Grand Voyages, Great Lies

Soo I figure I’ve been here 10 days in Paraganj.

Everyone in Delhi is waiting for something

where it be flights, visas, passports, friends, a miracle.

Sometimes its all five.

Clearly Nepal and Corbett stole the last of my cynicism which the beauty and dirt of India had chipped away at and diminish…but the waiting in Delhi has seen it all safely back to my door.

The metros here are a miracle amongst the current mud of the main bazaar…they are cleaner then London underground(though without the retro yellow tiles and the history)again they work because their complicated. And with the commonwealth games been held here this summer security is in training….your wiped all over with a metal detector then your bag has to go through the magical machine that can see through cloth, leather, sheep skin and any other material your luggage maybe made out of. So basically its like airport security every time you get the metro, though without the need for your passport. You do however- ever since the bombings in Delhi last year,need your passport for using any internet cafe or hotel.

I went to the Central Secretariat area yesterday….amazed at the cleanliness of the streets and whose colonial majestic buildings were is all their grandeur on the road leading from the presidency towards India gate, was comparable to the Champs Elysees. I walked despited the pavements being empty as most people where on tour buses. Then was taken by rickshaw to Lodhi gardens, a loverly chilled out place with some ancient temple ruins and many gardens of specific species including the inevitable couple who can escape the sin of PDA by hiding in some bushes or on a well placed bench….

A lot in all sights in Delhi are limited to yet more temples, a fort and many a bazaar. All of which I have seen many many and so rather then do the usual, pay to get there, get confused, pay to get in, take a picture and look at stones, in my highly cynical mood I’d rather just come across such sights. Simply wondering and finding is more thrilling then the planning and anticipation no matter how big or small that may be…..I think Ill marry an explorer…I was clearly born in the wrong time, we know too much about the world already, and in my current mood I hate how useful guide books are.

I get the feeling in Delhi sights are made to be sights. Thats tourism. And stopping outside the red fort on my first metro trip with some Brits we declined to go in because off the price and closing time was looming. I suggested I do it another day….but another fort? Have I the energy? The interest? Any enthusiasm? In every city we visited in Rajasthan had an ancient fort…each different though some more magnificent then others, either way it was seriously outdone by those in Rajasthan (land of the kings after all) which were more interesting and impressive then the outside of the not so exciting castle-. Ancient empires Mohgals in particular only interest me to a certain extent because in my mind its too far away to fathom….theres always something at the back of my mind telling me that its a conspiracy…..

When Merav arrived however we day tripped to Chandigarh, 5hrs on a decent train there and back and 5hrs in the city. Which both freaked and amazed. I mean, the shops had doors. There were side walks. The whole city was organized in to blocks, called sectors, so asking to be dropped at sector 17 was like volunteering to enter a horror movie. It reminded me of a quite kind of retail park, except that it was a city. I suppose the fact that the city had been destroyed and rebuilt accounted for its modern un-indian feel, but the fact that we were still in India was hard to fathom. The main reason for our visit was the Chandi rock garden. I guy who had used all the industrial waste when the city was destroyed to create a beautiful yet surreal garden on government land. Walls covered in plates and hundreds of statues made from anything; bangles to bottle caps. The whole place had a Gaudi feel to it and we could easily have spent a long time wondering round this still growing park. Concrete structures made to look like trees and mosaic of tigers, miniature palaces and swings placed between Greek columns. Water cascades down a 20ft wall green with moss and slime, while above statues, almost Tim Burton esque stand guard above. This place was popular with Indians who saw the beauty in the place and even met their girlfriends here with flowers on pre-valentine dates.

Met some British guys one night that enforced the stereotype and reminded me why I vowed to marry an Indian tribal chief…‘and the (Indian) boys go on and on and on and on and on and on……’ you can meet so many people in Paraganj, westerners and Indian alike, and I find that theres even nice shop keepers in Delhi who don’t want to blow kisses at you. The attitude to western girls is as such that and 8yr old creepily blew me a kiss in the way that the men did……but hey thats tourism, business. Ive met some nice people as well who haven’t made the attempt to get me to their shops or been in anyway creepy, just interested to talk a little. Ive been subconsciously drinking in groups of people whose home countries ll start with the same letter, one night A’s, the Aussies, Americans, Africa and Austrians, the next night M’s. The only constant being me and cheap gin, as mostly people are celebrating their leaving Delhi. But I’m with the waiting. I’m glad of the people that send drinks to your table at MY bar, where Miss Laura is a regular. ‘...it should be called YOUR bar..‘ Ive clearly been in Delhi far too long, but Miss Katya herself will be here finally if India excepts her and wine shall be drunk.

Old Delhi; 4.45 I arrive at platform ten..and to the right of me is platform nine…

In the early morning-spring into action mind of traveling on a sleeper train -only to be forced to wake up and gather your life you carry suddenly in order to carry on with your journey- my first sensical thought, is where the fuck is platform nine…..I’ve no need for platform nine, I am catching no other train I am at my destination I must conjure up some wits to get me safely to my guest house.. but first as I follow the long queue to the exit I must work out…where the fuck is platform nine? I need to know it exists.

In a magically (and Harry Potter inspired) thought it comes to me. I should run headlong into the kiosk-christened coca cola but born only to sell chai- I must throw my self against the wall which grows dirt and maybe possibly I will end up on platform nine- possibly it will lead me to a Narnia away from the bustle and stress I’m encountering. I am in my place of choice, I have reason and take delight to be in Delhi, there’s beauty in the dirt, but maybe just maybe this kiosk will be a portal to a different sort of magical land…

The reality of the now is  I’m sat in a cafe next door to my windows-of-cardboard guest house now…where in another universe leaning against the kiosk with confidence (an a sprinkling of magical genes) a Laura is running through a forested island, around lakes and mangroves and to one side a is the ocean, to the other a vineyard before snow capped mountains….

The snow haired French woman has moved on from her one way conversation with two unnoticeables, in which she was discussing her views on smoking and its need for solitude not socialization….shes now expressing her views on sex rather loudly and while using the cliché ‘oh la la’ a dozen times she condoms casual lovers an links this somewhat tangently to Indians and their life in a dreamy world of no reality….I’d take great pleasure in discussing such points with her and no doubt provoking her into even more passionate hand waving outbursts- however I don’t think she needs any encouragement, plus its all a bit heavy for 10am…I’ve had a long night and before I indulged in any such sport, I’d need a drink.

I sip my non Irish nescafe and dream of Rome, good espresso, tobacco and wine, and being reunited with many of my friends old and new. I scratch the mosquito ravished skin on my foot (the only part of me that was exposed to open air on the train ride sleep) and I should really go and phone my bank so that I have more then one pound fifty in cash in this crazy country. However, coffee first.

The Damsel(s) in Distress

I’m hungover from drinks the night before with two old men. One a doctor the other a judge, the doctor, a friend of Sumantha’s, was north Indian but has lived in Nolkfork since becoming a general practitioner. He now regards himself as British and a tourist and is very well off as he likes to tell us. The Judge, his friend from Nolkfork, and a typical posh old English man (if you’ll allow me the stereotype) They were drinking whiskey before we got to their cottage at tiger camp. Me, Fred and Sumantha were going out for dinner with them, and I dont think me and Fred could of felt more like escorts accompanying these two drunk men and some comments that were made. Award laughs were a must and consequently we too gulped down the whiskey that was going round. When whiskey is drunk here, it is mostly with water, which I’m getting quite used to. Though at the same time..why water down good scotch?

This is how typically upper class English they were…they had bought Waitrose packaged snacks and nibbles which they laid out on the table during our pre-drinks sesh, while they told us they only shop at Waitrose and even do shopping for their daughters there some times so the poor girls, god forbid don’t have to go to Marks and Spencer or Sainsburys.

They asked us a lot about ourselves- and when we had said as much as we were willing to share without further interigation they exclaimed how they wish their daughters could be more unconventional- their daughters were too lawyers and doctors. Oh Dear, after more talk about ourselves and comments like ‘Your soo interesting you really are’ and ‘My gosh you are intrepid’ and a lot more whiskey we went to the restaurant.

Here we ordered fish and drinks and when the men were done with their talk about how our parents must be really proud and how beautiful we were (and litterally falling asleep at the table) Sumantha drove them home and left an exhausted Fred and me to have some cocktails- finally I could burst into laughter at how ridiculous these men had been…I mean you can blame the alcohol also, but the mixture of their mannerisms,opinions and character were something I hadn’t experienced in a long time…I’d had to go to the bathroom several times to laugh to myself a bit as they brought up such hideous opinions about the real world and India. Honestly these guys live on a different planet.

After some Pina-coladas and some swiped chocolate fudge cake we drove into Ramnagar for some Pann and headed bck under the hazy moon to the home stay for bed. (this would be very similar to my last evening, where we would drink in th company of an amazing local forst man who was an expert tiger tracker and new the forests as if they were his own garden- it was an honor to dine with the eccentric 80 something) Nights of Genius no doubt.

So now to another damsel in distress. I was nursing this hangover which had only gotten worse after the whiskey we drunk in the gypsy on the way to get pan (a betel nut treat wrapped in a leaf with all sorts of weird flavors). I returned to my computer at one point in the evening to find Ian needing to talk to be urgently. ‘Kate’s in Bahrain’ I immediately googled the place while waiting for Ian to say more.

Bahrain is a very small country in the Persian gulf east of Saudi Arabia, across the gulf from Iraq. Its bad to be stuck at an airport. But in Bahrain? Its just ridiculous. And being there because you arrived in India and are immediately deported is just a hideous situation.

Kate was in Bahrain of all places because this is where she had caught here connecting flight to Delhi, only to arrive and be immediately sent back from whenst she came. Without even collecting her baggage. She was questioned ect and led round like a strange dog to different people without being told what was going on so she reported (I’ll get the full story when she returns). Turns out on January 14th a new Indian law was enforced concerning tourist visas. Any tourist on a multiple entry visa who leaves India, must stay OUT of India for 60days. Kate had been back in england 45 of those 60days and so was very quickly deported to Bahrain, where god knows how she managed to keep it together, sort whatever out and then contact her mum and Ian. I can just imagine how she must have been feeling on that flight back to Bahrain. Seething. As I had been when I got ripped off coming back from Nepal.

We hadn’t heard of this law…I had been to Nepal and back and not encountered any problems (apart from the travel agents) I vaguely recall hearing something about such a law in passing from an American but didn’t take much notice as for I assumed it only applied for his nationality as Kate hadn’t been forewarned of this before she left for home, neither had Merav. Neither had Kate been informed of this when she booked her flight back, or at any of the airports of passport control or immigration until she actually reached Delhi. She had to wait what felt like forever in Bahrain to unravel the situation and with no phone or luggage some how manged to contact her mother and actually pay for her own flight home. If we had known it would have saved her the air miles and the stress…and I could of planned on spending longer at the Tiger reserve. When I heard the news that she would be returned to england asap I had already tied up my projects and booked my train to Delhi. Once again I will say- T.I.I, this is India :>

So that leaves me here in limbo while Kate tries to retrieve her luggage, be refunded her plane tickets and appeal to the Indian high consult in London so she can return. I’m waiting for news. Kate will either be here soon or in 2/3 weeks depending on the high consult appeal. If she is indeed a fortnight or more I shall make plans to visit else where for that time..but until I know the verdict here I am making Kate a t-shirt that says ‘I got stranded in Bahrain and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’.