The Road to Bhagsu

Mouse, Monks and Momos

We had a visitor last night, a mouse scrabbling and scratching in the void above our ceiling. It was probably building a nest for the winter. Fortunately it took the hint and scuttled off when I called lights out. 

Today we start to explore McLeod Ganj, the scenic upper settlement of Dharamshala where we're based. This time two years ago we were in Shimla for November's Diwali holiday. But with the "big day" just two days off, here there is none of the frenetic activity, the sales, gaudy street decorations and loud bangs of fireworks let off in the streets. It's very sedate, maybe because this is the stronghold of Tibetan Buddhists in exile. The Dalai Lama lives just down the road from our hotel, though he's away in Japan this week. A Buddhist temple, ringed with heavy prayer wheels set spinning by the faithful, straddles the two main streets of the town. Maroon-robed monks and nuns, individually or in clusters, are much in evidence, some of them slightly incongrously wearing trainers and tapping texts into their cell 'phones. It's Sunday, but local children are in school. Their round smiley Tibetan features are easy to distinguish from other groups of children from elsewhere in India, here on school trips with their teachers. They wear very British-style school uniforms - grey skirts or trousers, white shirts, ties and V-necks, plus badges labelled "monitor" or "librarian". They cluster round, eagerly using their mobiles to take photos of each other standing with us (well, Sara mainly). 

We follow the road to Bhagsu, just glimpsing a sharp snow-covered peak to the north. Bhagsu has an ancient if slightly scruffy Hindu temple where were pay homage to the lingam of Shiva and have our foreheads marked with saffron paste by the priest. There is a natural spring here which is chanelled below the temple into an inviting swimming pool, clean and blue but cold. Beyond the pool we follow a path quite steeply up towards a waterfall and a tumbling stream where monks are washing their robes and draping them over the rocks to dry. We are assailed on the way by a group of crazy young men. They call me Babaji and flirt outrageously with Sara, whose image by now probably beams out of their Facebook pages. 

S is deterred by the final climb, so I continue alone to the waterfall and pool, catching up with the lads. One of them dives into the icy water fully clad, emerges shivering, then realises that he forgot to empty his pockets of cash, keys and 'phone. The cafe by the waterfall says "hookah available" and possibly has Bhangh Lassi (yoghurt flavoured with cannabis - pretty horrid, I've since been told) on the menu, though with S waiting, I can't stay to sample it.

Back to the hotel, where we arrange a fan heater for this evening (extra charge). Later, out for food. Sara orders Chow Chow and I have Momos, which, if you're wondering, are quite like Dim Sin.

Dharamshala, briefly

Up at this hour? Scarcely credible!

The Jammu Mail is slightly rickety and rarely fast, clearly not the pride of Indian Railways. But as a fully-fledged online member of the Indian Railways Fan Club (IRFCA) - www.irfca.com - I must praise it for arriving in Pathankhot on time, despite its fortuitously late departure. We are awarded the "coupe" compartment, the two berth variant of first class, with lockable door, discreet curtains and silent fan. I am not a squeaky fan fan. Despite the excitements of the day, we both manage intermittent sleep, and it is just getting light as we alight at Pathakhot. Note the time on the station clock. In the car park is a taxi office, already open, and we are are soon on speeding our way towards Dharamshala. The road skirts the base of the lower hills with a rugged wall of mountains behind. After about 90 kms, we dart off up a narrow and pot-holed side road with death-defying blind bends and hairpins. Our driver negotiates these with the nonchalance of one assured of his place in paradise. We don't ask "are we nearly there yet?" lest we tempt him to an untruth or give any hint that we'd prefer him to go faster.

Balcony view, south facing

After a two hour drive we arrive at Upper Dharamshala, usually known as McLeod Ganj, and the Annex Hotel. We are in time for breakfast on the rooftop terrace with a backcloth of high peaks to the north and misty valleys below. "Honey porridge", made with recognisable oats and no grit, is delicious. One of the lesser legacies of the Raj, perhaps.We decide to more-or-less stay put in our suite room (separate sitting area, comfy chairs), catch up on sleep and emails, take in the view from our balcony, and watch a bit of telly. Glad we brought our warm coats, though.

McLeod Ganj viewed from the temple roof. As you see, it's built on a very narrow ridge.

We avoid the "craps" bet get into jams

Friday 9 November
The date in the header is the date of posting. I can't find how to change it.
After breakfast, we sort our possessions into "stay" and "go" piles, opting to take most of the clothes to Dharamshala. We travel light by state of mind, not weight of luggage. Then by metro and auto-rickshaw to Hauz Khas in the leafy southern suburbs, the city's lungs. This was on my "faves" list from 2011. Hauz Khas was the capital of Sultan Feroz Shah, Muslim ruler of Delhi, and has substantial remains of his palace, mosque and madresa. His high domed and echoey tomb, in which he still lies, was built in 1350, some thirty years before his death. The site is a maze of secret passages, granite pillars, windows and doorways opening onto sheer drops towards a lake. It's a perfect set for a photo shoot, and we watch a glam model pose for a fragrance advert.

Not the model, just in case you were wondering

Hauz Khas Village, adjacent to the ruins, is an up-market "enclave" of designer boutiqes, art, antiques, and restaurants. Sara buys an old saree. We guess the Sky Restaurant may have rooftop seating and climb several flights of steep steps, emerging on a high veranda with a panormic view over the lake. It is a magical spot, a technicolour version of Salhouse Broad on a hot, still day, with iridescent blue winged birds swooping between trees, white geese honking on the further shore, pea green water, and a couple of boys swimming out for an adventure on a wooded Arthur Ransome island. More prosaically, it's actually a man-made reservoir, dug in 1304. About the same age as the Broads, then. We drink beers (from glasses this time) and lunch, European style. Heading the dessert list on the menu is "craps". Someone has helpfully written in "(shits)", but the waiter doesn't understand the joke. "Craps" comprises various fruits, Nutella, and, to add to the illusion, "wiped cream". Worth a mention in my next talk.

Feeding Faun

Then to Hauz Khas deer park. I note the updated sign advertising the park's "salient featurs" at the entrance. Along with 4317 trees, the park boasts 274 rabbits, updated from 61 last year. Glad they're enjoying themselves in the way rabbits do, though we don't spot any at it. Most of the 210 beautful spotted Bambi deer are feeding just the other side of the fence. They are in fine condition, quite tame, with soft doughy eyes and a few with impressive antlers. Some brilliant peacocks are also pecking at the food, though they have lost most of their tail feathers, we know not how. In need of a loo, we find the posh Balluchi Restaurant, where a sign on the door warns "Arms and ammunition is not allowed inside the restaurant by order Delhi Police." Glad we left ours at home.

It's rush hour again on the metro. Standing room as we enter, but with each station more and more people pile in and we are pushed further into the body of the carriage. When positively the last body is squeezed in, and intending passengers must be left on the platform, the carriage is a near solid mass of humankind. Personal space is not an Indian concept, though you need to be careful where you put your hands for fear of arousing suspicion. You might think that so much compacted mainly male human flesh would be, well, smelly. Not so. The air is surpringly cool and sweet-smelling and the train is shiny and spotless. But how to disembark? A notice forbids pushing on entry and exit, so we ask a young female commuter. "Oh, you must ignore the notice," she giggles, "Just push." Which we do and are finally disgorged onto the platform. Back in Paharganj, a boy is selling peacock-tail fans. So now we know.   

The Jammu Mail. We recover at the hotel, then find an auto rickshaw to convey us to Old Delhi station. We are warned it may take 45 minutes, so leave ourselves 11/2 hours. It will be good to arrive early for a change. But our initial jaunty pace soon slackens, and by the time we reach Old Dehi our rickshaw is wedged in a mass of stationary vehicles, just occasionally luching on by a yard or two then stopping. "Traffic jam," the driver explains, as if we hadn't noticed. The minutes tick by, and we start to grow a little anxious. S leans out and asks someone in another vehicle how far to the station. "Two minutes," he says, and we relax. But when two turns into twenty-two, then forty-two, we remember an observation in the Culture Shock book that well-mannered Indians prefer to tell people what they want to hear rather than the truth. So "yes" often means "no" and "two" can mean.... well, think of a number. Our train departs at 8.10. By 8.10 we are within sight of the station, and at 8.20 we draw into the forecourt and join the queue for the scanner. The Jammu Mail is still showing on the departures board, on platform 5. This, by amazing luck, is the platform opposite the entrance and, yes, the train is still there. We dash across and look for the first class carriage. The whistle has already blown, the doors are still open but the train starts to move. Sara all-but-leaps aboard, I throw the suitcase after her and just manage to heave myself in. Dharamshala here we come.

A Stationary Tale

Smog Attack, announces the Hindustan Times. It's the worst since 1989, but high levels of "particulate matter" will ease today before returning at the week-end. We breakfast on the roof terrace and, for the first time, see the sun and feel its warmth. For breakfast, S has a "half fried egg" and I try the porridge, a glutinous and rather gritty substance which weighs heavily in the stomach.

Main Bazaar Road

A mainly station(ary) day. After breakfast, S takes time out with her book and stays at The Star (View). I walk to New Delhi Station to re-book our "waitlisted" ticket for Pathankhot tomorrow evening. I know from previous experience what this entails, and go armed with pen,  passports (2), cash, and patience. The latter is not shared by my neighbour in the queue, which I join at number 254. My neighbour is an NRI (non-resident Indian) from Birmingham, who is making his first ever visit to his homeland with his wife and two young children. Mr NRI is underwhelmed by much of what he finds. This being my third visit, he says I must be "desensitised". He does not like the queue, which snakes VERY slowly round a labyrinth of seats. Every half hour or so, he re-counts the number of people ahead of us and revises his estimate (@ 20 persons per 25 mins) of when we will be seen. The pace slackens at 1 pm when half the staff leave for lunch. Mr NRI goes to buy water for us both, and magazines to read. The Indian is full of stories of India's "super-rich" - the Diwali parties with "1 lakh cakes" (i.e. costing Rs. 100,000, or about £1200 each) , and the doting grandfather who imported real snow to Delhi to create a "winter wonderland" for his granddaughter's eighth birthday. Mr NRI says Indian Railways needs "one good man at the top" to speed things up. Maybe he sees a job for himself. He leaves me to keep his place while he seeks out supervisors with complains and suggestions, e.g. a ticket system, Tesco deli-style. After over 3 hours, we reach the head of the queue and I am able to book confirmed tickets for my two previously "waitlisted" journeys. My ticket walla is charming. I tell him my great-great-uncle William was the IR engine driver who drove the Prince and Princess of Wales on their Indian tour, at which he smiles sypathetically and offers me a cup of chai.

Measuring up

A late afternoon wander along Main Bazaar Road, where S finds a tailor to make up her jacket and skirt. We take tea on a rooftop terrace. S orders iced tea, but then thinks better of it in case the ice is suspect. Back via the hotel to the Ramakrishna Temple, just in time for evenings prayers. We leave our shoes and squat on opposite sides (women to the left). It's bells (plus drums and gong) and smells, with a slow and sinuous display from the priest who wafts incense, candles and a white fly whisk in front of the life-size image of the guru accompanied by gravelly chanting which some of the congregation join in. The Ramakrishna sect is a sort of Anglican-Hinduism - dignified, controlled, seemly and rather middle-class. This impression is confimed afterwards when we are buttonholed  in the temple shop by an earnest young man who proclaims the virtues of compassion, moderation and quiet reflection.... until he abruptly halts in mid-monologue and says ".... I must be boring you." Which, of course, we vigorously deny but say we need to go and eat.

Time for a beer

Which we do, in another rooftop restaurant. Unusually, we are offered beer, but strictly on condition that it was billed as "masala tea", delivered in a teapot, drunk from tea mugs, and with sugar bowl placed strategically on the table lest anyone should suspect anything fishy, or beery. We also meet Michael, from Germany, a food technologist taking "time out". He has been trekking in Nepal and entered India via Varanasi, which he utterly hated. It may not have helped that he stayed in a guest house next to one of the burning ghats, from which the smoke and incineration smells wafted across the restaurant while eating. He is more relaxed in Delhi but has some forthright views on Indian society, a bit like Mr NRI, in fact.

Travellers' Tales, Richard & Michael

Dephoned again

It's gone 11 before we wake, stagger down to the Khosla for omelettes and chai, then off to do battle with the metro. S is on a high, having received an email from the Guardian saying they're going to use a piece she wrote in Saturday's Family section. She says she wants to shop in the markets for fabrics, so we head to Chandni Chowk and its surrounding maze of teeming alleys. As  we enter the first narrow passage, I am jostled a little too intimately, and a deft hand slips into my pocket and out again. Without me feeling a thing, my UK mobile is gone. Dim tourist loses "smart" 'phone.  I seem to be making a habit of this.  I vowed never to carry around, but did so in case the Grauniad called Sara. Off to find the nearest internet cafe to get contact info to put a bar on the SIM. (Later, there's a sequel to this story, but it's too embarrassing to relate*). Then back to the stalls for fabrics, round one.

It's hard to imagine that Chandni Chowk was once one of the world's great thoroughfares, tree-lined and with an ornamental canal running down the centre until the British filled it in, scene of glittering parades of elephants, imperial durbars and executions. Today it is a dual carriageway, permanently gridlocked with honking vehicles and rickshaws. We watch en elderly gent in a bright pink turban having his ears cleaned with a long metal spatula, decide against the street food until our guts have more immunity, and take a cycle rickshaw towards Jama Masjid mosque. Walking would have been quicker by far, though our rickshaw walla gets a nice turn of speed once we turn past the Red Fort (grey in smog) and head against the traffic, the wrong way up the dual carriageway. But soon we grind to another halt, and decide the walk the last stretch through another the nuts and bolts and blanket markets. 

One of the family

Jama Masjid is India's biggest mosque, built in the 1640s by Shah Jahan (ref. Taj Mahal) and able to accommodate 25,000 prostrate worshippers. As foreigners, we pay Rs. 300 entry (probably what Anglican cathedrals would call a "voluntary donation"), Sara covers her shoulders and I don a Muslim cap (unnecessarily, and I don't get a rebate). We wander across the vast concourse to the pigeon-feeding area, but are approached by a white-robed official who says "Sorry, iss clossed. You must go". "But, we've only just entered," I protest, showing our tickets. "Sorry iss clossed," he repeats, trying to usher us out and waving his stick. Patently, it is not "clossed", and more people, including tourists continue to come in, so we decide to ignore him. But he track our route, bearing down on us at regular intervals repeating his mantra.   

Is this me?

In the great central prayer hall he approaches again and conspiratorially whispers in my ear the word "dollar", which I also ignore. I think they should pay us to come here, as we soon become part of the tourist attraction, approached several times by Indian families and groups of young men to have their photos taken with us. Eventually, we are politely but firmly asked to leave. It is dusk and the faithful are arriving for prayers; indeed, the muezzin's loud call serenades our departure.

A walk through the streets of Chawri Bazaar to the nearest metro station. S is intrigued by the paper-sellers' shops - whole blocks of small shops selling nothing but ornamental paper, invitations, greetings, wrappers, fancy envelopes and so forth. Metro, 6.30 pm. This is rush hour with a vengeance. S says she's never experienced anything like it as we squeeze, or are pushed, into the already full metro carriage. She breaks into hysterical laughter, and soon it seems everyone else is laughing too. "I've never been in such close contact with so many dishy young men," she exclaims, and the laughter erupts again. Friendly people, Indians, apart from pickpockets.

Spice shop, Paharganj

We eat locally and late, but are told off for feeding the street dogs. Then for a wander, finding, among many, a seamstress (for Sara's dress) and a spice shop. Bigger baggage may be required.

* OK, I'll come clean. In my anxiety, I accidentally cause Oli's mobile to be barred rather than mine. This causes him major connectivity issues back in Blighty. Big dose of parental humble pie to swallow.

Return to Delhi: 2012

Return to Delhi

At 1pm, we leave Wymondham on the sweaty airport bus, arrive 5ish at Heathrow 4, eat a modest meal and are already seated on the Air India 777 an hour before departure at 9.30. During the night, S sneaks unobserved into business class to stretch out & I manage a brief doze. First call at IG airport is to replace the lost mobile and SIM (see Nov 15 2011) with an Indian cheapie. The latter involves copious form filling (eg. name of spouse and father's full name), proof of hotel booking, 5 signatures and 2 passport photos (but only modest amounts of cash).

The fast metro line is closed, so we opt for a pre-paid taxi (R. 350) as S is all but dead on her feet, arriving at the old, dustily familiar Surya Plaza Hotel 30 or so minutes later. Our arrival causes some consternation. We are clearly not expected; nor is our explicitly booked balcony room available. I refuse to accept any of the alternatives - windowless black holes in the bowels of the building - so am taken to inspect a couple of other hotels nearby. The first, almost opposite, I reject on account of its single circular bed (and grey sheets). It is unlikely either of us would sleep sharing a 6 ft diameter round padded slab! The second, The Star View, is back on Main Bazaar Road - no balcony, but big double-glazed windows with a commanding view of the action in the street below. Star views it has not. It is a windless day and Delhi is enveloped in a grey miasma of smog so that, even now at 1pm, it seems like dusk. (For anyone who understands, the nitrogen dioxide level is 66 mg. per cu.m.)

Smoggy view from our bedroom window.

I agree to take the Star, so it's back to Surya Plaza to collect the luggage. And Sara, who has fallen so soundly asleep on the reception sofa that I have to vigorously shake her shoulders until she starts awake. Hotel staff watch this spectacle with obvious alarm, no doubt fearing the police interrogations that surely follow when "memsahibs" of a certain age mysteriously "pass away" within minutes of arriving on Indian hotel premises. But all is well. S is soon loaded back into the same taxi and deposited at The Star View, where she sleeps for some hours.

The Star is moderately well-appointed, clean and with comfortable chairs. The bathroom, predictably, has 1. no loo paper (a dirty habit no self-respecting Indian encourages) and 2. the usual bare electrical wires hanging from the wall above the basin. We are well-prepared for 1. This must make us "travellers" rather than tourists. By one definition, a tourist is someone who expects toilet paper to be provided while travellers take their own (squashed flat with the cardboard cylinder removed). The "room boy" is eager to offer his services as a gofa and thus goes for beer and water at inflated prices then hangs back requesting (just in case I might forget) "baksheesh". Eat - inevitably - at the Khosla Cafe, just a few doors down, where the waiter seems to recognise me. Delicious banana lassi (yoghurt drink), eggy rice with sloppy spinach paneer and an attempt at a Spanish omelette flattened as if trodden on by the cook. Which perhaps he has. Tonight is American election night, but our room TV won't work. Four years ago, when Obama was first elected, I watched the results come in through the night on Tanzanian TV.