one valuable lesson: cheap price is not the same as good value, and I am beginning to learn the value of value in saving me a lot of aggravation.

Temple is Closing!

Tiruchirappalli & Madurai, Tamil Nadu, India
Early January 2010

Tamil Nadu is known for its big temple towns. Tiruchirappalli (often known by its more pronounceable abbreviation of Trichy) is home to Sri Ranganathaswamy, a huge temple whose size rivals the length of its name. A little further south, the famous Meenakshi temple in Madurai reputedly attracts 15-25,000 people a day. It is a truly beautiful building with soaring sculptures atop brightly painted towers. However, what is impressive is not just the scale of the building but the sheer numbers of pilgrims and visitors constantly in and around the temple complex. There are people everywhere, making it almost impossible to contemplate the stunning architecture without meeting a fresh troop of tourists at every corner. From touts offering guided tours to kids asking for school-pens and random men asking for photos, the commotion within the walls is constant. Over the months we have noticed that Indian tours (and pilgrims seem to fall into this category as well) have a recognisable sight-seeing pattern; namely that they fall out of their transport, barge through most lines, rush around the most important sights as quickly as possible (whilst making the most amount of noise) and then leave, with as much commotion as they arrived. It may encapsulate the vibrance of India, but it does render the whole temple experience less spiritual and more chaotic. It’s a refreshing break to find the secluded shine tucked away in a corner with just a few simple candles beside it. In a very un-tourist-like way (for India), we took our time exploring the nooks and crannies, even managing to take a photo with a minimal number of background onlookers. However, unaware of the temple’s bizarre lunch-break closing time, we did find ourselves confronted with more craziness as we tried to re-enter one area through a side door, only to be yelled at that the “Temple is closing!” Our pleas that our shoes had been left by the opposite door were met with more shouts and we were hustled out with the hoards of others. This transpired to not only be the close of our visit, but end of Paul’s tolerance for temples.

Sickness is Shit

December 2009 (and many more times afterwards)
Pondicherry, but also India in general

Excuse my language, but I wish to discuss the numerous ways in which sickness is, to put it bluntly, shit. India is notorious for travellers’ illnesses, but Paul and I were hoping (in vain, I might add) that having already been in Asia for a month we would perhaps be spared the worst of its effects. Unfortunately, the opposite was the case; we spent most of Christmas week with one or other of us feeling absolutely awful. Now being ill in India isn’t quite as simple as coming down with the flu or some other such malady at home; indeed, the first thing you wish is that you were at home. Instead, you find that if you want to eat, usually the only option is to drag yourself out to find some form of restaurant. Then there is the fact that none of the food available will sound appetising and the spices that appear in even the blandest-sounding dish will probably make you feel worse. Also, sickness is not necessarily confined to one problem at a time; you may have a headache whilst suffering diarrhoea, dehydration alongside indigestion. At one point during the trip I found that I had taken doxycycline (against malaria), an antacid (for indigestion possibly caused by the doxycycline), immodium (to block me up for a long bus journey), a rehydration sachet (because I’d been horribly dehydrated) and a painkiller (for a headache possibly induced by thinking about all the other medicines I was taking).
Add any kind of travel plans to the equation and the unpleasantness multiplies; then you are faced with the logistics finding bathrooms, the dubious cleanliness of bathrooms and the frequency with which you need the bathroom. This leads onto my next point about sickness: in India this is often synonymous with having the shits. Combine spicy curries with less-than-hygienic kitchens and the abundance of flies everywhere, and the result is inevitably the subordination of your daily movements to the movements of your bowels. Discussing the workings of your digestive system becomes less of a taboo than in more polite, less toilet-dependent societies and relative strangers will cheerfully mention in passing how in such-and-such a city they had spent two days hovering by the toilet.
Then there is not only the relation of sickness to shit, but also of shit to sickness. India seems to be a country just filled with faeces. Unsanitary conditions are so abundant that it is hardly surprising that travellers frequently fall ill. Step out onto the street and you are confronted with steaming piles of all descriptions, both animal and human. With so much excrement in evidence, is it really surprising that sickness, especially of the shitty variety, is rife in this country?

Postage Problems in Pondicherry

Late December, 2009
Pondicherry, India

As we arrived in India just one week before Christmas, one of our first experiences of how things are done in this country was at the Post Office. We wanted to send two parcels of presents: one to the US and one to the UK. We merrily set off for the Post Office one afternoon, blithely hoping that this seemingly simple task could be accomplished within the hour. Unfortunately, this was not to be. After stopping at the booth outside, which we subsequently deduced only sold stamps, then waited in two different lines inside, we eventually established that there was a separate parcel desk outside the main office itself. Just to clarify, “outside” with a vaguely waved arm actually meant out the gate, around the corner and down a back alley cluttered with various boxes. By this time it was about 4.02pm, and despite the main Post Office being open until 5.30pm, the parcel office closed at 4pm. Slightly infuriatingly, we weren’t told this beforehand, but by the guy still sat behind the parcel desk. He was wittering away to the other Indians who popped in, however to us would say nothing more than “Office closed. Come back tomorrow”.
So we returned the next morning, confident that we now knew where we were going and that all would go smoothly. However, we had not learned from the day before, and still underestimated the fact that nothing is ever simple in India. My gifts to my family had already been individually wrapped, then taped up in a bag with the address stuck to the front. But no, apparently I needed to buy a box to put this package in. A box which was then taped up. Then bound with plastic cords. Then finally, get this, wrapped in cloth and stiched up by hand. By the time my family got round to opening it, they could have played pass the parcel, there were that many layers to unwrap. And the shipping process wasn’t complete yet either; we had to write both the shipping address and the sender’s address on the parcel, then again on a form, then they were printed out again on a slip we had to sign. The whole thing took so long that I was able to leave, go shopping for three quarters of an hour or so, and return to find Paul still sitting exactly where I’d left him, waiting for the final stitches to be put in my parcel.
We had heard that the bureaucracy of India was a little excessive, but with the mere task of sending a parcel taking two days to accomplish, we were beginning to appreciate just how crazy our stay in the country would be.

The Wonders of Apartments

Late December, 2009
Pondicherry, India

Most people, when embarking on some form of vacation, relish the idea of staying in hotel where you don’t have to think about cooking or cleaning and generally have most mundane tasks performed for them. However, when we arrived in Pondicherry just before Christmas to find that hotel prices were ridiculously high, we were delighted to find an advert for an apartment for rent. Pondicherry is an old French colony filled with Gallic expats, so it is not unusual for foreigners to need a home for extended stays. However, our main reason for moving in was the fact that even the most basic hotel room at the time was ridiculously overpriced, whereas for significantly less we got a bedroom, dining room, living room with TV, kitchen, shower room and separate toilet. There was also a second bedroom, but as no one else moved in, we had the whole place to ourselves for the week.
Despite the fact that we were in a town renowned for its ability to produce genuine French delicacies for dinner, I was more excited about going to the supermarket than dining out for the hundredth time. Armed with a shopping basket, I set off around the largest foodstore I could find in the vicinity (possibly comparable to a reasonably sized corner shop, but with many, many more mosquitos) to stock up on provisions for the week. However, when your kitchen equipment consists of two gas rings on a counter top, a couple of saucepans, cutlery and a wooden spoon, the usual dishes Paul and I like to prepare are a little harder to achieve. Even the simplest of ingredients proved more of a challenge than I had anticipated; I wanted a little salt to add some flavour, but it was only available in bags of at least 50g. If I wanted to fry anything I needed oil, but I spent a long time searching through hair oil, coconut oil and even oil to burn in lamps before I found a weird plastic bag filled with sunflower oil. We found all kinds of crazy ingredients available; a few culinary experiments definitely didn’t quite work and any attempt at curry didn’t resemble the feasts we like to prepare at home in any way. Still, it was nice to just cook up a simple pasta and eat it in front of the TV for once, rather than have to trek half way across town just to get some appetising sustenance.
I had great fun sallying forth each day to find more bits and pieces necessary for our comfort. We decided purchasing candles was a good idea, as the frequent power cuts meant food preparation was often performed in semi-darkness – not a good idea when using a sharp knife. We also found that the only downside to cooking for yourself is having to clear up afterwards. Again, the facilities in the flat were a little lacking, so I was confronted with the challenge of locating a scrubbing brush or J-cloth in a local Indian store where only one employee spoke broken English. We ended up with some kind of spiky plastic thing which I have a feeling may actually be intended for clothes, but combined with enough soap it seemed to do the job.
By the end of the week, I had come to the conclusion that whilst I may be able to cook reasonably well at home, I would have to remain in India for a long time before I would be a satisfactory Indian housewife.

It never rains, but it pours

11th December, 2009
Polonnaruwa, Sri Lanka

Polonnaruwa. An ancient city in the heart of Sri Lanka, filled with ruined temples and palaces, with crumbling relics of former civilisations to be found amidst the winding dusty paths. The perfect place to hire bicycles and spend an idyllic day meandering through the historic site, taking in the grandeur at our own pace and under our own steam.
At least, that was the plan. The reality was just a little different.
To begin with, after half an hour it started raining. Now a little rain is ok, but when you’re on a bicycle pedalling across dirt tracks, rain soon causes a few problems. After a remarkably short time our backs were coated in red muddy splashes, vision was becoming an issue with the rain driving into our faces and we were narrowly avoiding plunging into the ever increasing puddles as the roads morphed into muddy swamps. Then, possibly due to the aforesaid lack of vision, we took a wrong turn and ended up pedalling miles to reach a supremely underwhelming pile of rocks rather than the magnificent temple we had been expecting. At this point, Paul’s bike, along with his patience, suffered a slight breakdown (ie. the gears wouldn’t change, the chain locked up and the thing in general just didn’t want to work. I'm taking about the bike, though Paul wasn't much better.). It may not sound like much, but when you’re cold, wet and tired in the middle of nowhere, these things start to get to you just a bit; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the bike dangling from a tree after what Paul was saying about it. Then to top it all off, once we eventually did find shelter under a tree, we managed to park ourselves right on top of a nest of ants that wanted to feast on our feet for their afternoon tea. Needless to say, the trip was less than successful. After stubbornly sitting on a poncho for an hour, obstinately remaining in the way of the Sri Lankan tourists in our efforts to stay out of the rain, we were found by the guy who had rented us the bikes and returned to town by tuk tuk. By this point we had been soaked to the skin for a number of hours, so it’s perhaps not surprising that after attempting to enjoy a museum, then navigating local transport back to our guest house in Sigiriya, I had developed a fever and spent the night sick and shivering. It seemed a fitting end to our doomed day visiting Polonnaruwa.

Archaeology by halves

10th December, 2009
Sigirya, Sri Lanka

It is interesting to see the differences between heritage sites in different countries. Sigirya is one of our favourite sights in Sri Lanka; it’s an old rock fortress that over the course of its history has been home to a Buddhist monastery and the palace of a warring king. The Rock of Sigirya is an enormous boulder the size of a high-rise building, which at one point was transformed into a giant lion; today, only the paws remain, guarding the steps up to the palace. The thing is, despite the fact that it is well-established on the tourist trail and the paths are constantly traversed by foreigners, the route to the top appears rather hazardous. In fact, the steps to the summit look downright dangerous.
Thin bits of metal cling precariously to the steep rock face, while the stairs themselves are only half the width of any normal flight and seem perilously close to rusting away altogether. As you approach the final section of the ascent, you begin to wonder if it’s worth apparently risking life and limb to reach the top. Not to mention the fact that it’s a pretty stiff climb; at this point you’ve already walked round and round some boulder gardens, marched up roughly 300 feet or so of stone steps and twirled up and down some spiral staircases to see ancient cave art. All in hot and humid conditions. It is no wonder that by the time many of the…erm…less well exercised tourists come to contemplate the web of sticks snaking up a sheer rock face, many of them are almost being pushed up by their more well-adjusted (and less vertigo-prone) local guides. I’m doubtful whether this would be such a popular tourist destination in England for the average coach trip to a historical site. Much less in America, where if the steps alone didn’t contravene a million regulations, some enterprising person would surely trip/graze themselves on a rusty nail/miraculously fall through the cracks but live to tell the tale and sue the pants off somebody for millions.
Then there is the fact that only half of the site has been properly excavated. From the summit of Sigirya rock the gardens below look beautifully symmetrical – almost. Closer inspection below reveals one section of tanks (large ponds) and waterways with intricate brickwork. Examine the same area on the other side and you see an indent in the surrounding landscape, that with careful comparison and a bit of imagination looks like it could correspond to the proportions of the pond opposite. I looked in vain for what was labelled on the map as something like ‘Other Summer Palaces’, discovering that this was merely a grassy hillock of medium size to my left. Apparently no-one had deemed this half worthy of further inspection, or maybe as a cost-cutting measure had thought that a fraction of the whole would suffice.
Don’t get me wrong, Sigirya is a breathtaking sight and most definitely worth a visit, but I do look forward to the day when I can return to Sri Lanka and see the full scale of its symmetry.

A step too far? Not this time.

7th December, 2009
Adam's Peak, Sri Lanka

Some of you may be aware that the first time I was in Sri Lanka one of the challenges I faced was a little mountain in the centre of the country called Adam’s Peak. 2,243 metres high and surmounted by a Buddhist temple, it is a major pilgrimage destination for both tourists and Sri Lankans alike. The idea is to climb up overnight in time to see the sun rise over the plains and the perfectly triangular shadow cast by the peak.
The first time I attempted this (less than a week after I arrived in the country and after a rather late night partying in Negombo) a group of us set out in a van, confident that the driver would safely take us to the start of the trail. This misplaced hope was swiftly adjusted once we had experienced a three-point turn over a precarious drop, careered backwards down the mountain when the van stalled and been offloaded in the dark to find the beginning of the climb ourselves. It was only once we had begun our ascent that we discovered that we were not on the regular tourist path, or even the slightly longer alternative stairs, but the hardcore pilgrim route. This meant minimal lighting, precarious footing on a barely defined path and a long, long, long way to go. After a few hours I was cursing each new corner we turned; by the end I was literally dragging myself up, a step at a time, by the handrail. I missed the sunrise and as for the symmetrical shadow, this was obscured by the hoards of pilgrims crammed against the railings; however, by that point I just didn’t care, I was so exhausted. Then, of course, we all had to get back down, a long process collectively including rain, dehydration and a sprained ankle. In all, we walked pretty much constantly from 11pm until 4pm, on very little food and no sleep – an achievement, but not necessarily something I wanted to repeat in a hurry. So five years and a few hikes in Montana later, I decided it was time to attempt the peak again, this time via the easier route (only about 5200 steps this time). Oh, what a difference! We set off at around 2.30am, passing through multiple temple archways and up well-lit, well-defined steps. The main pathway was lined with tea shops placed at regular intervals, giving me a great excuse for multiple breaks. I felt great about the climb, especially as we actually overtook quite a number of people on the stairs. We reached the final tea stop (just 18 stairs from the summit) well before sunrise, so the race for the top was preceded by a leisurely drink and some chunks of chocolate. Sunrise witnessed and requisite photographs taken, we rambled back down with the group of nice American students we’d met along the way, to be welcomed with a nice big breakfast by the motherly owner of our guest house, Green House. Definitely a far nicer way to tackle the trek to the peak.

The marine life of Mirissa

28th November, 2009

Mirissa, Sri Lanka

We have discovered a new beach that I think is now Paul’s favourite place in Sri Lanka: Mirissa. This tiny little place near the southernmost tip of the island is gorgeous, with a palm-fringed beach and a wonderful laid back atmosphere. However, I think that what made it for Paul was the ocean.
With a group of friends from our guest house (Hayley, Hollie, Hayley and Dom), we planned an ocean excursion to go out whale watching. A very friendly local called Raja had converted the old family fishing boat (much to his father’s disapproval!) to use a sight-seeing tour for holidaymakers. The six of us, along with a couple of French families, hopped aboard, climbed up to the upper deck and headed out into the calm early-morning waters. Or so I thought. The sea looked reasonably calm, and in my head I know that it really was calm, but my stomach was definitely telling me otherwise. I should have perhaps remembered that my last aquatic excursion (a pontoon boat on Canyon Ferry Lake last summer) resulted in acute nausea for at least the first hour. Too late did I discover that the land was fading into the distance and instead my breakfast was wanting to make an appearance. So, to my great embarrassment, I spent the first part of the trip lying down at the back of the boat rather than sunbathing on the top deck. However, after a nap and some toast I was feeling much better, so I headed up to join the lookouts on the alert for the elusive whales. Unfortunately, after three or four hours of searching, we’d had more tanker sightings that whales and, apart from a splashing fin in the far distance, the most active marine life was in fact us. Tired of going in circles on the boat, we just stopped and all jumped off. Swimming in the deep blue ocean water, miles from land in any direction, was the definite highlight of the trip; my waterproof camera was put through its paces and got some hilarious shots of our underwater antics. To round off the day, Raja invited us to a barbecue on the private beach near his house. Now my idea of a barbecue is usually a veggie burger in a breadroll, while Paul’s is some kind of wild game steak, but this one was really something else. For me, fresh aubergine, pumpkin and peppers cooked with butter in iron pots on the fire; for Paul and the other non-veggies, the hugest fish I have ever seen, grilled to perfection (according to Paul) with lemon and salt. All eaten out under the stars to the accompaniment of the waves running up the sand. A day on the ocean, in the ocean and eating from the ocean – Paul was in heaven.

You don’t surf? Why are you here?!

November 2009

Hikkaduwa, Sri Lanka

Those familiar with the history of how Paul and I met will be familiar with the importance of a small town on the southwest coast of Sri Lanka called Hikkaduwa. It was here that we first met nearly five years ago when we were working after the tsunami. Hikkaduwa was the base for many projects in the area, the urban(ish) centre from which everyone moved out to provide relief to the surrounding villages. At that time it became somewhat of a mini international community, with the guest houses full of volunteers and the restaurants hosting impromptu planning meetings. Tourists were looked down upon as people who could be helping, whereas volunteers all had a common interest and could be identified by which project they were working with. So, despite Hikkaduwa’s usual status as a surf town, we really didn’t have that much time for surfing. I was taken out once by an instructor from Hawaii who we were working with (much to the amusement of the locals on the beach) and Paul’s attempts left his board in two pieces. Imagine our dismay when we return over four years later to find that we are now the outcasts. Our old home has changed back to being a major beach destination on the Sri Lankan tourist trail and people are there for the waves, not the work. No longer is Hikkaduwa a community of volunteers from all over the world, united by a common goal of helping those in need. Now the kinship is through chasing the waves, and the conversation what other beaches you’ve been to. To us, it seems like every person we meet, from the Aussie’s stopping off on their way across Asia to the old Cornish guys taking up residence for the whole season, is here to surf. Even those who don’t surf seem to have caught the bug; girls who would usually be strutting along the beach in their bikinis now do it with a board under their arm. My sister’s boyfriend would fit right in, but people just seemed a bit confused when we said that our day had been spent visiting old friends and having lunch at a random village inland. They didn’t quite get my excitement at the fact that I got on a local bus and someone said “Excuse me, are you Jenny?”. Our life back when were we out building houses and planting trees is just a little bit different from the average tourist’s these days. They are here to surf; otherwise, what’s the point?

An introduction to the travels of Jenny & Paul

Welcome to my blog! A column documenting the adventures of Jenny and Paul as we meander across Asia in search of new experiences and exciting adventures. Having spent the past three or four months wrestling with findmespots that don't work, internet connections that range from mediocre to terrible and the general hassle of trying to get anything done without remaining in one place for much more than a couple of days, I have finally got this webpage set up. So now you, my friends, family and anyone else who may have a passing interest in the adventures of an Americanised Brit traversing the globe, can read about what I've been doing, seeing and thinking along the way.

To give you a bit of background (and remind of you who I am if you feel I've been away from the UK too long!), Paul and I met in Sri Lanka nearly five years ago when we were both working on various reconstruction projects after the Tsunami of December 26th, 2004. Since then we flitted back and forth over the Atlantic for a while until I moved out to Big Sky, Montana - a beautiful place in the USA that no-one in England had ever heard of. Once I had exhausted all possible visa options to work in the States, we decided that the obvious solution to my lack of legal work status was to move to Asia! So here we are, already 4 months into a trip that has been beautiful, exhausting, crazy and definitely a lot of fun!

Paul has been using his wonderful camera to document out travels with photos, but I have decided to write about them and the laptop’s memory is slowly being filled with snippets of my compositions. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but as Paul has already taken around 4357 photographs, I am going to just publish an abbreviated version, as I am sure nobody wants to read over 4 million words of the world according to Jenny!

At this point (March 14th), my writings on Sri Lanka are almost complete, but India is still in first draft form and the rest of South East Asia is as yet unexperienced. We have just arrived in the Andaman Islands for my birthday, where I will take a break on the beach to edit and organise my musings (some written at the time, some retrospective). As internet on the island we are heading towards may possibly be of the pre-historic variety, these will either appear very slowly for your perusal, or I will be uploading a small thesis all at once when I return to the realm of modern broadband. From then on, I will hopefully be posting regular updates on our progress, or lack thereof. Happy reading!