The Vagabonds

If you out into the streets today you are sure of a big surprise.
These streets, of course, are not conventional contraptions which provide safe and efficient transport to the masses whilst also generating a necessary gateway to their respective towns and cities. No, these are the streets of India.
Here humans behave like animals and animals like humans.
Once, we saw a public urinal with three urinating against its outer wall.
But in India, that is normal.
What else is normal?
Camels, cows, pigs, dogs, cats, goats, monkeys, rats…and one elephant. No, not in a zoo, but in the streets. Predominantly they are rabid but docile and thus pose no threat to humans, but there is always a foreboding fear of ‘crossfire’; that we may be standing too near a pack of dogs which capriciously catapult themselves upon each other due to their canine strife.
That would be an exceptional circumstance however. The humans and animals live harmoniously in one effusive environment.
Another time to that spectre of public pissing, we noticed a family riding a cow as if it was a horse.
Only in dreams? Not quite: Only in India.

More importantly however, thi diary entry was delayed due to illness. But firstly, we have more animalistic anecdotes pertaining monkeys, rats and camels respectively.

Following Amristar we commuted to Jaipur as part of our short expedition of the Rajistani region. Jaipur is renowned as a red a red – or pink – city. The old part of the city, we were told, was almost enchanting with its ochre walls and ruddy fort. What we were not told however, or at least, what we did not realise until we were there, was that red buildings merely resembled clay buildings. Furthermore, when you conglomerate this with the unfortunate reality that some of the paint was withering, and if not, then it was becoming discoloured, this celebration is vitated into debasement.
As with all Indian cities too, it was dirty and dingy and overcongested like a chicken-pen.
During our tuk-tuk tour of the city though, we did inadvertedly visit a fascinating temple. Actually, the temple itself was mundane, but the walk up the steep hill and then down the sloping path to the temple (our tuk-tuk parked at the bottom of the hill) was what provided this intrigue, for an abundance of monkeys followed us. At one point we were surrounded by more than a score of them as they battled each other to gain possession of our food. By ‘our food’, we mean Pepe’s of course, because Jakey’s apprehension of a bloody coup involving these dormant beasts against their rightful masters – humans – made him offload whatever contents he had upon Pepe. Everything was okay, as always, although the monkeys did express a disconcerting exuberance for our delights.

After Jaipur we traveled to Bikaner, which, itself was wholly disappointing.
The journey there though was fraught with fear as another commuter on the public bus we boarded, owned a camaflaged bag with something moving inside. Jakey’s harrowing recollection of the impending doom he fortunately avoided in Jaipur’s monkey temple abounded, but the content of the bag were never revealed.
Jakey thinks that there were rats inside.
Pepe thinks a baby ox.
What we both know for certain however is that whatever it was, whether a rat, cat, or ox, it was alive.
Bikaner was worthwhile visiting, at least for Pepe, as he embarked on a short journey to the nearby town of Deshnok to see the ‘Karni Mata’ temple. Jakey did not join him because he was afraid, afraid of what would have awaited him inside. That is beacause in the Hindu temple, pious people throughout India go there to worship rats.
Rodents.
Pepe was somewhat surprised to discover that that temple was not absolutely permeated with rats, but there were nevertheless, more than you would normally find in the kitchen of your local McDonald’s. The temple had a damp pungent smell of death, decadence and rotten cheese; many of the rats did not move, but that was because they were dead.
Pepe nearly died too, figuratively that is, when he returned to Bikaner that afternoon. After departing bus, he became lost. An altruistic gentleman entreated him to board his motorbike, and he did, in an effort to find his hotel; ten minutes later poor Pepe was alone on the other side of the city, even more disorientated than before. Determined to navigate his way back alone – primarily due to the extortionate fee the tuk-tuk’s were ruthlessly charging – he clambered through a plethora alleyways and markets. There, he saw more cows, goats, pigs and camels. Eventually, approximately two hours later, he found his revered hospice, albeit dehydratedly. Unfortunately the remainder of our stay in Bikaner is not worth noting.

Consequently we soon traveled to Jaisalmer.
Finally we had arrived in a city which did not suffer from the habitual Indian travails of tumult, pungent pollution and overpopulation. Jaisalmer was a minute city with a quaint streetscape of narrow winding alleys, all encompassing its grandiose fortress. Unlike other cities with similar fortresses however, the juxtaposition between the capacious facade and the rest of the city truly revealed its beauty. Conversely, in cities such as Bikaner and Jaipur, their fortresses are swallowed by the industrialised behmoth of pollution and crass shops. Furthermore, due to its size, we watched the sun set slowly over the city from a panoramic viewpoint which could have not been possible in a larger vicinity. Superlatives cannot justify simple beauty of watching light become darkness in the midst of a secluded city in the desert.

From Jaisalmer we embarked on a one night, two day camel safari.
We were promised expansive sand dunes stretching past the horizon which rose higher than the largest of giants.
We received a small escarpment of minute dunes covering the landmass of a Sunday league football pitch.
That was not too bad however.
What was woefully mitigating though was the actual camel trek to reach these dunes – seven hours of bopping up and down with your groin being incessantly stretched, and without cold water, would leave even Frankie Detorie aghast. Our fellow group members provided some respite at least; Johnny from Japan spoke no English, but a couple from Poland who perpetually bemoaned the experience assuaged our pain, and Melanie from France was a interesting companion.
At night, by the dunes, we ate dinner around a fire under the starlit sky which speckled like a thousand raindrops. Then, the next morning, we endured another seven hour camel trek back to base with a dimunitive supply of water as dirt had infiltrated the fresh water tank. Again, we arrived back from an excurison dehydrated. Furthermore an argument ensued back at our hotel over their failed promises pertaining the safari, but it subsided before the impending violence materialised.

The next morning we departed for Jodhpur, arriving there in the early evening. Contrary to Jaipur, Jodhpur is renowned as a the ‘blue city’. Auspiciously, blue is a more conspicuous colour than red and thus the city possessed a unique charm. There was little do to there however except visit more public establishments – primarily the largest fort in Rajastan – which provided picturesque pespectives of the azure buildings permeating the city.

Udaipur which is supposedly the most celebrated city in Asia after Dubai graced our itinerary next.
Akin to Jaisalmer in its quaintness (the old part of the city which we resided in at least), Udaipur had a tranquil tempo that was dictated by the tepid Lake Pichola which engulfed it. Two exclusive island hotels prominently floated in the centre of the lake, but their cheapest rooms were unfortunately somewhat outside of our budget.
Udaipur was best enjoyed just relaxing, sitting by the lake and allowing the deft ambience to appease us.

But then it began.

Our final night in Udaipur was fraught with restless nightmares for Pepe. A pentrating, acute pain saturated his head. He felt dizzy, weak and in a general malaise. The following morning he visited a government hospital where the engaging, professional doctor indifferently felt his pulse and triumphantly declared that he had a virus. After taking a dosage of drugs back in our hotel, he slept and slept and slept until 16:30

Then we had to leave for Agra on our ’sleeper’ coach (’sleeper’ meaning that we had a confined cell which was not large enough for two pigmy’s to share) that we booked the prior day. Pepe endured it, somehow.

When we arrived in Agra, we swiftly check in at a hotel before circumnavigating the city in a tuk-tuk. As with most Indian cities, it was about as palatable as the plague. Its only saviour was the emanating Taj Mahal. That day we saw it from a distance by the river bank. Even from there it was evidently a voluptuous construction with perfect contours and intricate inscriptions.
That night, Pepe, again, was ill. His condition had abated and so the decision was made to visit a private hospital (with the hope of actually being treated) the following morning after seeing the Taj Mahal.

Unfortunately pathetic fallacy is not so evocative in reality as it is in literature. When we woke up for sunrise, clouds filled the vacuous sky and rain softly drizzled down. Fortunately, the rain ceased an hour later, enabling us to visit the Taj Mahal. Few tourists were there at this time and tus, we had uninterrupted view of the erudite symmetry and marble structure. It possessed a presence of power and might without any remnant of misanthropy. Even inside the teeming dome, distant echoes sounded more symphonic than discordant.

Everything it seemed, was perfect.

Apart from Pepe, of course.

We soon rushed to the hospital, where after a short wait, the genial, responsive and engaging Dr. Jaggi inspected Pepe. He soon unleashed the bad news: although he could not determine the exact impediment, Pepe was severely dehydrated (with a blood pressure of 90), had inflamed kidneys and a parasitic virus.

He was taken to a room and put on the ominous drip.

Drip, drip, drip.

And there he remained for four nights. Jakey joined him on the second, witnessing the array of injections and drugs being inserted into Pepe’s body.

Whilst traveling you never feel absolutely ripe or fresh. Your prime condition is usually at 70%; intermittent sleep, hygenic restrictions, dietary limitations and perpetual movement do not allow you to attain your optimum condition.
In India, your best condition can be no higher than 40%.
Pepe, when admitted to Dr. Jaggi’s hospital was at about 3%.
Jakey was bordering the 20% mark.

Now, we are both great, by Indian standards. The malaise has subsided and our bodies are replenished.

Our condition is no better than 10%.

So it goes…

Time to leave Agra, finally…

P.S. Thank you Dr. Jaggi

The Delhi dilemma was swiftly resolved as we finally fled from the depraved city the following day after our previous diary entry.
It was not that however.
At 20:00 on the night we posted our last entry, an employee for the company who we booked our tickets with, entered the apartment we were residing in and demanded us to pack our bags immediately.
We were being transferred to another abode.
Averse to this prospect, but complicit due to diffidence, we scurried around packing our belongings, bemused and confused, ready to leave within five minutes.
Unfortunately that atmosphere in the new apartment was hostile, but we hardily endured it for one night, as finally, we managed to leave Delhi the following morning.

The flight to Srinagar was merely sixty minutes long, but once our plane landed on the tarnished tarmac, it was palpable that we were now somewhere distinctly different to Delhi.
Most notably, we were in Kashmir.
When we were still in the comfortable confines of Manchester, we whimsically joked about visiting this notoriously volatile region of India. People had been shot by bullets and obliterated by bombs here – recently – and furthermore, this was a regular occurrence. Even the ‘Lonely Planet’ guidebook to India sternly warned visitors about the possibility of witnessing – or becoming a victim of – an indiscriminate bomb attack. Somebody we subsequently met in Amritsar averred how he wanted to Visit Srinagar too, but his insurance policy explicitly stated that if he did, it would immediately become nullified.
And so forth.

As we were being driven through the ruddy streets to our accommodation, the army presence was as ostentatious as a tiger in a cage full of cats. They had batons, rifles and guns, and were so pervasive that they formed part of the landscape. If soldiers were not stationed on the streets, they were driving vehicles, comprising more of the populace than ordinary citizens.
Fortuitously however, we were residing in a boathouse situated on Nigeen Lake, which faced the grandiose ‘Old Fort’ that overlooked the whole of Srinagar (and now, unsurprisingly, is an army base).
At night we navigated the vicinity, observing Dal Lake which surpassed Nigeen in both size and placidity with a colourful array of azure colours that shimmered in response to the setting sun. Compared to Delhi the local were amiable and forthcoming with grace and dignity; their smiles did not aim to swindle. Pepe even took a deep breath and boldly ate (by Jakey’s standards at least) local Kashmiri food purchased on the market that was wrapped in recycled newspaper. It was sweet and delectable; an amalgamation of barratha (a type of nan) with soft, sweet potatoes that possessed the texture of a warmly baked cake.
Jakey looked, smelt and decided that he could wait until dinner.

The following day we embarked on a trek up a nearby Himalayan mountain. Our entourage comprised of two sherpers (“Pony men”), two personal helpers and five horses.
The sixty minute drive to the base of the mountain entailed astute maneuvering through the narrow, winding roads that climbed above Srinagar. The tyres struggled to find traction on the rocky surface which, when combined with the speeds our reckless driver drove at, was a daunting experience.

The trek was marred with follies.

First, although we had paid for horses – which we subsequently discovered were actually pony’s – to carry us to the top of the mountain, in total, over the whole two days of trekking, we used them for no longer than two hours. Their weak and fragile bones could not sustain our weight. Particularly Jakey’s.
Second, after two of the horses had been stacked with bags and apparatus, we both clambered upon our respective ponies. Steadily climbing up the steep mountain, Jakey’s saddle slipped to the side after five minutes and off he fell, grazing his arms and legs.
Now he was scared, and it was only after observing Pepe ride his pony for a short while that he garnered the courage revisit his wild beast. This was, of course, before the ponies became too tired to carry us any further.
Third, we heedlessly only brought three bottles of water each to quench us during the trek. In retrospect, that alone, was insufficient. That our sherpers did not bring any water of their own and thus were required to share our diminutive supplies was a travesty. Jakey struggled to trek to the point of rest for the night, but, with whining indignation, he made it.

The view from where we pitched our tents however was daintily ethereal. Lofty clouds submerged over the interminable scope of cascading verdant mountains with remnants of frost that were dispersed wherever there was a crevice to conceal them from the pungent sun.
At night our sherpers cooked us a meal as we relaxed and recuperated our strength around a campfire.
It was bliss to be absolutely alone, especially after witnessing Delhi’s incessant locomotion.
As the sun set Jakey declared that he will “sleep like a baby”. Tired with both thirst and fatigue, we eventually resigned to our tent.
We woke the next morning wild and crazy with bloodshot pupils and baggy eyes; our sleep – if such a word can be used – totaled no more than ninety minutes.
Why?
Because of the storm.
Shortly after we had wrapped ourselves warmly in our sleeping bags, we heard a faint murmur in the distance. This was followed by a boisterous bellow.
And then it began.
The tent shook and the lightning struck throughout the remainder of the night. There was a perpetual clangor of vociferous rain striking our tent, as if frogs and not raindrops were falling from the sky.
Jakey was scared. So scared in fact that he decided to occupy Pepe’s sleeping space, rendering him unable to sleep even if could or wanted to despite the storm. And we were both shaking like fragile skeletons due to the chilly cold.

Nevertheless, determined to view a venerated lake on the mountains summit, we trekked onwards the next morning, after breakfast. Unfortunately, by now we only possessed two bottles of water – not each, but between us – to sustain us for the remainder of the day. Thus, we decided to take one bottle with us for this portion of the trek and save one for the climb back down the mountain.
We struggled.
The altitude began to affect us and our mouths were lingering onto every last drop of water. Some snow en-route momentarily hydrated us, but it did not suffice. Thus, too depleted to continue, we returned back to the tent without seeing the lake. After eating lunch, we climbed down the mountain.
Then, the conundrum emerged; we naively refrained from applying suncream that morning due to the overcast clouds.
Now we had sun-stroke.

What is the primary remedy to overcome sun-stroke?
Water.

But there was no water to be drunk.
Furthermore, even if there had been, our stomachs would have failed to absorb it.
Hence, conversely to the spectral beauty surrounding us, our trek back down was mitigated with abating anguish.
At least we made it though.

We decided to leave Srinagar the next day. Woefully, when we woke up 6:00am for our impending bus journey, our ailments had exacerbated. Droll details are unnecessary, but we can clarify with certainty that the journey was the antithesis of a gliding serenade through the mountains. Moreoever, delayed abounded the trip, prolonging it from the projected duration of eight hours to twelve.

Although we intended to reach McLeod Ganj (the town where the Tibetan People flocked into exhile) that night, after the aforementioned journey fraught with sickness, we decided to rest in Jammu.
Jammu was wholly mediocre, but we did not expect much else. It was disconcerting being situated so close to Islamabad – the capital of Pakistan – during their recent turmoil however.

Mcleod Ganj, when we finally reached it, was a town laden with dichotomy’s: there were narrow streets and harrowing car horns; serene moutainous surroundings and trite commercial shops; an abundance of tourists and Tibetan Monks. The atmosphere was harmonious however, with the days there passing by like a summer breeze.
Auspiciously, the day after we arrived was the revered Dalai Lama’s birthday. Consequently the shops shut but the frivolities were surprisingly restrained. We visited his temple, which, considering how permeated the Tibetan cause is in the Western media, was relatively humble. Also, the following day (and for the rest of the week too, but we had to leave to maintain our schedule), thousands of pilgrims converged on this holy site in the morning to seize the opportunity of witnessing the Dalai Lama teach Buddhist principles to the masses. We saw the figure himself, in person, from no further than ten metres away as we scrambled for a seat, but his wisdom surpassed us, primarily because we do not understand Tibetan.

Finally, where we are writing from now, we commuted to Amritsar. Here, the holiest site in the Sikh religion is situated in the eponymous Golden Temple.
The vicinity of the temple was surrounded by an artificial moat of fresh water (a rarity for India) which exuded an aura of simple serenity.
Thousands of bare feet encompassed us whilst we were there, as shoes were not permitted inside the temple.
Jakey, not wanting to give his sandals to the shoe depository outside, placed them in his bag instead.
He soon regretted that.
Once inside, a murky man angrily tapped him on the shoulder and directed him towards a guard who was standing tall, clutching a large sphere. The guard apprehended him, demanding to view the contents of his bag.
Poor Jakey feared for the worst. Could this be the end?
The hypercondria fortunately receded and reality triumphed though as we were simply ejected from the temple, being allowed to return once our shoes had been discarded.

That evening we travelled to the Pakistani border with two genial Brits named Alice and Matt who we met in our hotel. There we witnessed the dirunal frivolous fracas between Pakistan’s and India’s border guards, where each attempts to prove to the onlooking masses who has more pride, pomp and prestige through a syncronised embellished military ceremony.

Now we are waiting in an exasperatingly noisy bus station to transit south to Rajastan. John Cage could concoct a symphony using the eclectic array of different car horns and whistles that are being emitted outside.

Adios!

(Phew)

P.S. New photographs have been added to both the ‘Summer Photographs’ and ‘Flickr/Action Shots’ sections, although, we still have more to upload.