The Vagabonds

Take a deep breath.
Slowly.
In and out. In and out.
What is it like? Refreshing? Hydrating? Relieving? As if life is flowing in and out of your lungs?
Not for us. At least, not yet.
By tomorrow India will be confined to our memories; part of a seamless web of distant eclectic moments, events and experiences that never quite appear real.
Now however we are still in the country where pollution manifests itself into a corporeal substance of viscous, asphyxiating smoke and where vehicles garner their pride and prestige not through the size of their engines or the sleekness of their design but by the volume of their horns.
Beep beep? Not quite: Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep and so forth until infinity.

Following Pepe’s brief foray with death in Agra, our physical – and mental – conditions have scarcely improved. If Pepe feels revitalized and recovered one morning, Jakey will stumble into a stupor by night.
In Varanasi though, our next destination after Agra, we did feel okay.

Varanasi is the holiest Hindu city and thus one of the most sacred sites in India. People flock there to die and if they do not quite make the journey, their relatives send their corpses there anyway. Then they are incinerated and subsequently have their ashes scattered in the interminable Ganges that penetrate the city. This supposedly allows the dead to obtain the pious position of Nirvana and consequently escape the process of reincarnation, being thrust up to heaven (or the Hindu equivalent) instead.
Pepe took a boat ride down the Ganges during sunrise which was calm and tranquil despite the floating bloated corpse he saw in the water. At night however when Jakey joined him, we witnessed a vivid specter of religious rituals whilst also fearing for our lives.
The journey was initially idyllic. There was a soft glow emanating from the sky, the air was warm and unimposing and our quaint boat ebbed gently over the water. Observing the ghats (which are essentially entry points into the water) was intriguing as boy, girls, women and men bathed and cleansed themselves in the water which was opaque with contamination. The principal burning ghat where fires are ablaze for every minute of every day of the year emitted puffs of smoke as dead bodies were added to the piles that were amassing, waiting to be reduced to a few wisps of salt.
As corpses were being plunged into the water before being burned, we could not help thinking to ourselves that we could be joining them soon, such was our pessimism.
Auspiciously, the day we ventured down to the Ganges was the beginning of a month-long Hindu festival, so once we saw the various ghats our boat stationed itself outside a temple where a ceremony comprised of dance and fire was being conducted. We watched the scene for twenty minutes. Then, as the wind began to blow and bellow, our boat swayed and then rocked rather than ebbed. Thus our rower started his return journey back to the ghat adjacent to our hotel. The waves rose so high and moved with such a relentless rush though that as our man rowed and rowed even harder, we progressed no further. It was as if strings were plucking us from the sky, pulling us back if we dared to step forward. Water soon sprayed on to the boat. In and out. Our rower continued to row, futilely. Fortunately as other more mobile boats passed us, we grabbed hold of their tails and finally reached a ghat (not ours, but for some reason we were in the mood to walk) as they hauled us away.

The next morning over breakfast we read in a newspaper that one boat capsized, killing all ten people on board.
So it goes.

After Varanasi we commuted overnight to Jhansi. As soon as we arrived however, we traveled to Orchha to observe their array of venerated temples, which were reminiscent of those around Angkor Wat due to the bucolic surroundings and disparate complexes.
Pepe however was ill, again. This time he struggled to breathe as each time he inhaled, an acute and acerbic pain infiltrated his abdomen.
Once we had seen the sites in Orchha we asked our tuk-tuk driver to return to Jhansi and take us to a hospital. Pepe, in an attempt to be thrifty, requested a government hospital.

Rule number one: Never be frugal with healthcare, particularly in India.

Walking inside the murky compound and main building was like jumping into a trench after a night of heavy rainfall during The Great War.
It was dimly lit. The smell of dust and decay amalgamated into a pungent aroma of death. People littered the floors. As did dogs. At one point a doctor decided to drive his motorbike down the corridors, and why not, for there appeared to be no rules.
As Pepe lay down to be check and diagnosed, he turned on to his left side and saw warm, wet blood dripping from the shelf next to him.
In and out.
The irony: Pepe was given a more thorough check than in the private hospital. The doctors were attentive and considerate, but unfortunately the squalor of the surroundings seemed to mitigate both Pepe’s and Jakey’s condition.

When we went to the nearby city of Gwalior the following day it was Jakey’s turn to endure a slideshow of symptoms. Unfortunately he could not wholly appreciate Gwalior’s capacious fort which was encircled by intricate salubrious statues which were more akin to those found in Egyptian Aztecs.
That night though we had a train booked to Goa; a thirty-six hour journey.
Despite Pepe being unable to breathe and Jakey unable to think, somehow, we endured it.
Jakey even met his ultimate nemesis – the Lucifer of his dreams and the Satan of his nightmares – on board the train: the mouse.
He jumped to the top bunk as if the linoleum floor below him had capriciously turned into smoldering coal, and he did not return until we arrived in Goa, but apart from that brief folly, he managed to delay that inevitable altercation with the mouse, which one day, will leave on of the party’s involved dead.

To reach Palolem, the beach we decided to reside at in Goa, we needed to travel on a further three more buses.
After a thirty-six hour train journey, this is not recommended.
Heavy rainfall graced every mile we traveled and the nearer we became to Palolem, the worse we felt.
Pepe was so distraught and fatigued and ill by the time we actually reached Palolem that he immediately rushed to the hospital, again. The pain in his abdomen had not abated and the doctor accordingly prescribed him with more drugs.

Goa was plunged in the middle of the monsoon when we arrived and Palolem unfortunately did not provide a safe haven from the rain. The vicinity was small to walk around in ten minutes, but if we ever tried to, rain would greet us before we completed the circuit. Nevertheless, it was harmoniously placid in the area with several sundry restaurants lining the street and genial, forthcoming locals.
To relax and assuage ourselves after our misery, we even paid for another massage. The beast who treated us was probably the Athenian God of wrath though, for he not massage us – he was abusive instead.
First, the bed sheet we lay on was brown, black and yellow despite obviously possessing some white colour in another lifetime.
Second, he crushed us, literally.
Third, at one point (or part in his process) he made us sit in a chair, dressed only in our shorts, with the door wide open as mosquitoes consequently nibbled on our flesh, whilst bashing our heads with his hands with more might than Rocky.
Fourth, he promised to massage us for an hour, but after forty minutes he halted and made us practice yoga instead.
We have still not recovered.

Another bus and another train journey late, we arrived in our final destination – Mumbai. The city, despite still being palpably India, is less polluted, overpopulated and tumultuous than the others we have visited in India. As tuk-tuks are banned from the city centre, the tumor has been removed from the landscape. The residents tend to be more helpful and friendly and this is the first large Indian city which is actually somewhat pleasant (or at least worthwhile) walking around.
On the night we arrived, we decided to watch the Simpsons film at the cinema. A surprise awaited us. As we sat comfortably in our seats, Jakey eating his tacos and Pepe drinking his soda, a message appeared on the screen: Please may everybody stand.
Bemused, we obliged.
Then, something happened which is ineffably absurd – a green, orange and white flag faded on to the screen and the Indian national anthem began to played with absolute pride, pomp and prestige. Everybody stood and everybody sang.
We cried.

Something else happened in Mumbai too; the event of the century. Our lives were transformed by it and we will never regain our prior personalities or humble dispositions.
We were extra’s in a Bollywood film!
The film: Me, you and Hum.
Yes, the title is trite tripe (and another adjective comes to mind) but it is supposedly the most anticipated Bollywood film of the year. The set which depicted a British bar/nightclub was grand and magnificent, incorporating two bars, several podiums and a curvaceous dance floor. When the film has been released and become an international sensation, you can take pride in knowing that you read the blog of extra’s 42 & 43 before they were such pre-eminent stars. The bad part is that if you are reading this, we will probably not talk to again, but do not worry: we will not forget you, that is, not until we have associated ourselves with a new group of friends and acquaintances.

The remainder of our stay in Mumbai was spent viewing and meandering around the city, seeing the prodigious Taj Mahal hotel, Indian gate and just enjoying the general atmosphere of the locomotive city.

So: Seven weeks in India!
Seven weeks!
In and out.
Seven days would suffice in giving somebody a sense of what the real India is like, but seven weeks has left its taste on our palette, its smell up our nose and its sounds ringing in our ears.
It tastes of spices, sounds of car horns and smells of…shit.

With the experience – that is consummately what India was – of seven weeks in India now flung over our shoulders and behind our backs, we can soundly conclude that we will not return in the near future.
It was a worthwhile and rewarding venture; the disparate landscapes ranging from verdant mountains to arid sand dunes have often possessed unsurpassed beauty; the culture which is so unique and flamboyant is like no other; we have witnessed a developing country that is still making the giant leap into a truly consumerist society; and we have an abundance of exuberant memories.
The illnesses which have lingered like parasites however were difficult to endure. Our resolve needed to be resilient, but sometimes even the strongest men falter to folly’s and we are not quite Spartans (who needs to be a Spartan though when you are a Bollywood superstar?).

India is the quintessential dichotomy.
On the one hand there are wretched, post-apocalyptic and debilitating cities such as Delhi, whereas conversely, such appeasing places such as Jaisalmer can eclipse those shadows. Srinagar has the bliss of the Himalayan Mountains and lascivious lakes, yet it is blighted with violence and the conspicuous presence of the army. Even the sun which provides heat and warmth and comfort can be so pungent that it turns malevolent.

But every last minute has been worthwhile.

Pepe and Jakey.
(Autographs later)

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