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

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.

So it begins…again.

Delhi, Delhi, Delhi.
Why have we written this capacious city’s name three times? Because we have remained here for three days longer than initially intended.

Is that due to its salubrious skyline? The senuous aroma of a distant, exotic, foreign city with an array of enticing smells and spices? A sense of kinship with the people who reside here?
Oh, no. Of course not.

Delhi is swathed with a thick, viscous cloud of pollution. Everything on the road – cars, buses, rikshaws, bicycles and cows – is perpetually rummaging around without any direction or care for the law. In the distance, the relentless sound of car horns beeping has become entrenched in the atmosphere. Another beep, another accident. Or at least, so we assume.
The sheer sense of inequality is salient and unconcealed. Upon arriving – past midnight – in the city we requested for our driver to stop by a local ATM; we had to silently tip-toe across streams of sleeping, starving, and fragile homeless people who were living amongst docile dogs to reach the enclosed, air-conditioned money dispenser.

So, “why are you still here” we can hear the impatient reader screaming.

That, you see, is the problem.
We have no choice.
We propose that any political or philosophy professor who fervently defends the facade of ‘free will’ ought to visit Delhi. They would leave disillusioned and distraught, with the foundations of their life having disintegrated like smouldering ash.

Thus, the story so far:
On our first day we toured Delhi. The city is colossal, with no distinctive central hub. We visited Humayun’s Tomb, the Bahai/Lotus Temple, Qutb Minar, the President’s residence, India Gate, Raj Ghat, Jaman Manjid, a Hindu temple and the Red Fort – not that those of those sights will have any significance to most of you.

Humayun’s Tomb was the architectural inspiration for the Taj Mahal. We were initially apprehensive about spending the 250rs entry fee, but in retrospect, it was undoubtedly worth the money. The complex was large and expansive, with the structure’s emollient white marble juxtaposing against the ruddy red brick stone. It’s immaculately clean setting provided an idyllic break from Delhi’s raucous streets.

The Bahai Temple was carved like a lotus flower. It was reminiscent of the Sydney Opera House with its huge, white, oval enclaves protruding up to the stars.

Raj Ghat is the burial site of the exalted Indian figurehead, Ghandi. There was a tranquil aura surrounding the vicinity, with the sound of a drum being beated like an ebbing pulse every second, by a humble disciple.

Appertaining the other sights, whilst some were impressive, they are not worth mentioning in any great detail.

Now, the problem.

First, we were charged double for the hotel room we stayed in during our first two nights due to miscommunication. Jakey’s robust and uncompromising bartering skills finally met their match as after thirty minutes of exasperating arguments, he finally conceded to the manager.
He demanded four courtesy bottles of water as compensation (just so that he could claim some form of victory), which was, at least, duly given to us.
They may have won the battle, but we won the war!

Following that frustrating event, we decided to leave Delhi immediately. After a tuk-tuk drive to the ‘official’ Indian tourism office in Connaught Place, we purchased a bus ticket to Srinagar – a Himalayan mountain town. One problem: It was supposedly meant to be leaving within thirty minutes.
Our driver from the tourism office rampaged through the bustling and saturated streets without discernment or remorse; he drove down a one-way street the wrong way, with five lanes of traffic ahead of us; he manouevered past buses and cars with mere millimetres occupying the space between the two.
Pepe found the ride exhilarating.
Jakey slept throughout.

We arrived on time. Upon arrival at the dormant bus station however, we were told that the bus was full for the next three days.
There were less than a dozen people in the area.
Thus we were subsequently driven back to the tourist agency.

A dilemma emerged. We had already paid for the bus ticket and there was scarcely any chance for a refund. Delhi was exuberant, but only in degenerated ways, and we were desperate to leave. ‘Bond’, the shrewd but affable salesman offered us a flight to Srinagar for the following day, at the expense of 30 pounds extra with five nights accommodation and meals included in the price. He also offered to house and feed us for the night in Delhi.
With few other options except to abandon our bus fare, we duly obliged.

The remainder of the day was spent witnessing the squalid slums of Delhi and then subsequently relaxing back in the apartment.

At night Bashir, the residence’s obseqious servant, cooked us an authentic Indian dish and mused over his deficient sexual life. After dinner we spoke to Halil, one of the residences of the house, who recited such original love poems as:
“Red is for blood
as blood is for heart
as heart is for me.
Your heart is mine!”

And so forth…

We awoke in the morning at ate breakfast, prepared for our flight and impending altitude sickness.
Mere minutes before we were due to leave, the phone rang.
It was for us.
‘Bond’ greeted us over the telephone line.
“There is problem” we were informed, “the plane no longer functioning until tomorrow.”

What could we do? They had our money. We wanted to travel north and this tourism agency was genuinely official (it is even mentioned in the Lonely Planet).
Nevertheless, it became a self-evident truth.
This was a scam. Or so Pepe believes.
Jakey argues otherwise.

The hospitable agency entreated us to relax and rest for the day.
If only that was possible in Delhi.

Adios amigoes!

P.S. Check out the pictures in ‘Summer Travels 2007′ and ‘action/flickr photographs’; the former is of us and more encompassing whereas the latter is of more intricate shots taken on an SLR.
P.P.S. We will (hopefully if time permits us) upload videos too, so check them out too.
P.P.P.S. Please comment. It makes us happy.