Udaipur

In the morning after a reasonably sleepless night I have breakfast on the roof, selecting a table which was not in direct sunlight, even at 9o'clock the sun had a desert like ferocity about it. As I peered over the rooftops I was surprised to see a figure waving at me from the adjacent hotel, after a moment or two of confusion I realised it was the German troll from the bus. We communicated we would meet downstairs in that universal language of distance that is pointing and silently mouthing the words, an even more futile action due to the distance.

As she was a regular visitor to Udaipur i let her lead the way as we headed straight into old town and the heart of the market bazaar. Surrounded by bangle shops and saree makers it would be easy to get disoriented but my guide traversed the streets with...well German proficiency. Soon we were into the food markets, offering anything from chilli's by the kilo to blocks of ghee bigger than your head. The fruit and veg section stretched out for miles and with each vendor selling the same produce and in vast quantities I enquired as to why so many sellers, my guide informed me that obviously the Indian people like to shop around for not only the best quality but price too and also that different vendors would belong to certain castes and as such would receive business from those of the same 'level'.

With all rooftops competing for the highest and unobstructed views over Udaipur it was difficult to choose, deciding on the trolls roof we watched the city disappear into twilight to the sound of Octopussy playing in the background.

My room remained to be hotter than it ft in the midday sun, finally succoming to soaking a sheet in cold water and wrapping it round me in bed which, at least for an hour, seemed to do the trick although the process did require repeating with increasing frequency.

The other main draw in Udaipur is the city palace, a home to the Maharajah of Udaipur and now, like most of these royal relics, has been turned into a museum and top end hotel. As expected the palace was filled with all the opulence you would expect from a royal abode however there was one other familiar sight that wasn't so pleasing, the dreaded Indian tour group. These particularly bold species tend to huddle in large numbers surrounding a central alpha male, or guide as they are locally known. The group moves together in a singular body, absorbing all in its path and swarm from point of interest to point of interest, the only straying from the body when said point of interest requires photographing, however, on hearing the voice of their alpha male will, without hesitation or consideration for those in their path, bid to rejoin the body as quickly as possible in case they miss any of the guides gospel. As you can probably guess I got absorbed, bashed into and stuck behind numerous tour groups, slightly hindering what would otherwise have been a pleasant stroll.

With the heat of the day hindering all but the most essential of activities I was in luck that Udaipur had to shortage of cafes and coffee shops to ply you with refreshment and a plethora of pastries from the seemingly obligatory german bakery. With a number of these cafes being situated on the banks of ths lakes it was all to easy to be absorbed into a wicker chair and read the afternoon away.

The state is famous for the Rajasthani Puppet and accordingly a section of yet another, smaller, palace cum museum was dedicated to the art. The whole room was filled with hundreds of puppets depicting anything from royal courtyard scenes to various Hindu gods in states of wrath. As I was exiting I noticed that there was a line of puppets lying on the floor, these looked a rather sad set compared to the fine examples around the rest of the room. Enter the depressed looking ticket collector from the entrance. He announced with great pride that this was his shop informing me that these were all handmade by his family, something that was clearly not their calling. As he dangled two purple maharajahs in front of me announcing the cost he could obviously read my face and instantly slashed the price, i walked out with them wrapped ungracefully in a black bag where they would remain until they were posted off to haunt Blighty.

Mount Abu - Udiapur

I spent my remaining few days having the same conversation over and over again (which country, your profession, your salary etc) and with every day having a little bit of a groundhog day feel about it I decided it was best to move on. Having booked a bus to Udiapur through the hotel I packed up, said good riddance to mr squatty and dropped the keys off at reception. On leaving the man called me back and tried to tell me to wait as there was a troll coming too. Having failed to clarify what he was wanting to accompany me i made as hasty a retreat as I could with my seemingly ever increasing in weight rucksac. When i arrived at the 'bus station'/dirt track, i was faced with a line of buses, none of which signed obviously, so I did the only thing you can do, start at the beginning. One thing I've realized over the past few months is that the Indian people really don't like to say they don't know, instead they will, at best, hazard a guess. After having spent hours in the past criss crossing between train platforms and bus stands I chose to ignore his vague pointing towards the back of the line and continued with my systematic approach that was until i reached the back of the line and found the bus the original driver had pointed at. I boarded another stereotypical bus, the familiar musty smell, the wooden boards replacing windows even the ever present Deity fixtures and fitting. I took a seat and to my surprise it was a recliner, even more to my surprise it wasn't actually a recliner, it just wasn't bolted to the floor. At this point the troll boarded the bus, which was in fact the german woman who had been staying at the hotel, she joined me in my lazyboy and we were soon off, every acceleration putting us further into our neighbours laps.

With the thermometer hitting 40 the gap in my plywood window felt like someone blasting a hair drier at me. The conversation flowed easily enough and the german took great pride in her ability to drink the local water, not a feat beyond anybodies grasp really its just how the other end deals with it. Soon enough we had stopped for lunch, meal breaks are sacred here and if you happen to be on a bus for any longer than 1 hour you will stop for around a half hour break (which goes part of the way towards explaining why a 100 mile trip takes 7 hours).

Nearly an hour later and i was back in my chez longe and making terrible time. After all conversation had been exhausted we resorted to ipod therapy (something I've found invaluable on these long trips, for if nothing else to drown out the sound of the horns), and about 5 albums later we had arrived, somewhere, in Udaipur. This appears to be another common situation, buses drop you off not at a bus stand but at the most inconvenient place available, but hey presto just like magic there are always a plethora of rickshaw drivers eager to take your money.

The german girl having a reasonable understanding of Hindi she got us a reasonable rate and we were soon hurtling through the back streets in a very Octopussyesque manner. After negotiating a nuetral location to be dropped off in in an effort to avoid the commission sting we parted ways and i was left to find my half booked accommodation. After wandering aimlessly for 15minutes i finally got directions off a hash dealing rickshaw driver, i set off and seconds later he pulled up and offered me a free lift, i thought that was very kind of him but it wasn't till we arrived and he jumped out and ran into reception did i realise his motive. Angry at him, and myself for falling for it, i expressed to the receptionist i would just go elsewhere, he gave me my original quoted price and the disgruntled rickshaw driver left uncomissioned. The room was nice, with some typical rajasthani murals and fixtures but it would be till later that i would discover that it was actually the hottest room in Udaipur. The rooftop gave unobstructed views over the city and the lake palaces and it also had the obligatory nightly showing of Octopussy (the Bond film was mainly shot here, a fact of which the are immensely proud) the soundtrack of which reverberates round the city from dusk till midnight. I retire for the night to my sweatbox and pray the power doesn't cut depriving me of the fan.

Mount Abu

Mount Abu is a funny little place, sitting as the desert states only hill station it appears to be a big tourist draw, more the nationals than internationals though. One of the Gods dropped something or stood here and created the lake (those Gods were always dropping things and creating holy sites). After a reasonably pleasant, and by that I mean short, train journey I embarked on the 90 minute up hill climb to Mt Abu by local bus. It appears the bigger you are the more right you have to the road in India, so buses are pretty much top of the food chain, which you can take a little comfort from as you hurtle round hair pin bends with 100ft drops on either side whilst heading into oncoming traffic. Mt Abu is free of rickshaws which at first was a bonus as there would be no competing for pedestrian walkways or constant horn tooting, then I realised there's only one thing worse than dealing with rickshaw drivers, dealing with taxi drivers. After announcing that it was a minimum fare of 100rs this was quickly reduced to 50 as I started to walk away and so I was taken to the two minute journey to my guesthouse. I received a relatively frosty reception at ganesha guesthouse and was shown to my 400rs a night room, it was small but appeared clean enough, the only thing was that the bathroom had one of those nasty sewerage whiffs, oh and it was a squat toilet. I reluctantly accepted being assured I could change rooms in the next day or two. It wasn't till later on that day, when the pong was particularly prevalent that I went to investigate. It appeared that the toilet didn't actually have an automatic flush and that a bucket of water was required to clear up, it also appeared that the last occupant of the room was lazy, and ill, explaining the worse than normal pong (It wasn't till a couple days later when this theme kept occurring that i realised my room was at the end of the line of the 4 rooms prior to me in not only the corridor sense but also the pluming and i was actually getting to know the other residents better than they could ever know!

The main attraction in Mt Abu was the lake, and to be fair it was quite a nice lake, providing a nice hour long stroll along its banks or if you were feeling brave you could also dawn a swan pedalo and paddle across the murky depth. The other main attractions were all a little further out of town and although there was only one place, the Jain temples, I was actually keen for I signed up for an all day sight sering tour, moments after paying I began to have flashbacks about the Panjim river cruise and had visions of drunk Indian tourists crammed into the aisle of the bus dancing to Kanye West, who appears to be extremely popular here. My fears weren't realised but as I suspected I was the only Westerner on the bus and as such, understandably, the tour was in Hindi, the tour guide feeling the need to shout angrily his whole commentary and when departing the bus give me a very condensed English version then sent me on my way. The first of the stops were all either mediocre temples or photo points, where the resident photographer was poised and ready to superimpose your face onto the side of a rock or have a gargantuan version of you and a loved one in the classic titanic pose emerging from the lake. So with the bus thoroughly tikka'd (the red or green or grey or white, i could go on, dot they receive in the temple after a donation) we proceeded to the next stop, the Om Shanti hall of universal peace. A strange choice for a stop i thought but I didn't actually get past the reception, an older Indian man clad all in white started taking me through the history of their followings, for so long in fact i could hear the driver of the bus angrily blowing his horn. Using at as my exit strategy i hastily left before the man coerced my into signing over my soul. The next stop and we were back to the temples although this one was slightly different, it sat on a perch with 360 steep steps between us. Whilst the rest of our group was given a full explanation i was nudged on ahead, allowing me extra pit stops if nothing else. At the top i joined the queue, not realising that there was still one obstacle between me and the deity, a very tight squeeze through some boulders into a very cool cave. I received my tikka, purple, and squeezed out on my belly on the other side blaming the fact that i am larger than the average Indian and was faced by another religious article, a shivas trident with coins stuck over it, two young guys informed me that if i pushed a coin onto it and it stuck my wish would be granted, the two lads failed whereas mine held fast, although i think it probably had something to do with my sweaty hands. And from that point forward I was rewarded with two new Indian pals, not what i wished for, but they did start buying me various drinks and snacks which was nice.

So the next stop was the Jain temples I had wanted to see, after disposing of shoes and all leather articles oh and any menstruating women, thems not allowed, we headed in. Now the story goes that the masons were paid by the amount of dust produced from their carvings of the huge marble slabs and boy did they go for it, I have never seen anything so intricate and delicate, how they have stood the test of time i don't know, only downside photography wasn't allowed.

After my two aquatints had translated anything of worth i once again broke away from the group allowing me two enjoy this fairytale temple on my own, that was until I heard the angry horn of our tour bus. Back on board the fun bus we were soon hurtling up the side of a very steep mountain to another destination unknown, well to me anyway. Once again I was confronted by a set of stairs and a series of temples, this time there was the option to be carried to the top, you could sit in what I could only describe as a wooden crate whilst two men hauled you up the stairs, i didn't indulge although plenty of older women did, and being honest half way up i was wondering if i had could maybe hitch a lift, literally. Eventually at the top i was rewarded by views across the flats of Rajasthan, oh and a white tikka. After the long climb down i got in the coach hoping that was the last stop, and judging by fellow passengers faces i wasn't the only one. Alas there was one more stop, a garden ran by the Om Shanti bunch, tempted to stay on board with the other handful who had had enough i dragged myself out and was subjected to another talk on the history of the sect, although this time in hindi. I sat diligently through the 15 minute presentation, only really recognising Jesus's face when he popped up now and again. Finally we were released into the gardens and everyone plodded round with a lacklustre enthusiasm until the all too familiar bus horn picked up our paces.

Back home I was feeling a little India'd out, I take advantage of the branch of U.S. Pizza and return to my room and immerse myself in the seemingly endless reruns of Die Hard 4.

Gujararat

I find myself next to Mr Patel, born in India but has lived in Pennsylvania for the last 40 odd years running a convenience store, although he was a test driver for Audi for many years until an accident rendered his lower legs practically paralyzed. It was for this reason he announced he would be taking my lower birth sleeper tier leaving me to the middle birth, sandwiched (train rule number 4: seat reservations mean hee-haw!). Everything was going smoothly until a large man plonked himself opposite us and started preaching in Hindi, I'm not sure what he was talking about, paranoia insists it was me, but you could tell the people around us were merely humoring him, engaging him only when he insisted, usually indicated by a nudge/punch on the leg. An hour or so passed with the man continuing his boisterous conversation when the conductor came along, a quick check of his ticket and he was ousted from our party of 8, leaving us only 1 too many for our birth of 6. As we started assembling the beds to bunk down for the night I was still intrigued as to where our extra room mate was intending to sleep, then it became clear, he was.just going to push our shoes aside and sleep on the floor, see train rule 4.

Its only when your in the dead of night that your other senses start to heighten, when your on a train this is particularly troublesome as the night is filled with the glorious sound of a 60 or so men coughing, spitting and farting their way through twelve hours of train ride. Also as i mentioned we were the first set of seats therefore closest to the toilets, this allowed the through breeze to carry the all to familiar smells through the night air, as a result sleep did not come willingly for me that night.

Having been informed by Mr Patel that I was to assist him off the train at his stop, two hours before mine (which wouldn't be too bad if my stop wasn't at 6am), I received a nudge at 4am. I dutifully helped him off the train and went back to bed, noticing that the floor man had promoted himself to my...sorry Mr Patels berth.

Soon enough we arrived at Ahmadabad, and not really being a tourist hotspot I didn't expect too much hassle on arrival...wrong. Yet again i was set upon by rickshaw drivers eager to make a quick buck on the commission racket. After 15 minutes of trying to persuade them just to drop me in the centre.of town I eventually found a driver who would take my fare. The city was empty at that time, a little eiry. When i was dropped the driver insisted on hanging around, still eager to take me to a hotel, so I just sat on a ledge until he left which was a good 5 minutes. I then begun the trawl through the over priced run down hotels, picking the best of a bad bunch I put my bag down, and tried to get a little quality sleep.

Like i said Ahmadabad is not much of a tourist town, and to be honest you can kind of tell why, the streets are more traffic ridden than they felt and Mumbai, in fact its the first time I swore at traffic, after trying to cross the road for over ten minutes. The few sites are spread far and wide which means being left at the mercy of the rickshaws. Although I must admit the people I had encountered had been very pleasant so far, a female roadside water vendor taking pity on me gifted me a pouch of water and ok it only cost 2 rupees but the sentiment was there. So i decided to get the main site ticked off the list Gandhi's Ashram, he lived here for around 30 years and founded his main ashram along the banks of the river where some of his ashes were later scattered. I jumped in a rickshaw and told him to take me to the Saramvati Ashram, its proper name, or so I thought. After a surprisingly long journey, way off from the lonely planet guide (although that was nothing new), he dropped me off at the gates of A ashram. On entering I couldn't quire help but feel there was something wrong about the whole situation, there was no mention of Gandhi at all so far. Looking hopelessly lost someone pointed me in the direction of the main office, the man then proceeded to give me a guided tour, saying how it was established in 1973, that should have been the main give away as Gandhi would have already been dead for over 20 years, and then showed me to the holy tree which if circumnavigated 7 times would grant you any wish, this of course was a gift bestowed on it by the ashram founder. Finally realizing I was in the wrong place I tried to make a hasty retreat but not before being bombarded by leaflets and books on the ashrams philosophy, the section on sex and masturbation proving too good, for the wrong reasons, to discard with the other paraphernalia.

Hotfooting it into another rickshaw I was driven back into town and to the correct Ashram, on entering the boards clearly signposting Gandhis living quarters, prayer square and the spot the ashes were scattered. Being a free site there was no opportunity to charge depending on race, in true Gandhi philosophy and I have to say the museum and photo gallery were one of the best done of any I've seen in India. His house was preserved as he left it, displaying his fee possessions alongside those of his wife's and the whole place just felt very peaceful, even the nationals who can be described as boisterous at best seemed to display a degree of restraint when it came to queuing and photographing.

I left the ashram having a little faith being restored in Ahmadabad, maybe it wasn't the unforgiving monster I had first branded it as. However, I was unable to build on this faith further as I had a train booked for the next morning for the hill station of Mount Abu, the first of my many stops in the mighty, and hot, Rajasthan.

Farewell Mumbai...and Ciara

We awake refreshed and if anything slightly chilly, someone had been playing funny buggers in the 'chill' of the Mumbai twilight. We had our breakfast on the roof, my friend keen to absorb every last ray possible and we were soon setting off on our last day as a duo. Having ticked off most of the big sights we headed up to the older part of town, more specifically the shopping bazaars. Now i had been to a few markets in Goa but nothing prepared me for this complete and unforgiving assault on the senses, particularly from the nasal perspective! Within the first 5 minutes of entering the market area we were confronted by the stench of the meat market and all the other usual whiffs that come with being in an Indian city with a population of 16 million. Struggling to keep it together we took another road off and found ourselves in a little juice bar where, well lets say the hospitality didn't exactly make you want to get comfortable. After a quick consultation of the lonely planet map we found ourselves more lost than ever, we weren't looking for anything in particular but in India you'll find all shops of the same type are grouped together, and we found ourselves on stationary street and there aint much cause for rulers and wedding invitations when travelling. We did however get treated to a fight, a typical scene really, a man with a huge bundle of cardboard on his head knocked into a motorcyclist, or vice versa, and all hell broke loose. Now it appears the Indians like nothing more than a good scrap and soon a grown ten deep circled the men and the whole street came to a standstill. Enter whistle blowing, stick wielding police man, who quickly diffuses the situation, not seeming overly concerned about the incident as long as the crowd dispersed. However, with the heat getting to me we jumped in a taxi and got, slowly, whisked through the mayhem back to familiar grounds, and by familiar grounds I mean our rooftop, to catch the last of those precious rays you know. We spent our last evening dining in a slightly less sophisticated joint than Gaylords, they actually let us sit inside (a fact i omitted from the last entry), and then went across to the infamous Leopold's bar (a target of the Mumbai terrorist attacks alongside the Taj hotel, although Leopolds seem a little more proud of their heritage than the Taj, showing off the still prominent bullet holes in the walls with pride). We were shown upstairs to a packed bar and a table which hung precariously next to a 15 feet tumble back down them again, we declined and they managed to shoehorn us into the equally packed restaurant downstairs. We order one of the 3ft beer pitchers which i dully spill half of on the table after a little tap malfunction. We sip away at our final pints and reminisce over the last 3 weeks and my friend comes to the conclusion that this would probably be her last trip to India, I can't understand why!!?

We get up early and catch some morning rays on the roof and say our farewells before my friend embarked on the long journey home and as I say I'll think of her in the pouring rain and cold of England she replies she'll think of me when shes tucked up in her nice cosy, clean, cockroach free bed, touché my friend, touché!

So once again I was left to fend for myself and with my train not departing for Ahmedabad until 10pm I had another day to enjoy Mumbai. My friend being reluctant to spend any time indoors I hit the art galleries and museums. Once again I was confronted by racist entry fees and SHITax at every corner and soon I found myself taking refuge in a Cafe Coffee Day (Indias answer to Starbucks which appear with greater frequency than any Starbucks in Edinburgh, but probably not as frequent as Greggs in Glasgow, that would be hard to top). I wandered away the rest of my day and then headed back to the hotel where they gave me use of a bathroom to freshen up (although i think it may have been used by the staff judging by how many times the handle rattled). I was soon being taken to mumbai Central station, which didn't feel that central after half an hour in the taxi, where I boarded my train, yet again finding myself in sleeper class next to the toilets, more lessons were to be learnt very soon!