Xian to Xiahe

I am not a fan of gambling, so I don’t buy lottery tickets or enter competitions based on chance. However, if there is an element of skill involved I am happy to compete. That was the case in a contest run by Air Canada around late 2012- probably celebrating its 75^th birthday. It involved writing a short essay about some place on the Air Canada routes one would like to visit. The prize, or prizes, 750 of them: a free trip to that place. I thought the odds were good. I entered, and I won.

My essay outlined my interest in tracing the Silk Road.

In my most ambitious travel dream I would meander by the most simple method possible the 4500 km of the historic Silk Road, from Luoyang in modern China to the ancient Phoenician city of Tyre on the Mediterranean Sea. I would take the Northern Route, stopping in Xian, site of the capital of the first Chinese Empire and the breathtaking tomb of terracotta soldiers, marvels I have seen second-hand in the museums of Beijing. Then on to the bazaars of Samarkand, to the junction with the southern routes at Merv. I have visited the villages and cultures along the way in my imagination from the time I read about the exploits of Ghengis Khan, a boyhood hero. One of the awe inspiring thrills of travel is standing on the very spot historical characters have stood, viewing scenes that have maybe not changed much, maybe in millennia, reflecting on the momentous events that have intervened, but remembering humbly that even the greatest of human events are but specs on the track of time.

So in September 2013 I began the first leg of such a journey with a flight to Shanghai. I had arranged to join an excursion from X’ian to Kashgar with the renowned British ‘overlander’ firm, Dragoman. ‘Overlander’ in this case means traveling with a small group of people in a roughly converted truck in an intimate relationship with the land. Bumpy roads, local people, modest hotels, rough camping. Real adventure.

In late1988 I made my first visit to Shanghai as the second stop of a trip to organize inter-university cooperation with the Shanghai International Studies University. This was before the Deng Xiaoping economic reforms were showing a visible impact on life in China; and just before Tianamen Square threw the reform process into question. The streets were absolutely clogged with bikes. Train stations housed myriad migrant workers. The few cars, owned by government officials and other members of the elite, were horrible Russian crates based on the 50s-something British Vauxhaul. There were almost no high rises- our Hilton hotel in Beijing was a slap-dab attempt at modernization. Fortunately at that time I stayed in a delightful old French-quarter apartment, a university residence.

A street in the old quarter, still visible underneath the trendy crowd and shiny cars.

Twenty five years later, the difference was night-and-day: Shanghai had become one of the most modern, dynamic cities in the world, a leading design centre.

People’s Park, Shanghai

Extraordinarily progressive architecture, freeways, traffic jams, state-of-the art public transit, a thriving middle class. Again I stayed in a historic sector, an old hotel in the Bund.

The Bund, bordering the Huangpu River, was part of the International Settlement created for Western occupiers as a result of the Opium Wars beginning in the late 1830s.  It became the centre of business, fine hotels and impressive Art Deco architecture. It is also the nightly scene of promenades along the sea wall by thousands of Chinese and tourists. My hotel was 2 minutes from the waterfront, just behind the iconic Peace Hotel.

The iconic Peace Hotel. I think we had a meeting over a glorious dinner atop this hotel in 1988.

My hotel, the Manhatan- not bad for 50 bucks even in windowless rooms.

Night-life on the Nanjing Donglu promenade adjacent to my hotel

Across the river lies the spectacular new commercial and banking area, Pudong , developed from scratch on swampland, featuring amazing architecture and light shows.

Among the many attractions (beyond the bustling people and their shops and restaurants), I singled out the Urban Planning Centre. As head of the Senneville Urban Planning Committee I thought this city of 15 million(?) might provide some lessons for our village of 950…

The centrepiece is a giant scale model of the city, with some interactivity to highlight certain features. The historical narratives were equally impressive. When in Beijing in 2012 I stayed in one of the few remaining humong enclaves, so I was interested in the history of this classical Chinese housing style in Shanghai.

Behind these doors lie modern reconstructions of the humong residence. The humong concept isolates the living area from the street with an entrance room for receiving guests and an internal garden to provide a restful atmosphere.

Another priority was the huge, richly endowed Shanghai Museum. Like its Beijing counterpart, the Museum provides an excellent overview of Chinese history, from stone-age artifacts to dynastic landscape painting.

And then there is the living history in the old quarters and lively markets.

On the way into China and the way back I spent five great days in Shanghai, a city with few if any parallels in the world for creative energy.

Onwards to X’ian

 Late one evening I boarded a sleeper on the overnight train to X’ian.

From time to time I lifted the blind to view the passing scenery- sometimes the centre of cities, sometimes the rough terrain, typically deep-set rivers gouging tablelands. On arriving, noonish, I faced the task of finding the meeting point for the Dragoman group- a hotel in the ‘New City’ some distance from the station according to my rudimentary map. Though there seemed to be a subway system, and I had some information about bus routes, I soon succumbed to the tourist stand-by: a solicitous cab driver. With some empty promises of future business, he got me where I needed to be, a surprising four-star ranch-style hotel with a large Chinese garden. Right away I linked up with a couple of fellow travelers for lunch in an earthy alleyway diner across the street. Kelly and Ariana had already met and done some exploring. They were to become favorite companions for the rest of the trip. After our introductory meeting in the evening, the whole group went to a fancier dumpling joint in the New City for dinner.

We were a diverse bunch: in order above, Graham, semi-retired businessman from Devon; Tom and Janet, retirees from Revelstoke; Ariana from Heidelberg; Marian,  recently widowed, from New Zealand; Susan, a teacher from Collingwood; Kelly, defence contractee from New Jersey; Sandy, government librarian from Washington D.C.; and Dennis, from U.K., our driver/mechanic and husband of our leader Jody, from Toronto and interior BC. Jody and I, the other Dennis, were missing in the group shot.

Jody and Dennis in their office

We also had a Chinese guide, a young woman from Chonqing assigned by a government agency. she’s at the stove in shot below.

The real star of the trip was Aziza, our ‘truck’ (not a ‘bus’: verboten!), my home for the next three weeks. A Mercedes truck frame welded to a bunch of seats custom made by Dragoman, which has something like 60 of them rumbling around the world…

Graham was to be my bunk-mate- but not so on the first night. He was busy trying to track down his luggage that got lost in transit. His airline denied he existed. By accident was assigned another room.  Graham was doing the whole trip to Istanbul as a break from some entrepreneurial business, though his story seemed to change without end. When I left the trip 3 weeks later, he still had not received his luggage, so during my trip he wore a miscellany of borrowed gear. We got a long quite well eventually. Tom and Janet were going to Bishek then to a trek in Nepal (subsequently washed out by monsoon). Kelly was filling loose time because her employer, the US Defence Dept., was completely shut down by one of those political budget battles. Sandy was fulfilling a dream of traveling the Silk Road, about which she had a vast store of knowledge. Marian was traveling to Spain where she had friends and maybe meeting a son there. Dennis and Jody met on a previous Dragoman trip somewhere. Jody, a fascinating person, had managed rock groups and other things before deciding to travel. They, Sandy, and Marian would be on the truck for the next 98 days! Susan? Don’t recall her story- between jobs I think.

XIAN

In 202 BC, Liu Bang, the founding emperor  of the Han dynasty established his capital in Chang’an (X’ian) County; his first palace, Changle Palace (長樂宮, “Perpetual Happiness”) was built across the river from the ruin of the Qin capital. This is traditionally regarded as the founding date of Chang’an. Two years later, Liu Bang built Weiyang Palace (未央宮, “Not-Yet-Halfway Palace”) north of modern Xi’an. Weiyang Palace was the largest palace ever built on Earth, covering 4.8 square kilometres (1,200 acres), which is 6.7 times the size of the current Forbidden City and 11 times the size of the Vatican City.  The original Xi’an city wall was started in 194 BC and took 4 years to finish. Upon completion, the wall measured 25.7 km (15.97 mi) in length and 12 to 16 m (39.37–52.49 ft) in thickness at the base, enclosing an area of 36 km2 (13.90 sq mi). During the Ming dynasty, a new wall was constructed in 1370 and remains intact to this day. The wall measures 11.9 km (7.4 mi) in circumference, 12 m (39.37 ft) in height, and 15 to 18 m (49.21–59.06 ft) in thickness at the base; a moat was also built outside the walls. The new wall and moat would protect a much smaller city of 12 km2 (4.6 sq mi). Since the 1990s, as part of the economic revival of inland China especially for the central and northwest regions, the city of Xi’an has re-emerged as an important cultural, industrial and educational centre of the central-northwest region, with facilities for research and development, national security and China’s space exploration program. Xi’an currently holds sub-provincial status, administering 9 districts and 4 counties. As of 2015 Xi’an has a population of 8,705,600, and the Xi’an-Xianyang metropolitan area has a population of 12.9 million. It is the most populous city in Northwest China, as well as one of the three most populous cities in China. (courtesy Wikipedia)

After dinner Ariana, Kelly and I jumped on a bus for downtown. We rented some bikes atop the huge city wall and wheeled its whole length, 12 km!

Later we wandered the market, picking up some tasty wraps. As we headed for the bus ‘home’, we were mystified by long kite-strings, perhaps two dozen surfaces, suspended in the night sky; I bought a small one.

A wonderfully warm, really memorable night, an excellent start to our trip.

Of course the big attraction in X’ian was the terracotta warriors. Next morning we did a short trip to the Terracotta Warriors tomb. We spent a good part of the day there.

Xi’an is the capital of Shaanxi province in China. It is a sub-provincial city located in the center of the Guanzhong Plain in Northwestern China. One of the oldest cities in China, Xi’an is the oldest of the Four Great Ancient Capitals, having held the position under several of the most important dynasties in Chinese history,including Western Zhou, Qin, Western Han, Sui, and Tang. Xi’an is the starting point of the Silk Road and home to the Terracotta Army of Emperor Qin Shi Huang. Xi’an became a cultural and political centre of China in the 11th century BC with the founding of the Zhou dynasty. The capital of Zhou was established in the twin settlements of Fengjing (丰京) and Haojing, together known as Fenghao, located southwest of contemporary Xi’an. The settlement was also known as Zhōngzhōu to indicate its role as the capital of the vassal states. In 770 BC, the capital was moved to Luoyang due to political unrest. Following the Warring States period, China was unified under the Qin dynasty (221–206 BC) for the first time, with the capital located at Xianyang, just northwest of modern Xi’an. The first emperor of China, Qin Shi Huang ordered the construction of the Terracotta Army and his mausoleum just to the east of Xi’an almost immediately after his ascension to the throne.

The scale and detail of the terra cotta warriors collection are beyond normal imagination. As in the great forts I have visited in India, the amount of resources human and otherwise marshaled for this personal monument is incomprehensible.

Excavation of the site and restoration of the warriors continue, as some of the exhibits show. Apparently there is a second tomb nearby that has not yet been opened by archeologists.

On the Road

X’ian to Zhanghe. The red line marks Aziza’s route; the blue one the trip back by train. As on my next trip, I am the only person with this antiquity, a paper map!

Pingliang

After our visit with the warriors we start our long road trip by heading to Pingliang (near the right edge of map) at the base of Mount Kongtong, one of the holiest mountains in Chinese Taoism. Once past the modern roads around X’ian we are introduced to more typical rural fare, generally very rough, sometimes abruptly ending in construction sites. Generally, the landscape is also rough, low hills interspersed with modest villages and sometimes cultivated fields.

On the outskirts of Pingliang, a piercing shout from the front of Aziza: a small dog is wandering the centre lane. We pull over to rescue the tiny beast, who is soon wrapped in a bath towel, enjoying a few scraps of food. Jody is agog. A mascot. Fortunately when we reach our modest hotel our guide fashions a ‘dog for adoption’ sign’ and a foster family is soon found.

The hotel is decent, though the location is drab, at the crossroads of heavy truck traffic. For breakfast, I scavenge in a row of shops and street vendors across the highway, but for dinner we enjoy a fine hot-pot with lots of interesting vegetables and other things in a fine restaurant nearby.

Next morning we head for Mount Kongtong, and spend a good part of the day hiking up and down its paths. Most of this time I enjoy the company of Ariana, in copacetic conversation. She had just finished an MBA, with a stage in HongKong maybe, celebrating with a trip to southern China and now the same section of the Silk Road as me. She planned to return to Heidelberg to take over her father’s business of manufacturing high-tech tools for opticians.

The mountain scenery, interspersed with Taoist shrines, is spectacular.

A short trip in the afternoon and we enter a large city, Lanzhou, the ‘chaotic capital’ of Gansu.

Our hotel is mediocre, but we wander into the exciting market to sample some delightful wrap-type stuff. Later a few of us- Ariana, Kelly, Marian, Susan, later Graham and Tom and Jane- end up on the patio of a corner bar. On a hot night, we enjoy a few drinks and are joined by ‘Richie’, the apparent owner, a local who had lived in Vancouver or somewhere western. Richie orders more drink on his tab. Kelly butters him up as Jersey girls can do. As the level of hilarity mounts, we point out the great potential of his location, and begin drawing up plans for renovations and massive profits, all but signing a partnership on the fly…

Remarkably, after a few days together we overlanders have already bonded pretty well despite our diversity. Being imprisoned on the bouncy roads probably has something to do with that.

Xiahe

The next section on the road seemed especially long, over narrow roads up the tortuous Daxia river valley, often through construction, past monster cement plants and modest mountains in lower Gansu province bordering Qinghai. We were in fact headed for a particularly deprived area, the Gannan Autonomous Tibetan Prefecture, an enclave centered on the monastery town Xiahe on the lower Tibetan plateau, elevation around 3000 meters. Arriving in the afternoon, we are greeted by a quite fine hotel.

Xiahe itself is quite prosperous, driven by the pilgrimage of Tibetan Buddhists to the Labrang Monastery.

Once settled, we take a tour of the extensive monastery, guided by one of the monks.

The artifacts are quite impressive- and our dialogue on religious issues with our guide is quite lively, led by the lapsed Judaism adherent Kelly.

Graham enters the debate with some rather skeptical views of religion in general, and very pointed questions of our guide. We are lucky we are not struck by a thunderbolt or whatever form punishment takes in Tibetan Buddhism, Our guide does not recant, and we continue through some very rich architecture in an inspiring setting.

Obviously a great deal of devotion and wealth has been lavished on Labrang. However, its residents live on a much lower plane.

Apparently the monks’ living conditions and interpersonal relations do not attain the same aspirational levels as the doctrine.

After a fine dinner, including Tibetan whisky, at the adjacent Lonely Planet Café no less, a few of us- Jody, Marian, Kelly, Ariana, Susan, Grham and I- adjourn to Aziza, where Jody fetches the remains of a bottle of Kyrgistan vodka from the tool box, at the end of which someone brings out a full one of its Georgian counterpart. Both delicious. Things get pretty hilarious. There is a lot of singing and dancing. Marian, one of the funniest persons I have known, begins a campaign to marry her son off to Kelly, a plot that runs through the rest of the trip. Marian is on her way to Spain to visit her friends and maybe meet the son.

Around midnight Graham and I stagger to bed, but the party goes on for a few more hours.

In the morning Graham and I fight off mild hangovers by heading for the ‘Upper Korla”, a meditative path to shrine high up on the surrounding hills. We do not get the route right, so after wandering the steep slopes like goats we find an easy route back to town.

In the afternoon we head out for horseback riding on the grasslands, Mongolia-like rolling hills.

We are in the hands of an expert horseman and his talented apprentices, all brothers I think. The boys are particularly entertaining with their displays of equestrian skill. At one point they have to rescue me after I try to reach down to fetch my camera or something and my horse bolts…

On the way back Ariana discovers she has lost her cellphone, so we have to retrace our steps, happily extending our quite pleasant excursion.

Afterwards Ariana wants to do the Korla, so I, now an expert, lead her over a much more sensible route. Then we have dinner with Kelly, who is still feeling the effects of all that vodka. Adding to her misery, her choice of restaurant is terrible- she retires for the night. So Ariana and I spent a totally delightful evening in conversation over tea at the Lonely Planet.

Next episode: Pingling Caves to the Dunhuang Oasis

 

 

 

 

At the Maejima home in Numazu, Shizuoka-ken, at foot of Fuji, 17 October 2017, after 4 hour bus ride in rain, including long traffic jam in Tokyo. Passing thru Tokyo on a freeway was marvelously impressive: swirling over/underpasses, soaring bridges, astounding architecture.

Makes the Turcott project- a 5-year multi-billion$, project hopelessly tying up Montreal traffic- look like a cow path…

Only surprise on arrival at 10 pm ( 32 hours on road) was Yoshiko’s sister Sonoko aka Anna was not expecting us- she thought we had cancelled the trip! That was my fault because of my great failure 3 days before our departure. Over dinner at home Y(oshiko) asked if I had received the Japan Rail passes, the crucial element in her elaborate itinerary. Ooops, gaping mouth: I had totally forgotten to order them. And they had to be organized before leaving Canada. If we had not been eating with chopsticks I would have been stabbed to death. The look almost did me in anyway. Instantly deep in doghouse  (though the company in our doghouse not bad at all).

Accustomed to recovering from otherwise fatal blunders, in a flash I discovered the passes could be bought in Canada and delivered to a Japanese address. Done. Temporarily out of dogdung pit. Passes would arrive in Numazu by 18^th; we needed them 20th. Spared to see another day…

Fortunately the system comes through. FedEx delivers on 17th, saving my neck or other anatomy.

Meantime, very rainy and cold, worse than Montreal. The Maejima homestead largely unchanged over the 44 years I have been visiting it, a relic from the past in a changing neighborhood, is sadly only of great value to us.

Still like second home.

Like all the Japanese towns and cities we visited, Numazu displays Japan’s considerable wealth in elegant new buildings, modern housing, excellent roads and superb services, though central Numazu is somewhat in decline with the closing of major retail stores like Seibu ( probably went downhill after my two girls, 7 and 9 at the time, goose stepped their Mr. Faulty impression thru the central mall during our visit in 1991).

 

 

Numazu has a marvelous location, at the end of the very large Suruga Bay which frames one side of the Izu peninsula, a relatively pristine area known for its natural beauty, wild monkey colonies, and the site of the U.S. Navy’s attempt to bust open the Japanese market in 1854 (incidentally, an inspiration for the opera Madame Butterfly). On the other side, the iconic Mount Fuji, visible on a clear day from the Numazu sea wall and even from the Maejima homestead.

Numazu’s other claim to fame is its fish market, reputedly one of the best in Japan. Accordingly, the fishing harbour has been developed in recent years into an attractive tourist centre. In the good old days we often enjoyed the freshest sushi possible, delivered by bike from the harbour.

Anyway, we were having fun, walking about town in light drizzle, Sonoko cooking fine meals from rudiments. Yoshiko now had 20 Japanese TV channels for perpetual enlightenment- though to me they suffer excessive sameness. I had The Japan Times, an excellent national paper in English, now with a NYTimes insert.

With some rest we were preparing for our great trek with the train passes.

On day 3 we took advantage of beautiful weather to do a side trip before the main event began. Good practice for disaster mitigation…

On Yoshiko’s advice, we went to Odawara, a large seaside city halfway to Tokyo, intending to visit the graves of her parents. Fortunately we started with an excellent fish

lunch in a charming pub (nomimiya), then started search for the graveside- by asking passers-by, even other tourists, if they knew about a cemetery on a hill somewhere…not quite GPS-quality specifications.

The only clue Yoshiko proffered was the word Belge. A Japanese cemetery with a French name? Not very likely. In fact, correcting for the Japanese tongue (B=V, l=r), I discovered that Vierge is the prominently displayed name of a big department store in Odawara. Probably no graves there…

OK, next clue, ‘On our only visit to the grave me and Sonoko walked along a railway.’ I located a small railway on a map donated by some tourists. We started uphill along small paths towards a raft of shrines and graveyards, inquiring at each one about other possibilities. No luck.

Next clue, ‘ we could see the sea’. More climbing. No good matches among many shrines as we struggled ever higher.

Perhaps it was the altitude, or all the marching, but I started to feel some rumbling below. With the air travel, I had not had a good dump in four days. The rumblings got worse. I had to descend quickly to the train station and the nearest toilet…not quite in time. No solids, but a torrent of pee. Fortunately blue jeans easily disguise a thorough soaking, and they dry quickly. It was nearly dark and time to go home, but I insisted in walking, maybe a bit stiff- legged to Odawara castle to make something out of the afternoon.

By the way, unlike anywhere else in the world, visiting a public toilet in Japan is now a real treat: comforting warm seat, a pile of accessory services like bum spray with drying breeze, a fart-disguising fake-flush. Only problem is the array of controlling buttons are labeled in Japanese only- who knows what might happen if you press any of them.

Back in Numazu we did what we should have done in the first place: ask Sonoko

‘Where is the grave?’

‘In Odawara? No it’s in the next town on the train line’.

Goes a long way to explain why we could not find it. Moral: if you go to a city of a million or more with a search mission, make sure you have better directions than ‘dead people on a hill’. And make sure you don’t come with us.

At the very end of our stay we had time to make a second stab at visiting the grave, this time with some common sense. More about that later.

All Aboard!

On day 4, to begin our rail-pass excursion we got on the Shinkansen (bullet train) without incident. Of course it was raining. After a couple of hours of zooming through the Japanese countryside, passing Nagoya, Kyoto, and Osaka, we arrived in Kobe, site of a world’s fair in the 80s, and a devastating earthquake in 1992. The quake started fires that burned out much of central Kobe, destroyed the main freeway and the Shinkansen tracks. Of course the city has been rebuilt, with strikingly modern architecture, and is still known as a centre of design excellence.

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Through the drizzle we found our lodgings, a ‘guest house’ that Y found on the internet.

We would call it a hostel. As fits the stereotype, it was run by and full of young hip types, no doubt greatly amused by the arrival of two near-octogenarians. In fact the hip-types were still working on the place, so facilities were a bit basic. A new experience for Y, accustomed to first class accommodation (coming later). She was amused by the concept of bunk beds, actually 3 sheets of plywood formed into a box with a pair of mattresses stacked inside. Great location near station, fun and $50 for two. More my style.

We made it through the night, despite other standard feature of hostels: the drunken late-night arrivals flashing on the lights and stomping about at 3 am. Next day, weather better, almost sunny and warmer than Numazu. After a neat working-person lunch

we walked around the harbour area which has been dramatically renewed. Huge luxurious malls, spectacular buildings.

 

Then we got on the ‘city loop’ bus, ostensibly a tour bus that makes a loop through most of the downtown sights( several shopping areas, the old foreign quarter, upscale neighbourhoods etc). You can get on this rather modest bus and stay all day looping around. It turns most of the users are locals going on shopping trips, connecting to trains. But we saw a lot of Kobe without a lot of walking (very difficult for Y whose leg was in bad shape from a jazzercize accident. In one very attractive design shop I found a wheelchair which helped a lot).

Onward by fast train to Kinosaki Onsen,

a mountain resort near the Japan Sea, with 7 big hot springs all of which any hotel guest can use. This time our hotel met Y’s standard rather than mine

 

The town charmingly resembled other Japanese resort towns- it even reminded me of Jasper in the Canadian Rockies.

That’s Y trudging onward on the right…

A special charm was the life-style: hotel guests immediately shed their street garb and don kimonos and flip-flops (nothing else) and parade through the streets between spas. With umbrellas- it was raining.

We visited all 6 spas that were open before and after dinner. Baths quite hot, very pleasant, varied design typically with both indoor and outdoor pools formed with large rocks. Unfortunately segregated so only male bums on view. Sorry, no photos allowed.

Minor social blunder this time- I made the wrong turn from the un-dressing room and nearly went back to the public reception space rather than the bath, au natural. I don’t think I saw a single gaijin here, so I would have been excused as a foreign barbarian…

Yoshiko chose this particular hotel, a smaller one, based on the advertised cuisine. Dinner quite up to spec!

Similarly breakfast the next morning .

This up-scale sojourn reminded me of the really good old days, when Y and I would visit her ultra-Japanese parents and be borne off to an elegant spa somewhere in the mountains (Nikko, Izu) for a relaxing bath and an amazingly luxurious meal with maybe 80 (no kidding) small plates of delicacies among the 4 of us…alas, time passes.

After a bath before breakfast and another afterwards, we were off to Kyoto in midst of a serious typhoon, and a national election, both likely to stir things up. The route took us through low mountains smothered with the typically very intense Japanese foliage, and flanked by now-raging streams. River levels visibly rising. The typhoon threatened up to 500 ml rain and 50m/second winds. Second one in a week!

Kyoto

Kyoto, a city renowned for its beautiful buildings reflecting its central place in the history of Japan.

Even the train station is a design masterwork.

Guess what? It was raining! Nonstop, second straight day, and typhoon not quite arrived. We holed up in the Hana hostel,

5 min from Kyoto station, with beer and snacks to sit out the storm and the election. Back to my life style

This place was more business-like, run by some rather strict women. Not far away, the charming river-side neighborhood of the wonderful K’s Hostel, part of the chain of hostels I stayed in during my 2009 trip.

Our tour of Kyoto started  indoors, in malls, underground walkways and the station itself, quite spectacular. That night Y did not want to venture out in rain so I swam to a trendy resto called Tomato

where I had a fine yakisoba and Sapporo draft, then picked up a load of o-den for Y from a 7-11 on the way back. Soaked despite umbrella. We expected to be wet for next two days.

But no, the weather was better next morning, maybe due to landslide re-election of Abe government… Mix of cloud and bright passages all day ending in warm sun in afternoon, so we took advantage to sightsee. I got us bus passes, about $5, good anywhere on city buses- and there are dozens of lines in a very comprehensive system. Bus meant seeing a lot of city and its people with minimal stress on Y’s bad leg. I thought I might have to do surgery with depanneur chopsticks the night before, but the leg was better by morning.

Anyway, we spent an afternoon on about 25 different buses, wandering about all of central and suburban Kyoto, past most of the renowned shrines and castles. Because we had already visited them all, we stopped at a little known but very ancient shrine on the outskirts.  The typhoon had past through overnight, but it left mementos in the form of many ancient pines around the shrine broken and uprooted.

 

 

 

More adventures

After our bus tour we went back downtown to the station a couple of hours early for our 18:00 train to Kanazawa on the Japan sea. Good thing, because I quickly learned that all trains to Kanazawa had been cancelled due to storm damage.

So- the logical thing to do?

Instead of a 200km trip in straight line between Kyoto and Kanazawa, get on the bullet train back to Tokyo, a 400km trip, then switch to Kanazawa fast train on an undamaged line, another 200km , completing the other two sides of a triangle. Only possible with the enormously pervasive and frequent train system in Japan. And at no cost, with our train passes!

 

We finished that 5 hour gig at 22:30 in Kanazawa. Fortunately we very quickly found the ‘Good Neighbour hostel’ ( or our taxi driver did), close to the station.

So we were soon in a cosy hutch with other rabbits.

 

Quite charming, looks like the whole place was poured in one go into cement forms, then the cement decorated in colourful way.

As usual some fun incidents that day. On one of the Kyoto buses I accidentally turned my change purse upside down, so dozens of coins rolled all over the place. Several pathologically helpful Japanese passengers scrambled about on hands and knees to get them for me. Later, on the bullet to Tokyo, we were sitting behind 10 old guys, looked like a bunch of fishermen returning home. Judging by the load of booze they were downing, more likely the end of a smuggling run.

Anyway, as they got progressively jollier, one says

‘Look, somebody left a watch on the seat behind’

‘Maybe, says another, to save the seat’

Says the first guy, ‘No one leaves an expensive thing to save a seat’

‘But looks cheap to me’ says second guy.

At this point I strained forward to see what they were talking about. ‘Hey, I said, ‘that’s my watch!’

Stupid thing had fallen of when I took off my coat.

Y giggled about that almost as hard as when she offered me the last two of our prunes that she was already chewing…

 

Next day fine weather in this charming town.

Kanazawa Station

Bright sun but cool wind necessitating warm wear. After another delicious breakfast of o-den (healthy winter stew of veggies, tofu and fishcake) from a 7-11 depanneur, I got Y up on a good little bike, and off we went across town to Kanazawa castle. Castle no longer there actually, but some walls and gates reconstructed with exquisite skill to form a lovely park.

We were joined by about 10,000 school kids, all in their yellow caps, swarming like busy bees. Quite impressive. Then we hit very large market, fish and fruit and veggies. Fish part quite extensive, great variety, from 3,000 yen crab to mini fugu fish.

 

We bought a bunch of stuff, maybe 2 doz raw oysters for $4, fried sole, some kinds delicacies favoured by Y. We hauled it all home for lunch in the sun on our patio.

 

Back to rain overnight, but slowly clearing in the morning. However, we decided to move on rather than do more biking. Next stop another onsen, Unazaki, in the foothills of the Japanese Alps near Kurobe, close to the Japan Sea.

Up at 6 am and into the modest hot spring in the hotel- then a sumptuous Japanese buffet breakfast in the hotel,

then immediately off on a comical little train  slowly up a mountain valley, 20 km of fabulous scenery.

At the top, near the snow peaks, I hiked along the river while Y soaked in a mini outdoor hot spring. Just to prove I was really there, here’s a low-tech selfie.

At the end of my hike I joined her in the hot spring ( not literally, the pools were segregated here too). However I was joined by a wizened but athletic geezer who was finishing a couple of days of hiking in the back country. He deserved the rest…

After our baths we went back down the mountain on the minitrain for lunch before getting the bullet to Tokyo. This was our last trip on our passes, thousands of km for $300 each. We really made the passes work (especially the mad trip to Kanazawa via Tokyo which cost us nothing and saved our stay at the Good Neighbours hostel).

Uneventful fast trip on the bullet between Kurobe and Tokyo through largely flat terrain bordered by low mountains.

With some marching we located our next hostel, the Iza Asakusa , on the other side of the river from Asakusa shrine. In contrast to the bright lights and bustle of Asakusa, this side of the river is dead black,  a mix of residential and light industrial- undoubtedly the reason a low-budget hostel can exist there. However, right out the front door, one spectacle: Tokyo Tree, the most recent monster tower in Tokyo.

The Iza Asakusa  is quite cute, full of kids like the others we stayed in.

`

That’s Y, the dim light on the top floor- her in our room, I mean). Y likes the price, maybe less the austerity. The private rooms tend to be on the upper floors so once she gets up there she does not come down easily. Once again she did not want to venture out for dinner, so after some searching I enjoyed a workingman’s meal in no-frills diner in Asakusa- pork liver or something, really tasty.

We had two nights in Tokyo so we dug up some excitement before heading back Numazu. First day, beautiful weather again, bright sun roasting us by 8am. After our basic ‘organic’ breakfast in the hippie house we at some length figured out how to buy a day pass for the metro. Thereafter we wandered about Asakusa shrine, amongst the thousands of worshippers/shoppers. For a nation of hard workers there are a lot of people out on the streets all the time.

Next, passes in hand, we headed out to Ryoguko ,

where the sumo tournament in Tokyo occurs- despite me telling Y that they were not recruiting at the moment.

Inside, an interesting museum following sumo back 400 years (no photos allowed), then lunch in the place that prepares food for the sumo guys ( got to be ready when recruiting does start). Y had a huge piece of fish done with that sweet sort of soy sauce- tasty- and I had a bowl of sashimi direct from tsujiki market, tasty too.

Back on the metro, we went to Kanda station to try to find the book stores I used to haunt. We got this wrong, and on the advice of a passer-by had to get back on the trains to get to another part of the Kanda ward called Jinbocho, which happened to be having a used book fair- hundreds of people pouring over stacks of books on the sidewalk.

We did find a foreign book store I used to visit. Now it has a coffee house and kids books on the main level, but on the upper floor shelves and shelves of dusty collector’s items in English, for example, a history of medieval theatre for 35,000 yen (100 Japanese coffees).

We acquired some lesser treasure- kids’ books and curiously a history of the role of Spitfires and Hurricanes in the Battle of Britain by the famous legless pilot Douglas Bader. Not for everyone, these tomes.

Subsequently, a trip across town to Shibuya, the massive shopping hub, just for a look. Hundreds of trendy young girls all dolled up, just in case.

I noticed curious looks from some of them at this old foreign guy with the trophy wife (hmmmm…what was that competition about, again?). Unlike the trendies searching for the latest fashion, Y sniffed out a ‘dollar’ store. I think she found every one along our entire route.

As always the Japanese affection for English produces some inscrutable signage . This one possibly referred to the ‘scramble-corner’ at Shibuya centre, where the masses wait for the ‘walk’ light then scramble in all directions .

Another sign seemed to anticipate my typical condition, given our excessively vegetal diet.

We beat the unbelievable rush hour on the train, to have a rest before supper. As a surprise I took Y to visit the last place I stayed in Tokyo, on my 2009 trip, the K’s House hostel .

This time I was able to find it in less than 2 hours because I looked it up on Google, and I was not jet- lagged. Y was impressed by K’s superior quality. Maybe she won’t give up on hostels. K’s House is in fact a chain, with maybe 5 locations in 2009, maybe more now. I stayed in the Tokyo, Kyoto and Fuji locations in 2009- they were really great.

That evening we found an earthy local diner, full of lone young working people ending their working day around 8, and grossed out on grilled mackerel and hamburg patty. At the very end I figured out how to get to the metro without a long walk so we had a quiet limp over the Sumida river on 3.5 legs, back to the Iza.

There I indulged in a tasty if ridiculously expensive local microbrew. Tokyo is not a leader in absolutely everything!

Finally, another marathon train day, starting about 8:30am, ending nearly 12 hours later due to train delays (yes, a train-delay in Japan!). Nostalgically we took the ‘Romance Car’ from Shinjuku to Odawara- fittingly for 28 October, our anniversary. When I commuted to Tokyo during my sabbatical year (1980-81), I always tried to take the Romance Car (no particular significance then, other than faster than the Japan Rail milk-train). During our 1991 trip, the girls and I tried to take it, just off the plane and greatly jet-lagged. We missed it and ended up on the slower normal Odawara train. I forgot that the train divided in two at some point, with the front end where we were sitting heading off in another direction. After while I noticed we were off course, so I had to backtrack to the point where the train split, dragging the dozing girls.

This time the Romance Car, our luxury express, was delayed half an hour by signaling problems. However, I was entertained enroute by two really cute identical twins.

Y claimed the father was abusive; he probably had custody for the day. So we were going to seize the twins as a matter of child protection…but we could not complete paperwork before the train stopped. Opportunity missed!

Logistical expert Y decided since the Romance car ended up in Odawara we should mount another search for her parents’ gravesite. This time with better info from Sonoko, including the correct town as starting point. But first we wandered around Odawara, a charming city centre, then went back to the neat nomiya we ate in on first graveyard shift. This time the visit coincided with our 45^th anniversary (45? how is this possible?). I managed to rise to the occasion. While Y burned some cash in another dollar store, I visited a florist and proposed.

No, that was 45 years ago…anyway you have the evidence of good intent and follow through. Y thought the flowers were for Sonoko…

After, we took a short train trip to the small town of Kosu, hiked for about 10 minutes, and behold! More evidence.

Finally we got on the ‘slow’ train to Numazu…not just slow, dead. Stops in every cow town. Oh well, I have seen more of Japan than almost all Japanese, up close. All the while toting a massive load, all you need to do Everest except the oxygen. We started out with absolutely crammed backpacks and repeatedly picked up random stuff. Apparently still short something, Y rifled Numazu station while I chilled out. Too much chill. I needed a hot bath!

Y planned one more excursion, taking Sonoko to an onsen on the nearby Izu Peninsula, something they had done on several previous occasions. However, Sonoko, ailing, was not up to it. On another fine bright morning we jumped on a local bus running around the edge of Suruga Bay, and eventually into the centre of Izu, where I sought out a geology museum I had seen advertised in Numazu harbour.

We found this delightful little museum apparently a local initiative, on the lower floor of an office building in a small town at the end of the IzuHakone train line. It mirrored another really delightful geology museum, also a local tourism development, in another small town, Itoigawa, on the opposite side of Japan on the Japan Sea. In fact, Itoigawa is linked to Numazu in an ominous way by a huge geological fault creating the sort of knee-bend one sees in the middle of a map of Japan. Popular culture contends that ‘The Big One’, a massive earthquake, will occur along this fault some day.

Well, lots of things happened during our eventful two weeks in Japan, but not ‘The Big One’. We’ll have to go back for that…

 

And so began the final lap of our India trek for Pete, Greg and me. Our companions were to continue, most to Goa, one all the way back to Kathmandu. At least that was the plan, though it did not work out that way as we shall hear.

Our route from the Ellora caves cut cross-country, through a largely verdant landscape, with some outcroppings of the persistent Vidhayana range. The roads increasingly improved after we hit the busy freeway after Nasik, having earlier missed a turn on a detour through a dusty hamlet, once again getting jammed sideways in an alley.

A good part of the route passed through impressive expanses of vineyard, whose wares we were able to sample later in the evening.

 

Shortly after a lunch-stop at a roadside fast-food joint, we entered the massive flow of traffic towards Mumbai, a city of some 20 million people. The city soon came into view, and eventually we crossed onto the largest of its islands.

Mumbai has a very long history, beginning as fishing villages of the Koli people scattered over seven islands around a deep harbour, surviving through conquest by a series of minor dynasties, eventually part of the Gujarat Empire in the Mughal period, then granted to the Portuguese Empire in 1534.

Sobering to learn that the seven islands were granted by the Portuguese to Charles II of England in 1661 as part of the dowry of Katherine of Braganza; and six years later leased to the East India Company for 10 pounds a year. (Probably worth more than the 24 beads with which the Dutch purchased Manhattan at about the same time.) It later became the Company’s headquarters. Towards the end of the 18^th century, in a massive land reclamation project, the seven islands were amalgamated into the current large mass which the city occupies

Though we were now on the outskirts, it took us two hours of steady driving to near the centre, with its dense stacks of housing.

 

Finally we reached a landmark, the central train station, near the bottom end of the long island on which most of Mumbai sits…

The Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, formerly known as Victoria Terminus, is the headquarters of the Central Railway and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, in ‘glorious Indo-Saracenic style’.

…and shortly after that, our hotel, even further south, near the very end of the island, in the historic Colaba district…nominally ‘The Supreme Hotel’, though hardly that.

We were pleased to reunite with James, his recovery largely complete, though not helped by his train trip from Udaipur, prostrate on a ceiling-level bunk, compressed further by an even taller fellow traveler.

Once again, Pete and I shared a prison cell up a floor or two. It encouraged getting out to see the sites. Easy to do as we were just off the Shahid Bhagat Singh Road (Colaba Causeway) a main drag, a great location for visiting the heart of the city. Colaba itself is charming, full of life.

After locating sources of vitals (beer, ice cream, etc.) among the surrounding shops, art galleries, restaurants, we got right to it in the nightlife area near the Gateway of India.

We dined rather well at Leopold Café, near the central Regal Circle, of course full of ex-pats. Clare tried one of the wines from the vineyards we had passed, a white. Passable, not to be sought out.

Later we hit a nearby westernish bar for a beer…literally a beer, because the obnoxious manager told us to get lost if we were not ready to order more. I was surprised that the next table was occupied by a gaggle of girls that looked no more than 15.

I think the Booze Brothers sought out a bar or a friend known by Steve from a previous visit, with usual outcome. Not sure what the rest did. With only one night in the city I opted for a Bollywood movie at the historic Regal Cinema.

As expected, a tear-jerking romance, but surprisingly featuring adultery as a central part of the plot. Not enough singing and dancing. The other surprising thing was after about an hour the film stopped and a bizarre message informed us that during this break we were to go to the lobby but were not allowed to leave the cinema, could be searched etc. Actually the ID check and search did not happen and the story resumed after 20 minutes. Further surprise, the bloody thing went on to after 1am so I had to take a metered taxi back to the hotel at about 10x normal rate…

Fortunately, Pete has the habit of sleeping totally covered in blankets, so I don’t think I woke him. In fact it was usually hard to tell if he was still alive under there.

Again, with only one day to see Mumbai I had to focus my effort. Some others went on the slum tour which apparently was a very impressive view of the way the slum residents have organized their own lives to some degree. Some went on the Bollywood studio trip which I believe was disappointing.

Me, I set off to capture as much as I could, starting with the more famous sites.

 

The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, scene of one of the horrid terrorist attacks in July 2006. Back in shape. Some of the group enjoyed a fabulous ‘tea’ there, more like a royal brunch. I dallied in a nearby shop, newly opened, that had a marvelous collection of glassware and other decorations.

The Gate of India on the inner harbour, planned for the arrival of King George V in 1911 but not completed until 23 years later. More significantly, as an exit for the last British regiment at India’s independence in 1947.

On the ocean side of Colaba, a landing point for fishermen. Many of them lived in rambling shacks here in the shadow of luxury high-rises.

Central Station lobby, not too busy at mid-morning. In the August 2017 floods, the commuter tracks out of here were filled with water up to and above the level of the platforms. Commuters blandly waited ankle deep in the muddy torrent.

North of the train station, tangled little streets packed with small shops, restaurants, other businesses, topped with residences. Blazing sun of course, around 30 C.

Closeup on the locals. I discovered these apparently random cows are typically owned by local people, often branded with special marks. This one was bound to the lady squatting in front of it.

By chance, looking for some art galleries, I stumbled into the Persian market. It turns out Mumbai is home to the world’s largest surviving Parsis community, Zoroastrians who escaped persecution by Muslims invading Iran in the 10^th century. Really lively, full of wonderful fabrics and rock-bottom prices. I got some stuff there.

I did find a few art galleries later, lodged in some upscale buildings. One happened to be hosting a new show by a young artist. I happened to hit it the day after its opening.

On hand, the artisit, a Gupta no less, probably a scion of a prominent family, maybe a descendant of the ancient Gupta Empire in this area…

 

Charming work, I thought it mindful of the romantic landscapes of the Canadian Group of Seven, which I recommended to Sonu.

Mumbai is a treasure chest of architectural gems, mixing colonial and art deco styles in a range of residential forms…

 

For lunch I sought out a place recommended by a guidebook (not Lonely Planet, the other one) for Mumbai’s banner dish, Bombay Duck: not actually duck at all, rather a fish dish.

Pradeep Gomantak Bhojnayala Restaurant

It was really hard to find, a small slot in a commercial building, just a few industrial tables with a few laid-back patrons and staff. As I sat down, a young guy across the aisle offered advice. I took it and the bunch of really interesting dishes he recommended, including of course the ‘duck’. It turned out he claimed to be a floor-worker on the NY stock exchange on holiday back home. I had no grounds to challenge his story…we had a fine conversation and I had a fine meal.

Afterwards, back on the architectural tour: a fascinating range of public buildings, largely from the Victorian era, again a mix of colonial and art deco styles.

Prominently, libraries. Apparently members of the Sassoon Library lounge in the afternoon heat on planters’ chairs on the upper balcony. Did not spot them.

Lots of sculpted architectural detail.

It was a relief in the heat to find a spur from the main drag lined with shade.

This one led to the large central park where by chance a major cricket match was underway. Mumbai apparently is one of the least-green major cities in the world. This was not so noticeable because there was a lot of green on the highway coming in, and Colaba, as one of the oldest and wealthier sections of the city, did have more greenery.

 

Mumbai marked departure for Pete, Greg and I, but the entry for a new group of 6 or so new people, a real mixed bag, some older ladies, a 30ish Scandinavian of some sort, an older guy who was taking my place with Pete until Pete left the next day. My first impressions were underwhelming- but who knows. For sure no match for the peerless clan on the Nepal leg.

Most of us went out for dinner that night, a short distance northwest by tut-tut to a newly opened fish place, quite modern décor. Once again, a great mob of young men, elegantly dressed, ostensibly providing service, but all over the place and yet nowhere, so meals arrived quite haphazardly. I don’t remember what I had but my meal and the others were quite good.

 

Around 10:30 Greg and I took a cab arranged by James to take us to the airport for 750 rupees, a very modest sum. Traffic was quite light on a sultry night, we arrived well in time for our flights- Greg around 1am, me around 4am. I paid off the driver with a couple of 500 rupee notes, just about the last cash we had, alarming Greg who thought I was too generous. What we did not know was that Prime Minister Modi had that very night declared that 500 and 1000 rupee notes were no longer legal tender, in an attempt to halt India’s undergound economy. If the taxi driver had known that, Greg and I would still be sitting in the Mumbai airport, as charming as it is.

 

There were a couple of other things Greg and I did not know as we winged west. One was that the India trek for Doug and Mike was to end too, in the near future. Doug’s patience with Mike’s persistent aggressive behaviour and drunkenness finally ended in a punch that floored Mike in the Supreme lobby. I can imagine it, a tubby body splayed on the floor, horror on the older ladies faces, the lethargic Supreme staff suddenly coming to life.

I don’t know the details of Mike’s banishment, after Goa, apparently due to his aggressions against Ian and Marilyn, two people least likely to provoke any aggro.

And I  don’t know if that was the last idiosyncratic event on Ali and James’ inaugural Dragoman trip together. Hard to imagine what else could happen…

The other unknown I discovered in Amsterdam. After an uneventful flight from Mumbai I was groggily looking for my connecting flight through Iceland on WOW Air (yes, I do not kid) when I passed a young lady with a mike and TV cameraman who asked “Are you American?”. “No” I answered and scurried on- then turned back thinking she must be interested in responses to the US election, which played out while I was in the air.

“Do you have some news about the election?” I said.

“What!!”, she exclaimed “ you haven’t heard? It’s Trump.”

Staggered, all I could say was “A triumph of evil over good”. I can only imagine how Greg the active Democratic politico thought when he heard the news in Paris…I later offered him asylum in Canada.

We all know how that shocker is turning out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My map for the route to Mandu in the last blog, “On the Road to Mandu-Olé” erred in heading us to Mandsaur (sounds like a type of dinosaur) instead of much farther south, past Indore. I stand corrected.

From Mandu to the Ajanta caves.

As well, I not-surprisingly forgot the unmemorable wild-camp in the parking lot of an isolated motel, somewhere north of Indore, before we reached Mandu. No photos to remind me. We were on a pretty bad stretch of road, so pulling off anywhere was some relief. Some of the group opted for the hotel rooms (about $24 each as I recall). The rest of us set up our tents on a thin patch of grass in the motel’s front lawn. Before bed our cook drummed up dinner, around a campfire built with some of our scrap wood. I recall now there was a really rowdy bunch of Indian men, celebrating something, maybe a bachelor shower or business deal, long into the night, and in increasing degree of undress. Fortunately there were decent toilets in the gloomy heart of the building…

The next night, after Mandu, we camped again, at the reservoir on the Narmada, as related in the previous blog, then headed for the Ajanta Caves, 4 or 5 hours’ drive south, passing scenes of local life in more of that flat, dry landscape-

-nonetheless suitable for cotton-pickin’ which we saw a lot of…

 

… eventually rising once again on an outcrop of the Vindhya mountain range.

 

In Ajanta we step further back in Indian history, into the Ajanta caves, carved out of solid rock in a bend of the Vagha River by monks, from the 2^nd century BC (early Buddhist) to the 5^th AD (later Mayahana period). Five of the 29 caves are chaityas or prayer halls, others are virharas or monasteries.

 

 

While all the rock-cutting is astounding and the scultpture sublime, the later caves are even more remarkable for their fresoes, influenced by the classical painting style of the Gupta dynasty which dominated the India sub-continent from the early 4^th to the late 5^th centuries.

 

 

Covering walls and ceilings, the paintings reflected the golden age of Gupta society, in some respects an idyllic period. They portray a range of events, from everyday lives of royal figures to grand military expeditions.

After a long afternoon in the crowded caves we retired to our next ‘wild’ campground- a field behind a grotty gas station.

My tent was about wherein stood to take this picture. First up early in the morning, I crossed the field, climbed over the retaining wall around the gas station to enter its very basic toilet. A bunch of itinerants were camped in the parking lot. Behind us in another field were what looked like a bunch of gypsies, We had some other companions…

…one resembling my daughter’s dog, another an active guy patrolling the whole area and stirring up gang-warfare.

I staggered back to my tent, adrift in thought about who knows what, slipped open the tent flap to confront- a bare foot! Whoa, this is an interesting development…

Ooops, wrong tent, Marilyn’s foot.

Before we hit the road, after breakfast, we of course had to pack. In her new role as driver, mechanic , and team leader Ali had a lot to do.

For example, she was the only person allowed atop the truck. So I lent a hand whenever I could, folding up the tent for her and Archie as they worked on other stuff.

Also before we left our cook wanted a group picture for his collection. We can see why he is not a photographer.

As we traveled further south, the landscape became increasingly verdant.

In the early afternoon we reached the Ellora caves, another of the hundreds of decorated caves throughout India, Unlike the Ajanta caves, carved into a rock cliff, the Ellora caves were amazingly carved topdown. This means every detail had to be planned ahead and carefully measured as work progressed.

I asked the guide if there were any extant planning documents for these masterpieces- but he could not answer. An amazing exercise in 3-dimensional planning, long befoore Autocad!

At Ellora our journey through time in India moves a few hundred years forward from Ajanta. These monasteries, chapels , temples, 34 in all, were carved from a 2km long escarpment by Buddhist AD600-800), Hindu (AD600-900) and Jain (AD600-1000) monks, adorned with intricate designs, sculptures and towers.

 

Elephants were a frequent theme…

 

as were stories of major battles or other events.

Pete framed in broad daylight

and by dueling cameras.

Most of these photos come from the colossal Kailasa Temple, the worlds largest monolithic sculpture.

wrought by some 7000 labourers chipping out 200,000 tons of rock over a period of 150 years. The site is interpreted as the renaissance of Hinduism under the Chalukya and Rashtrkuts dynasties and a brief resurgence of Jainism, overshadowing Buddhism. However, the broad overlap in time indicates a long period of religious tolerance.

After once again struggling through dense holiday crowds and a surfeit of spectacular images, we retired to camp, this time a little less ‘wild’- the park-like lawn of the Kailasa Hotel (not the temple), a rather elegant place with a quite good cafeteria and cute modern cabins. Once again some of us took advantage of cheap hotel rooms (in a more modest block rather than the cabins), and the rest pitched tent.

 

Once again we had local companions.

Needless to say, another night of Kingfisher-fed chatter around the (virtual) campfire followed dinner.

I toyed with the idea of hitching a cab to nearby Aurangabad, famed only as the capital of the last Mughal emperor, Aurangzeb (great name), from 1653 to 1707. Some of his monuments  are apparently impressive, and we were told there was a great market for fabrics and clothing in the somewhat declined city. However the main reason to consider the jaunt was to take the train from there to Mumbai, instead of staying  at Ellora overnight and spending the next day on the truck going to Mumbai. That would have given me two days in Mumbai instead of one.

In the end  I opted for a last night of camping and a last day of bouncing about the bad roads…how could I resist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a few glorious days in Udaipur, we bounced thru the early-morning streets in tuk-tuks to rejoin the truck, which could not negotiate the narrow streets in the old city. We had parked it beside another lake downriver.

After leaving Udaipur for Mandu we basically traveled upriver, through the cachment basin of the Berach river system, before suddenly starting to rise quite sharply on the Vindhya mountain range. The terrain surrounding Mandu is itself quite spectacular, huge high mesas carved by deep, steep valleys of the Narmada river.

 

As the narrow road wound over the mesas we began to glimpse signs of a significant civilization: long walls in black stone, massive gates on the road, traces of buildings.

This really impressive scenery suggested that we were approaching Mandu, a high mesa fortified with a long wall enclosing something like 64 sq.km..

About Mandu:

 Mandu was founded as a fortress and retreat in the early 15th Century CE by [Dilawar Khan and his successors of] the Paramala Dynasty, a rajputish kingdom that ruled over much of the modern-day Malwa region of central Inda. It was conquered in 1304 by the Muslim rulers of Delhi [the Sultan Ala-ud-din, of the Turkish Khalji Dynasty ]. After the victory of the Mughals [Babur], in the early 16th Century in Delhi, the Afghan chieftain of Mandu, Baz Bahadur, fled Mandu instead of facing the Mughal army. It was taken by the Maratha Dynasty in 1732, and was mostly abandoned when they moved their capital to the city of Dhar. [modified Dragoman notes]

The royal enclave, the Jahaz Mahal or ‘ship palace’, which appears to float on the lake-like tank.

The scale of Mandu is quite remarkable, in all its aspects. Remarkable as well that this massive capital could be abandoned almost overnight and left empty til the modern era of tourism.

Mandu was once known as “the city of joy”. Today the atmosphere is more oneof mystery and romance. The views from the fort are quite stunning, and it’s a great spot to take in the vistas of the vast plains below – and if you find EchoPoint, when you clap you’ll be able to hear the sound you make echoing all theway down the valley. (Dragoman notes)

Much of the ancient capital is in ruin, but traces of extraordinary stonework remain.

 

And in some cases derelict Denizens persist as well.

Some areas, carved from different types of rock, are better preserved,

including a bath in the royal quarters,

and a pool for the members of the harem, reputedly the ‘home’ of 10,000 concubines under a sultan in the late 15^th century . (gee, that would keep a guy busy)

and a cupola perhaps intended for Ali’s yoga exercises. Maybe not.

And a warm surface to let sleeping dogs lie.

At Mandu we were able to meander the lower levels of the citadel, to experience the complexity of the structure and imagine what life in it was like. Once again, the scale of Mandu, its walls, its fortifications, its palaces, overwhelms the visitor, reflecting an enormous concentration of wealth and untold human labour. And this is but one of dozens of similar tribal principalities that dotted the Indian subcontinent at the time. It is only in very recent times that a form of national government in India has started to focus the accumulation of wealth on projects of broader public good.

After a tea break- the blower on the right of the shot was used by our tea-man to stoke the fire under the kettle…

…we moved on to a series of shrines.

First, the Jama Masjid Mosque, modeled on the great mosque of Damascus. At the back of this grand courtyard lay a large hall…

…for the sunltan to hold court , from a pulpit under a central dome.

Speaking from the pulpit, one could be heard throughout the great hall.

Ornate cubicles accommodated the raj’s attending officials.

Part of the complex held a mausoleum for Hoshang Shah, (Alp Khan, 1406-35, son of Dilawar Khan), the first formally appointed Muslim ‘king’ of Mandu – the tomb itself is India’s first marble building and one of the most refined examples of Afghan-syle architecture in the country.

 

Further on, a ruined shrine, surrounded by its more contemporary neighbours.

 

Including a distant relative of my dog Bingo, a bit thinner due to his vegetarian diet…

After working so hard at being bedazzled, we lunched,

and took away a really curious fruit, sort of like breadfruit but crunchier. Not enormously popular.

Back on the road, we descended through the dominating mesas, past locals at work and play, over a massive river, probably the Narmada.

 

Back on flat terrain until we reached the reservoir of the Kharwand dam, where we were to ‘wild camp’. We wandered through a lot of dry fields to reach the edge of the lake. Nonetheless, we were hardly in the ‘wild’, for we were greeted by a small crowd.

Our hosts lived not too far away. When not summoned by distant voices, they swelled and shrank in numbers, and varied over decades in age. We engaged them in various activities. Not sure what this one was.

We soon had a compfy camp, complete with a cook we had picked up on the way from Udaipur.

Mike and I made several attempts to get to the water for a swim, but we were thwarted by dense reeds. The water looked clean, but very shallow. It was somebody’s drinking water, so just well we were banned. Instead, as the sun descended,

we chilled-out by building a roaring campfire with the purloined wood

and by downing a punch concocted with an encyclopedia of ingredients also collected on the way from Udaipur: some fine fruit but several types of alcohol including a vile local brandy.

Unfortunately it tasted good, so it quickly disappeared, even a second batch. Eventually most of us passed from the scene, literally and figuratively, except for the Booze Brothers and Doug. Festivities continued around the fire. There was a lot of shouting and carousing and Pete’s Japan story for the 30^th time, but I lost contact until quite late when I was awakened by shouts:

‘he’s passed out, put him in bed’,

‘where?’

‘I think he was in with Dennis’.

I surfaced far enough to screech ‘No!’

With sunrise we discovered that the punch had done its evil work on Doug, As the effects intensified, he broke into Celtic chant, stripped down (we had not brought the woad), danced about the fire, eventually taking some exception to it, beating it to death with a stick. Not giving up easily, the fire lured Doug into its midst, inflicting some nasty cuts and burns.

We dragged the body out of Doug’s tent, and delivered whatever first aid we had at hand.

This must be what Dragoman means by ‘wild camping’.

 

Leaving Jodhpur we traversed the typical flat and dry terrain of Rajasthan for a while.

 

We were supposed to camp on future nights, so  Ali was scanning the roadside for firewood. We came upon a few kilometres where the locals had been cutting a lot of brush, leaving the cuttings in the ditch. We pulled over in the scrub and began harvesting. This led to one of the most comical of our road adventures.

Just as we packed our wooden booty onto the truck a guy appeared on a motorcycle and began remonstrating with the harvesters. It soon became clear that he wanted money for this wood. Ali began bargaining with him. Apparently these cuttings were what the local community planned to use for their daily cooking. In a stalemate, the motorcycle guy got on his phone and contacted the community elders. They found someone who spoke English so a brief discussion followed. And in a few moments we at the mercy of the authorities!

The Authorities

So we drew up our heavy gun: Doug. More bargaining by phone ensued. Doug’s tenacious battling with the Glasgow Council paid off. We narrowly avoided having the truck impounded and the lot of us entombed in the Black Hole of WhereverweWere. Instead, we unloaded the wood- except for two sticks which we were granted as a way of saving face on both sides.

Onward!

Eventually we left the dry plains, heading up some narrowing roads to the Jain Temple of Ranakpur in dense forest populated by a lot of monkeys. The architecture of the shrine is quite impressive. It celebrates the Māru-Gurjara style of Rajasthani architecture, originating in the sixth century in areas marrying the RajasthanI (Maru is the former name of Rajasthan) and Gujarat (Gujara) cultures.

The renowned Jain temple at Ranakpur is dedicated to Tirthankara Rishabhanatha. Dharna Shah, a local Jain businessperson, started construction of the temple in the 15th century following a divine vision. The temple honors Adinath, the first Tirthankar (religious leader) of the present cycle of the Jain ‘wheel of time’ ( called “avasarpiṇī a period of increasing sorrow and immorality”…hmmm) , according to Jain cosmology. The town of Ranakpur and the temple are named after the provincial raj, Rana Kumbha, who supported the construction of the temple.

Light colored marble has been used for the construction of this grand temple which occupies an area of approximately 60 x 62 meters. The temple, with its distinctive domes, shikhara (high towers), turrets and cupolas rises majestically from the slope of a hill. Over 1444 marble pillars, carved in exquisite detail, support the temple. The pillars are all differently carved, … no two pillars are the same. (modified from Wikipedia)

The temple is full of remarkable marble statues, many depicting elephants.

 

The carving is exquisitely elaborate. This looks like a prayer wheel.

Apart from the throngs of tourists and pilgrims, the main occupants are the locals.

Some apparently practicing the Indian art of nail-sitting.

Here we did sample the simple thali meal offered to the masses (for a few rupees in this case). Interacting with the other participants was quite fun.

As we continued we encountered some of the toughest terrain, rising up the steep slopes of the mountain ranges of the massive Deccan Trap forming the Western Ghat Escarpment, some of the oldest rock in India dating back to the primeval Gondwanaland continent.

The drive was complicated by fact that leader James suffered a serious ailment- headache, fever. All the way from Jodhpur he slumped on the back bench of the truck, looking quite stressed.  So Ali did all the driving, round the endless switchbacks. It was really fun to see faces of local macho males  when they saw her in control of our huge truck. Significantly,  Archie filled the co-pilot’s seat, and another role as well, as we shall soon hear.

For some time we traveled narrow switchbacks following a stream up deep canyons…

…eventually reaching the flatlands of the high plateau…

 

…and an entirely different terrain on the highlands…

 

 

…eventually leaving Rajasthan and reaching the Udaipur region.

 

Udaipur, on the shores of Lake Pichola, the lower of the two lakes on the left of this fuzzy topological map, is popularly known as the City of Lakes because of the chain of lakes on the Berach river system, which eventually drains into the Ganges.

Five of the major lakes- Fateh Sagar, Pichola, Swaroop Sagar, Rangsagar and Doodh Talai, are covered by a restoration project of the National Lake Conservation Plan (NLCP) of the Government of India.

Udaipur was founded in 1559 by Maharana Udai Singh of the Sisodai rajput, in the fertile circular Girwa Valley to the southwest of Nagda, on the Banas River. The city was established as the new capital of the Mewar kingdom. This area already had a thriving trading town, Ayad, which had served as capital of Mewar in the 10th through 12th centuries. The Girwa region was thus already well-known to Chittaud rulers who moved to it whenever their vulnerable tableland Chittauraurgh (Chittor, about 100km downriver to the west) was threatened with enemy attacks. Maharana Udai Singh II, in the wake of 16th century emergence of artillery warfare, decided during his exile at Kumbhalgarh to move his capital to a more secure location. Ayad was flood-prone, hence he chose the ridge east of Pichola Lake to start his new capital. There he came upon a hermit while hunting in the foothills of the Aravalli Range. The hermit blessed the king and advised him to build a palace on the spot, assuring him it would be well protected. Udai Singh II consequently established a residence on the site in 1553. In November 1567, the Mughal emperor Akbar laid siege to the venerated fort of Chittauraurgh. To protect Udaipur from Mughal attacks, Maharana Udai Singh in 1559 built a six kilometre long city wall, with seven gates. The area within these walls and gates is still known as the old city or the walled city.

As the Mughal empire weakened, the Sisodia rulers, reasserted their independence and recaptured most of Mewar except for Chittor. Udaipur remained the capital of the state, which became a princely state of British India in 1818. Being a mountainous region and unsuitable for heavily armoured Mughal horses, Udaipur remained safe from Mughal influence despite considerable pressure. With independence the Mewar province became part of Rajasthan in 1947. At present, Arvind Singh Mewar is the 76th custodian of the Mewar dynasty.

In any case, in good time we reached our fine hotel, the Supreme ( supreme indeed!)

on the edge of the lake.

From the patio above and to the right of the blue roof we had a superb view of the floating palace, now a hotel where a room can run to thousands of pounds.  We could not get 14 of us into one so we settled for some at the Supreme.

We were in a fine area, near the edge of the water,

surrounded by other upscale hotels…

..a local museum,

several tiny bookstores, and at least one dog

Because we were to stay in Udaipur for 3 days, Ali, now our de-facto leader, took James to the American Hospital not far from our hotel.   I thought we should elect a new co- driver, and that I had the inside track by way of seniority. Turns out there were other qualfiications.

One of the first things I did was visit the museum, an ancient house full of local oddities

Like a collection of puppets, who actually worked in the adjacent theatre where we saw a perfomance

Typical household scenes

including wonderful decoration

 

Artifacts

Musical instruments

Dipictions of typical events like a royal procession

A betrothal

Our hotel lies just below  Udaipur City Palace

which we all visited on a hot and busy morning.

starting in the exterior gardens

guarded by a fierce and untouchable warrior

Needleass to say it was a holiday so the crowds were massive. That’s Steve ahead in the unending queue.

But we wended our way through some glorious chambers of the former regal residence

 

some museum pieces, including a steam-driven fan

and some more palanquins

Fortunately the palace also offered some respite (for us) from the crowds in internal squares and gardens

and fine views of the city and lake

Later, we headed for the narrow alleys of the markets, which Pete and I had already cased…

 

 

Including a parking lot for miscellaneous conveyances…

We did not buy much. However, becoming familiar with the streets helped us find the hospital..and James.

Doug and I visit

On our run down from Jodhpur James had become increasingly sick, extremely tired and headachy. Doctor Doug (Celtic witchcraft) and I (PhD) read some bones we found in the street and diagnosed heat stroke- but the hospital thought James had dengue fever. Prognosis: 8 days rest.

We knew it was the American Hospital because it cost $800 US just to get admitted, $120 a day for the room, and $30 per staff visit. Dengue fever it was.  We figured James must have picked it up during or very first days in India, perhaps in the Treehouse jungle. Dengue is not contagious, spreads by mosquito with an incubation period of 4-10 days. Since he started symptoms more than 10 days previously he probably got a bite in the safari park around 14 Oct. Which suggested the rest of us were safe.

Anyway he was pretty well treated; and we brought him a load of chocolate and other treats. Since the treatment required days of hospital rest, we eventually abandoned James; he was to follow by train to join us almost a week later in Mumbai.

Meantime we selfishly enjoyed some of our best times in Udaipur. Days began and ended on the fabulous rooftop patio of the Supreme Hotel.

The breakfasts were excellent, a grand choice of eggs, bacon ham, even porridge for the homesick, tasty yogourts and fresh fruit salads. We closed the day there with Kingfishers of course, but dined outside, as a group on our final night, and a few of us on a spectacular lakeside patio looking over the water towards our hotel. Really fine food.

As I recall I  had lamb, I think Doug had a steak and risked some local wine with not-so-good results, and Greg had- what else?- birani. I can’t remember who else was with us, maybe Carol. I think Ian and Marilyn were already there at a separate table.

Other parts of our stay also made Udaipur especially memorable. For one thing, in the heat I sought out a pool on the roof of an adjacent hotel where I enjoyed a fine afternoon til sunset.

For copyright reasons I don’t have shots of the English bathing beauties also taking the waters.

The mug shots were alas not taken by the beauties but by hotel staff who interestingly informed me that the hotel hosted the stars of the first Marigold movie when they were shooting nearby.

So they had enlarged photos and autographed movie posters on the walls.

The other big attraction was the supreme Hotel itself. This time Pete and I shared, a modest room virtually in the lobby- I thought maybe we were expected to serve as night-staff and let in the drunks afterhours. We had a narrow view of an alley and lived with its urban orchestra of barking dogs and indigenous disputes. But I spent a lot of time in the lobby talking with half the ownership, two 30-something brothers. For one thing I was continuing my battle with the fraudulent Russian ‘travel agent’, who scarfed my payments, this time for the flight out of Mumbai to Amsterdam, having to rebook thru the hotel.

Doug and I had great long conversations with the half-owner, a lively entrepreneur, about India, its development, world politics (he predicted a Trump victory). He had a memorable summary of the reasons Indians were slow to develop their economy.  I quote: “they don’t give a shit”.

He also had a lovely new pup.

In return for his hospitality I provided him with a good laugh. On the way out to dinner, he looked at my new red shift that I had bought in a Delhi market and exclaimed “That’s a girl’s dress!!”. No, no I said. But as we whistled thru the streets, several groups of young men lounging streetside shouted out “that’s a girl’s dress!!”

Well, I thought it was quite handsome

I think the others I brought home for the lads in the family have been passed to the nearest female…

Udaipur certainly marked yet another highlight in a string of them. I can see myself spending Januaries lounging on that rooftop patio and soaking in the pool.

It also marked the blooming of the dramatic Ali-Archie romance. There was some sort of fuss over Archie trying to get a private room for himself, not sharing with some other guy, though not necessarily not-sharing…Thus began another beyond-the-pale event in a long string of them on this trip: phantom breakdown, driver dengue fever, passenger as co-pilot, on-board romance and eventually fist-fights and premature departures.

Do all Dragoman tours have so much fun?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After Jaiselmer, back on the road to another famous ‘J city’ in Rajasthan, Jodhpur. Sounds like an effete kind of pants…yes indeed, the horsey-set pants, jodpurs, that my mom made me wear, were invented in this city.

On the way, through more typical flat, dry landscape, we made a heart-warming stop at the Sambhali Trust project, another local initiative supported by us Dragoman travelers. The Sambali trust is a charitable project that works for the empowerment of women and girls in Rajasthan, enabling the underprivileged, including Dalits and a few boys, to obtain basic life skills and access to formal education.

The school the Trust operates also trains women in employable skills like sewing. We started this visit with a game in the school yard (which also functions as a garden growing food). We were joined by about 50 kids, who taught us a field version of British Bulldog. A couple of our group members (women of course) ended up winning the game, as the last to survive running the gambit from one side of the field to the other. After the game we were serenaded by the assembled kids. Then we lunched with them.

After lunch, Archie fetched his guitar from the truck and we repaid the serenade with some songs that quite enchanted the kids.

The school in particular is supported by a local businessman-aristocrat who runs an adjacent trades school and donates space for the Trust’s activities. Throughout the trip we discussed poverty and other social issues and the local response to very visible problems, learning from our guides the sometimes conflicting attitudes, for example, to the reality of begging. It was encouraging to not only view but participate in local self-help projects.

As we traveled south, the terrain became increasingly rugged, as we left the flatness of the Thar desert region and reached the edges of a mountain range running north-south for 1600 km. to the bottom of India. The range marks the edge of what’s called the ‘Deccan trap’ one of the largest accumulations of ancient lava flows, covering about 500,000 sq.km. northeast of Mumbai. The mountains block the monsoons from moving inland, creating the lush coastal plain.

India is full of rocks, so it is not surprising that they are put to use, collected in massive quarries and piled up into houses, buildings, walls and forts, sometimes hundreds of km away.

After struggling over sometimes very tough roads through these rock piles we reached the edge of Jodhpur…

…looking for our first ‘homestay’: “we will make our way to our accommodation, rooms that have been set up by local families in their own homes for visitors. We will be splitting up into 2 or 3 small groups for our homestays” (Dragoman notes).

Not quite. In fact we entered a gated community at the foot of the Jodhpur Royal Family Palace, created as a modern suburban development by the local Royal Family’s raj (more about that later).

The community consisted of several modern streets lined with buildings like ours, some not quite completed, some in a distinct style, reflecting very obvious wealth.

Ours belongs to a family of four, probably a professional dad, a son about 12 and a charming girl of 9, plus a coterie of servants, Nepalese I think, all men, with a decent bunkhouse attached to the garage.

We ate well, in the luxurious dining room, or on the wonderful rooftop patio. Our rooms were quite elegant. Greg and I shared, as we often did, alternating between the double bed and the floor.

Our main activity in Jodhpur was a visit to the fort. Built in the late 15th Century CE, the colossal fort of Mehrangarh is the largest in the whole of Rajasthan, and has never been taken by force. The fort complex itself is huge and spreads over thehill looking over Jodhpur – it houses the Maharaja’s Palace as well as a number of temples, extensive gardens and some of the most well-stocked museums and galleries in all of India. (Dragoman notes).

Jodhpur Fort

In fact the main event for most of our fellow travelers was the zip line from the fort’s walls (discernible as a spot in the air on the left in the Jodhpur Fort shot above). Pete and I, the incorrigible nerds, headed directly to the fort instead.

Mehrangarh was started in 1459 by Rao Jodha, raj of the Rathore clan, to move his capital from a less secure site at Mandore, about 9 km. north of this new site, a 400-foot high volcanic outcrop previously known as Marwar. The Rathore clan has a distinguished history, originating in the Pratiharas of Mandavyapura who ruled at Mandore from the 6^th century. In 1395, a Rathore leader, marrying a Pratiharas princess, received the Mandore fort as a dowry. Once a significant force in Rajasthan, the Rathores’ empire has been reduced to forts in Bikaner and Jodhpur.

Apparently, Rao Jodha displaced the sole occupant of the Marwar hill, a hermit, who condemned the site to eternal drought. Jodha supposedly tried to cancell the curse by burying a local alive in the fort’s foundations. Not entirely successful, as drought returns every 3-4 years.

Mehrangarh, the sun-fort, has Sanskrit roots: ‘Mihir’, sun or Sun-deity; ‘garh’, fort.

 

Fortunately we were not visiting the fort on 30 September 2008 when a huge crowd of religious pilgrims panicked at the gates, killing about 250 of them.

No crowd at all this day. Maybe everybody was zip-lining.

We immediately entered the really extensive museum, located on several levels of the massive structure.

I spent about two hours wandering though the galleries.The various levels of the museum were devoted to different art forms, impressive collections too voluminous to reproduce here.

Chariots. This is an Elephant Howdah

Models of various forms of human carriage, from the medieval to this Victorian palanquin (for a royal visit to  Queen Victoria’s Jubilee).

A large collection of 18^th century paintings, largely of heroic scenes.

Suits of armour and weapons.

The palace sits above the topmost gallery.

Fabulous rooms for reception of visitors and relaxation.

Climbing further, one reaches the parapets, with a view of the surrounding terrain, and the town below on the right..

A prominent feature of the town is its blueness. In fact Jodhpur is commonly known as ‘the Blue City’.

Blue City from the fort wall. After spending the whole morning in the fort, I bumped into Pete on the parapets, and we descended into town for, what else, a shopping foray.

Down through the ‘blue light district’ into a maze of narrow streets clogged with cars and bikes and shoppers.

Pete stopped at a miniscule corner shop to try some perfumes as a gift for ‘she who remains behind’. Great stuff, a terrific range of scents. I got one for the spousal unit. Further down the street, in a rather bizarre incident, we encountered, or were encountered by, a guy who claimed he had met us at the homestay. Either that was true or the guy had extraordinary powers. He knew we were into rugs so he dragged us down, down the street, then up, up into what he claimed was the best rug warehouse in all of India (they can’t all be ‘best’). Anyway, in a small loft a well-practiced salesman (they can all be ‘well-practiced’) dragged out endless samples, some extraordinarily beautiful scarves and rugs, especially rugs with mystical deer woven into them. Fortunately I already had my bunch of shawls, dispatched homeward, and a rug bought in Turkey years ago that only me and the dog like, so I did not need another one.

I went out and through a massive throng retraced our steps back to the perfume shop. On the way I was grabbed by another perfume shop guy (more extra sensory perception) and took the opportunity to check his prices. After a monumental struggle through thousands of pedestrians, cars, bikes, even a police van making things worse rather than better, I made it back to the first perfume shop. Where I decided that the other guy had better prices, so back through the throngs to buy another scent and then try to find the rug den. The locals seems exceptionally attentive to foreigners: when I got close the rug denizens waved me in. There in the loft was Pete with a new set of packages, including one of the fine rugs.

We continued down the alleyways to the large open market, Nai Sadak I think.

Here, not surprisingly, we bumped into the zip-line gang, who had done that and the fort as well. They were looking for something to eat. I think Mike wanted fish…

Pete and I grabbed a tuk-tuk to go back to the homestay, to deposit our loot. After a short rest, we thought we should get a bite. By happenstance the lady of the house was heading into town, so we hitched a ride and some advice on restaurants. She dropped us at a very modern place on the main drag, not far from the community’s gate…

…where we had really excellent thalis, and milkshakes, for next to nothing.

Sorry Pete, go ahead.

After a good burp we flagged down another tuk tuk to head for the Umaid Bhawan Palace overlooking our homestay.

The tuk tuk was already occupied by a small family returning from a shopping trip. No matter, white man rules: the driver diverted to the palace. However, we had a fine chat with the rightful occupants, and I suspect we paid most of their fare home.

Umaid Bhawan Palace is one of the largest residences in the world (before Bill Gates etc.). It is the modern seat of the Jodhpur Royal Family, Rathores I presume. I guess the museum crowds made life in the Mehrangarh fort castle difficult…

The Raj opened up part of his home as a museum, apparently did good works like improving local water supply, and started the development of the gated community housing our homestay. The museum had some interesting stuff, was really full of visitors- the real treat was the impressive architecture, like a cathedral.

From this palace we could see our home below. I had heard from the caretaker of an impressive mosque in the community that there was a path to the palace. I mentioned this to Pete, and he, against his better judgment decided to track it down instead of taking the long road down the slope. We could not find any trace, and ended up making a long journey of maybe three km in the wrong direction….the sort of mistake that typically I make.

We were almost barred from re-entering the community by a fiercely protective dad-dog, uncharacteristically filling the mother-role.

Oddly, this dog was the only security on this road into the community. At the other end there were a couple of security guards we had to go through to leave, even to use the (finally!) functional ATM in the elegant shops just outside the gate.

On our last night we had a fine meal on the rooftop patio, and nestled down with a Kingfisher or two awaiting the Divali celebrations. This was the big day, the end of a holiday that seemed to go on forever. I remember our beloved Rekha and Hazel remarking during our Nepal segment that Divali was a highlight of the year for them, in faraway London.

Houses all lit up

The homestay family started things off,  the truck be damned.

Every house around us had its own display. In the near and far distance on all sides there was spectacular bomblasts. From the patio I tried to capture the flowering burst of light (Japanese for fireworks, hanabi, fire-flower). It took dozens of attempts to get the timing right for a few…

Our journey to Divali ends in a blaze of colour.

Getting out of Delhi was easier than getting in. The Delhi landscape is already dry, and as we traveled westward the terrain became increasingly arid, the towns small and dusty.

Not surprising, for we were back in Rajasthan, heading for the massive Thar desert which borders Pakistan.

In Delhi, we lost the two Austrian ladies and the two English girls. But to fill their seats we picked up four newcomers: Ian, seated without guitar; wife Marilyn just over his shoulder; and Claire with brilliant smile with back to wall.

The fourth person is not in that picture, and the official group picture is too fuzzy (shot by guide). But here she is seated next to me (Carol, I suddenly recall).

Ian and Marilyn achieved great success (and wealth) in the IT business, in finance, in The City (London). Jaded, they gave that up and began teaching (Ian) and volunteer work (Marilyn). They were quite interesting, great conversationalists, especially Marilyn. Ian tended to meander with an excessive concern for detail, as might be expected from an IT guru. We talked a lot about all sorts of stuff. They had an interesting relationship, sometimes close, sometimes edgy. Ian often seemed to get things wrong, misjudging her wishes- as in one case Marilyn came to the back of the truck, from her seat in front, to get something from Ian. He said she should read an article he had. She said, OK, later, I’m busy. Fine he said, I was just asking, not trying to run your life or anything, not for me to do that, blah blah blah. Marilyn rolled her eyes and returned forward.

They have a condo in the ski area just north of Montreal which they visit once a year. They said they would give me a call next time. Not yet. Maybe they were traumatized by events after I left the trip…

Claire was a school teacher in suburban London or maybe Reading. In fact she was negotiating by phone a new job on her return from the trip, successfully in the end. Her back story was that a grandfather came from Britain to work on the railways in southern India in early 1900s, married a local. I think her mother was born there. So she was visiting Goa, and perhaps relatives. She has a wonderful smile, very open personality, and a notable ability to keep pace with the Booze Brothers, resulting in escalating attention from Mike.

Carol was in fact a close friend of Marilyn and Ian, persuaded to join the trip, somewhat out of character, I think to bury some sort of trauma. From York as I recall, though not possessing a northern accent. Very quiet but also a charming conversationalist and avid photographer.

Local Housing

Throughout the whole Nepal-India trip I was interested in how people lived, especially outside the towns and cities. Along this stretch to Bikaner and beyond, I was able to catch a few shots of local housing.

Obviously not many trees around. Because forests have long disappeared, most Indian (and Nepalese) housing is poured concrete, usually reinforced. Especially in the countryside, it was common to see homes under construction, one floor lived-in, rebar poking up awaiting a second floor. Usually, older run-down buildings lining the roads, typically on the edge of smaller towns, were constructed loosely in dessicated wood. The buildings above are newer, apparently well kept, probably built by middle class citizens or successful farmers. The lump in the foreground above is a haystack.

This building on the edge of a dusty town appears to be in older concrete. It has seen better days, perhaps even days of wealth or civic importance judging by the now-faded façade.

The sign perhaps conveys an important message…maybe ‘historic site’, or maybe ‘condemned, stay out’.

Similarly this impressive façade suggests this dusty town once housed some more influential souls intent on converting wealth to artistic displays.

By contrast, a fine structure, obviously some sort of modern institution, maybe a sect. We saw a lot of this kind of gated facility, throughout the trip, often private schools with bunches of school buses lined up in the parking lot.

But more typically, really dusty, disheveled villages…

Dust with temple.

and sometimes a bit more green. Ditches and streams were usually bone dry, the monsoon long over by October. The wells on which Indians rely were sometimes visible in settlements.

I was fascinated by the type of structure on the left, a common sight but hard to capture on camera. Very small thatched buildings, always isolated in open ‘fields’. Possibly housing for itinerant farm workers.

Another feature of the modest agricultural scene was the hay transporters- gigantic bags full of hay overwhelming their trailers which are under there somewhere, They trundle down the road at snail’s pace, creating traffic havoc. Woe getting behind one. I think this one, as we were leaving, tipped backwards, lifting the tractor off the ground…

A sustainable recycling machine

We had a very long day, starting at 5:45am, on terrible roads from 10 to 4 through the semi-desert, reaching our hotel in Bikaner at 6:30 pm . I can’t believe Dragoman really checks the route beforehand unless they enjoy torturing clients. The newcomers survived a rough first day mostly by sleeping.

Dragoman does not have much to say about this small town: “Bikaner (1488) is a desert town in north west Rajasthan, protected from the encroaching sands by its high city walls and gates. The atmospheric old town is built out of the same pinky-red sandstone as many of the buildings in nearby Jaipur.” That’s it.

Lonely P. claims it is ‘vibrant, dust swirling’ with a great fort. Many of the hotels are re-purposed older buildings, run by former camel drivers or descendants of Prime Ministers.

This is our hotel, a real classic, very modest but quite pleasant. The food in a fine dining room, was quite good as I recall. The hotel is a relic of better times, as witnessed by some really beautiful decoration. Bikaner for some time would have been an important staging point on the trade route between Delhi and Central Asia, a role ended by Partition and new transportation systems (the roads were probably good by camel standards).

Hallway ceiling. In an adjacent room the walls recorded the great success of a former hotel owner or a local raj, in horse racing, even in British circles. Many of the Bikaner hotels apparently featured this sort of photo gallery celebrating past eminences.

From the balcony of our hotel I caught the neighbours enjoying a quiet evening at home (actually they must have ducked inside at the moment). There seemed to be some celebration with distant fireworks on this very warm night. In the background, fireworks sparkled and crackled.

Speaking of warm, rising very early throughout the trip to get on the road, we had to wait for hot water, sometimes unsuccessfully. Simple reason: someone had to get up long before us to stick some twigs under the water-heater. Here is the one at Bikaner, with the boys in the background.

Just overnight in Bikaner, so in the morning we got back on the road to Jaiselmer. We missed, among other sights, the National Camel Research Centre, home of the British Camel Corps in WWI. Camel research…the mind boggles.

Unfortunately we missed the highway, winding thrugh increasingly narrow streets in old Bikaner…

…to a point where it seems GPS told us to go through this very narrow gate. The locals got into a state about this. Crowds gathered. We got wedged in, barely able to turn around.

Eventually we got back on the road, more of the same on the way to Rats City.

Actually, we headed for the bizarre temple of Karni Mata in Deshnok, dedicated to a medieval-era female ascetic Hindu sage. In this temple, thousands and thousands of sacred rats known as kabbas are revered and worshipped. The legend goes that Karni Mata’s stepson, Laxman, drowned after falling into a pond when trying to take a drink, and Karni Mata convinced Yama, the god of death, to allow him and all of her other male children and descendants to be reincarnated as rats. (Dragoamn notes). Certainly a modest demand upon posterity.

Its architecture interesting in itself

and the sculpture

Wait- these aren’t rats!

Here they are, our hosts, Karni Mata’s descendants, thousands of them. They do indeed run around and over your feet, harmlessly and supposedly auspiciously. I was blessed thus several times

Seemingly clean and healthy, even friendly

Rats City Band. No CDs available.

Rats City elders busy managing while the rats play at their feet.

Later in the afternoon, nearing Jaiselmer, what I took to be a gated residential community. In fact it was a massive army post, perimeter walls going on for several kilometers. Taking a picture risked ending up in solitary for a decade or two.

Jaiselmer, the walls of the fort. The city of Jaisalmer is one of the old Rajput capitals of Rajasthan, dating back to its founding in 1156 CE. Known as the “Golden City’, Jaisalmer is dominated by the old fort, built on a hill which gives it a commanding view over the Thar Desert. Built of beautiful yellow sandstone, the fort’s walls are a tawny beige colour during the day, fading to honey-gold as the sun sets. The monumental walls are ornately designed with imposing parapets and towers at every turn, and covered in intricate stonework. (Dragoamn notes).

The city was founded by Jaisal, a leader of the Bhati Rajput clan, and developed by subsequent generations. Despite battles between the Bhatis, the Mughals and the Rathore rajs of Jodhpur, the clan retained its independent rule through both the Mughal and British empires until relinquishing it at Independence in 1947. An economy initially built on looting, as in most classical regimes in India, eventually turned to lucrative trade as a post on the camel-train routes between India and Central Asia. That trade declined as alternate routes developed along the coast, and ended as Partition in 1947 created Pakistan immediately to the city’s west. However, Partition also reinforced Jaiselmer’s strategic position. Hence the massive army post.

Our hotel, within walking distance of the fort, one of the best on the trip. We arrived in the afternoon, in time for a swim in the super pool. Great architecture. Fine rooms. Excellent food.

The courtyard.

The dining room. We enjoyed a few good soup-lunches in this fine room. There was a rooftop restaurant above, but we were unable to enjoy it because every afternoon a huge busload of school kids from Mumbai flooded the place, swarming the rooftop, filling the pool, running about the hallways etc. Next morning they would be back on the bus. It was interesting to interact with Indian teenagers, and experience their reactions to us heathens.

The fort from our hotel

Our first event in Jaiselmer was a visit to the fort…

Entering by the main gate

into a maze of narrow alleys lined with the homes, hotels, restaurants, businesses, temples of the old city.

“In the old town the havelis (houses of once-important Jaisalmer families) look like small palaces with facades covered in fine carvings and highly-decorated balconies” (Dragoman again)

No kidding, Dragoman!

Marvelous balconies and walls in delicately carved sandstone.

Detail

More detail

More detail including a faded mural

In this case, some of it living

A shrine

Elegant gates leading to sequestered interiors, in this case a hotel.

Another hotel

A gateway to a shrine

A Jain temple.

Another temple, Bhuddist.

The New City, from the parapets. We paused for refreshments atop the fort’s battlements in a miniscule largely open-air restaurant. Archie ordered bacon and eggs. We were there for an hour or so as the chefs sought the ingredients and a recipe.

Afterwards we wandered through the old town outside to a gate on the exterior walls…

…beyond which lay the local ‘tank’, a lake, probably artificial, intended as a reservoir for dry times. Apparently the intensive use of water in the old city within the fort’s walls, as a result of increasing tourism, has undermined the old city’s foundations, causing some sinking.

Along the walls, some stuff for sale. Musical instruments.

Brickbrack.

Here most of our troop decided to take a rickety boat ride on the ‘tank’. A few of us forewent this tame exercise.

I went back into the lively alleyways of the exterior town, in search of among other things, a bank. Part of the great adventure in Jaiselmer was trying to find an operating bank machine. We were not really aware of the burgeoning holiday season, leading up to Divali. Every day of the whole trip seemed to be a holiday. But as the locals prepared for celebrations, the stress on the banking system grew. In Jaiselmer I had tried a couple of bank machines that did not accept my cards. Nothing new. So this day I searched through the alleyways, which were filled with shops and tourists. Looked hopeful. But I noticed a swirling group of local guys also looking for cash, lining up in front of machines in growing numbers. Guys in front of the queue would report that the machine rejected a card, or shut down, or did some other perverse thing. Off we would go, running ever-faster in a small mob to the next machine, through a gate, down an alley, into a bank lobby, across the town to a machine I had tried the night before. At this one, perhaps the 10^th we tried, some guys eeked out some bills. Hope! By this time I was maybe 10^th in the queue, in deadly heat. After maybe 15-20 minutes I at least got into the shade of the ATM lobby. More success, more failure. A few guys gave up so I finally got my mitts on the keyboard. By this time we had collectively learned a few tricks to gain the machine’s confidence. Card accepted. Wheeuw! Type in code. Good! Specify an amount. Fine! Click the GO button…”Unable to complete your request at this time”.

At this point I was not desperate for cash. In Delhi I had cashed the last of my almost useless Am Express tavellers’ cheques, at considerable loss and inconvenience, in a backroom process worthy of s spy thriller. As it turned out, we did not hit a working ATM until Jodhpur, in a wealthy, gated enclave.

Desert Camping

Our last adventure in Jaiselmer was a camel hike and camping in the desert 40km outside the town. We drove in jeeps through increasingly barren land, past occasional villages and desert resorts, then mounted a gang of camels.

Into the sands…

Mike and I take the lead.

Mike.

Doug in front of the rest of the train. The great camel trek only lasted about 30 minutes, a circle through scrubland. Some were disappointed. I was surprised by good humour of camels, especially my Mike; and the comfort of the ride. I could have ridden on to Afghanistan.

Dunes as the sun sets

Sand between us and Pakistan. What we saw of the massive Thar desert was much the same as I saw crossing the Taklaman in China: flat scrubland and gravel rather than towering dunes. We camped among the dunes here.

Sand shadows

Pete against the sky

A UFO? Pakistani drone?

No. What do you do in the desert? Play frisbe of course

Desert dwellings, thatch and rock construction, like the ones seen all along the highways. These in mid-desert.

Local gypsies. This woman and her baby appeared from a distant camp, sat among us for a long time, in search of alms of course. We did not oblige. It is sad that these people suffer discrimination and ostrasization world-wide. We did not help here, but we did collectively contribute to a couple of social support programs during the trip.

Very beautiful gypsy. She came and sat like this with us for maybe an hour, quietly. Contemplating a better life? Fermi’s paradox? Maybe not.

Camp at sunset. Though we were in the middle of nowhere, a few words to our jeep drivers-cooks and they soon appeared with a boat load of beer, with the usual results.

Front line of Pakistani border defence.

After dark, our fearless leader James sneaked out his secret supply of fireworks and proceed to terrify us with random blasts and pyrotechnics. I am surprised the huge air base nearby did not send in the drones as border was only 100k away…

Dinner done, the band warms up. This was quite fun. Interesting local music, and these ladies started dancing, enticing us to join in. By this time our inhibitions had largely dissolved.

Eventually half of us rolled out our bedrolls at a comfortable distance from the fire and the raucous other half. After some star gazing, I passed out- to be awakened sometime later by Mike staggering outward for a pee. Too close. I think I yelled something before he washed away the dune and me with it.

Early morning. Despite the ruckus, we had a beautiful night sleeping under the stars which of course are very bright and super- numerous here- and different because we are close to equator.

Sunrise

The morning after

Our cooks at work

Rehab over breakfast

Camels on the horizon

Some plantlife

…but sand all the way to the Pakistani border and beyond.

After breakfast we broke camp, such as it was, and headed back to Jaiselmer.

On our last night we dined together in a terraced restaurant overlooking the walls of the fort, under a bright moon.

The restaurant had a fine waiting room, to which we were led after our meal to pay a shady looking cashier surrounded by assistants (bodyguards? accountants? policemen?)

The atmosphere and the food were both excellent. The company, the same: Greg immediately right, then Marilyn, Steve, Claire, James. Only Pete visible on the other side of the table.

Jaiselmer was one of our best stays, with its excellent hotel and remarkable fort-city. Continuing a pattern, it seemed that every fine stay was exceeded by the following one.

Next day we headed out to another J-city, Jodhpur.

After breakfast we left our wonderful Bissau Palace hotel in Jaipur for Delhi.

The City of Delhi Before the Siege – The Illustrated London News Jan 16, 1858. The Red Fort (far left) and the Masjid-i-Jahan Numa Mosque (centre) are clearly visible.

The Delhi area has been continuously inhabited since at least the 6th century BCE and has served as the a capital of various kingdoms and empires throughout the last three millennia, most prominently for the Afghan and Turkic Sultanates of the medieval period, and the Mughal Empire between the 16th and 18thCenturies. The city was taken by British colonial forces in 1858 and made the capital in 1911, a status which remained until India gained its independence in1947. (Dragoman notes).

Started well with best road yet, but 60km out of Delhi we started to hit jams- the first lasted 30 plus minutes, caused by sudden disappearance of road.

Delhi coming soon…

Getting closer…

Still closer.

And we’re there! When we got to the edge of Delhi another hour of jam largely caused by nonfunctional stop lights . Even where they were functioning in some retarded manner, local drivers avoided the long wait by turning against the light, right or left, onto the crossroad then turning again to continue their trip. We did not try it.

Crazy traffic for a Saturday afternoon. This is a block from our destination, in front of the restaurant where we ate first night. Typical of the places where we ate as a group, full of foreigners, looking more like expatriate workers than tourists. Good food. I had an excellent chicken Jafreeza, tomato sauce with diced tomato, onion, peppers and excellent spicing.

Karol Bagh market, adjacent to Metro station of that name and our hotel

Near our hotel on the edge of the local market

Our comfy hotel, The Florence Inn, in a busy market area adjacent to the Karol Bagh Metro station, quite close to the centre of the massive Metro network.

Maybe reminiscing about Florence, our hotel featured a lot of fine marble and detailed décor.

First night a bunch of the boys- the Booze Brothers and a couple of the less-committed- set off for Connaught Place, two concentric circles of buildings around a central park in the middle of Delhi.

This is the inner circle, ringed with upscale shops, restaurants and bars. We- Doug, Archie,Mike, Steve and me- stopped in one fancy bar, a flight of stairs up. Eschewing yet another Kingfisher, Doug and I tried a local wheat beer that was quite good, though pricey

For some reason Mike the Cabbie fixated on having a fish dinner, not something that would leap to mind a thousand km inland in extreme heat. Nonetheless we followed him through a string of random bits of street advice and unsuitable restaurants, to an another upstairs place on the outer circle, looking more Chinese than Indian, that promised fish but probably would have promised anything for the business. Pete the Australian and I, as we were increasingly prone to do, forsook the groupthink and chose to walk around some more before heading back to Karol Bagh, where we had a really delightful Thali dinner, south India style, in a greasy spoon on the street next to our hotel. About $2.50. Turned out the ‘fish restaurant’ did not deliver, so those guys settled for MacDonalds…

Next day we set off by Metro with our guide. One of his most important services was buying the Metro tickets (20-40 cents), a serious challenge even with fancy vending machines…

The extensive Delhi metro network

Morning cool and empty but soon massive crowds, so one hardly had to walk- the crowd carried one along like a leaf.. In the metro it took 20 min in a queue to get tickets (20 cents-40 cents). That’s our guide in the red shirt, white cap.

The trains, Bombardier of course.

Next, a frantic push to get in with the masses, jaw to jaw no breathing allowed. Locals enjoyed our light- hearted approach to this nightmare that they must face daily. And this was Sunday afternoon

Mike and Pete in a catatonic state

In the Chandri Chowk area we enjoyed a casual if crowded stroll through the markets

eventually stopping for lunch at a paratha place. (paratha: a pita-like roti stuffed with your choice- potato, other veg, etc). Typically our guides would lead us to a place where they no doubt received some fee for delivering the ‘punters’. This place, notable for its barely 6-foot ceilings in the upstairs ‘dining room’ turned out pretty decent.

The comprehensive paratha menu. They are about $1.20-30 Cdn each.

We await our parathas from the great variety available from the list on the wall: Mike just off camera on the left, Ali, James, Archie on the wall…

Austrian Mom, and daughter Ariana, guide in background, Doug, English girl Paula, second English girl Polly?, Greg, me, Steve. I had the modli (daikon)  and tamatar (dried tomato) stuffings in my parathas. Quite tasty.

Delhi was the end of the road, literally, for four of the eight people who joined the truck in Chitwan game park: the two English girls and the two Austrians. I must admit it took the nearly two weeks we had spent with this new group to slowly warm to them.

Except for the Austrians, where the warmth was instantaneous. Ariana, recently graduated in environmental sciences in Vienna, had invited her mom (I forgot her name) to join her on this celebratory trip. Afterwards the mom was flying home, but Ariana was flying to Mumbai, then South Africa to begin some sort of work-related internship. Both were delightful travel companions, intelligent conversationalists, much attached to one another, stopping for joint selfies every few feet.

Steve the Canadian from Vancouver, seated across from the Austrians, was repeating a trip he made across India some ten years earlier. He seemed to be retired from something, I thought maybe the military because he had a sort of good-old-boy demeanor. Early on he committed the unforgivable sin of shutting down a Pink Floyd recording to insert his own choices. It turned out he had an in-exhaustible knowledge of pop music. Eventually his charter membership in the Booze Brothers put him under the weather for a long period.

Greg, next to me in his unremovable hat, was from the first moment identified as a tech-nut, lugging a huge back-pack of gear everywhere: selfie sticks, 360 cameras, laptop, cables, converters, etc. He spent most of the travel time napping or on the laptop, apparently running some part of a Democratic election campaign in Seattle. He had trouble with the food, maybe partly for budget reasons, so pretty well every group meal he had birani, usually plain, and relished it like a grand feast. Greg related well to the English girls but alienated male roommates by making what were perceived as fussy demands. As a result in the roommate rotation I spent more time with him because I was not bothered. In fact I grew to quite like him by the time we both left the trip in Mumbai. It turned out he was not enjoying the early stages on the road because he did not like busy cities nor crowds. Why India then? one might ask.

Paula, one of the two English girls,  was taking a break from Greenpeace U.K., of which we heard much. The other English girl, seated across the table (forgot her name too, I will call her Polly. It seemed to me she should be called Polly),  cut from same cloth as Paula, from suburban London was taking a two week break from an internship situation in the social services I think. Very English, somewhat stuffy middle class accent and vocabulary, very civil service. I did not warm immediately to the girls probably due to their very aggressive speaking style, self-assertive rather than conversational. I had forgotten this is typical London, a challenge for us laid-back Canucks.

Young Archie sits at the back left of the previous photo, from the Midlands I think, also celebrating the completion of his undergraduate degree, destined for an investment job in London as I recall. We wondered if he would survive that, as our rather green ‘kid’ member. He had a lot of trouble with the food, ordering eggs and bacon or such whenever he could. Sometimes this meant long waits as a miniscule eatery searched for the ingredients. However, great adventure awaited him further on in the trip, where he bought a guitar to exercise his considerable musical skill, and linked up seriously with our lady driver!

Just out to the left of that photo is Mike, the London Cabbie, a lively, outspoken character, scheduled to be on the trip all the way back to the starting point in Kathmandu, months thence. Apparently well off, maybe on an R & R break or maybe on parole as it turned out later. He had rather extreme political views, so far left as to have come full circle to the extreme right, such that any discussion quickly turned into a rant: “kill the rich!” He immediately became the leader of the Booze Brothers, sometimes with Archie, Doug and Pete, but chiefly with Steve to whom he firmly bonded and always roomed. For the Booze Brothers the first order of business on arrival was locating a source of Kingfisher. As we shall see this eventually spun out of control.

Incidentally, buying drink outside restaurants or bars was becoming more difficult. On one of my scouting trips near our hotel I spotted a very small sign, ‘Cold beer’, on a nondescript warehouse-like building. Inside were some coolers and random guys dispensing a wider range of product than usual (Kingfisher seems to have a near-total beer monopoly in hotels and restaurants).

Pete the Australian must have taken the two above photos, because he is not in them. Pete is in the renovation business, apparently taking an unscheduled break instead of finishing a project, so he spent a lot of time on the phone quelling a riot at home. He is very knowledgeable, knows a few languages, including Japanese. His great grandfather, a German, went to China to escape some sort of imbroglio. There, even more irrationally, he enlisted to help a German expeditionary force fight the Japanese in WWI. Captured, he married a Japanese (why not?), and after the family made various backs and forths to Germany in the early half of the 20^th century, Pete was born in Japan, and lived there until he left at 5. We heard many versions of this story, with some variation, especially as the Kingfisher flowed.

At the outset, two things struck me about these new companions. First, they are professional travelers. They spent many ours relating their adventures in Africa, Latin America, East Asia, floating down rivers, scuba diving, shopping. It seemed that work and the rest of life was but a brief imposition between trips. Actually, that is probably a characteristic of Dragoman travelers. The other thing, ironically, was that they did not pay a lot of attention to the trip, ignoring the passing scene, not attuned to local history, as if the point of traveling was to cross an item off a bucket list rather than really immersing in something new. Perhaps I am too cruel.

Back on the street …

For more markets

some Ready to Wear

the fascinating spice market…

a busy fabric sector.

Then a long climb up a narrow, dingy staircase to view, on one side, the re-purposed British army barracks from the late 19^th century, now a makeshift residence for migrant labourers, some enjoying a very modest day off.

On the other side, a view past the the Masjid-i-Jahan Numa mosque towards the Delhi Red Fort on the far horizon, captured in 1858 by the British at the end of the Great Uprising and used for its garrison thereafter.

Later we visited the Masjid-i-Jahan Numa, commonly known as Jama Masjid, the principal mosque of Old Delhi. Commissioned by the Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan and completed in the year 1656, it is one of the largest and best known mosques in India, accommodating around 25,000 people. Fortunately they were not all there at this time.

A shrine of some kind adjacent to the metro track. Or maybe a UFC arena.

Whaazis?? Appears to be some sort of sacrificial shrine about to devour a whole human. I failed to warn him…

A mosque in old Delhi

And another, neither featured in tourist guides

and a Sikh shrine, one of the most interesting stops on our whole tour

The devout. A colourful scene, a large, lively crowd, throbbing background music:

The musicians…

chanting the same 10 word prayer, repeatedly, probably all day.

A list of the ten most prominent Sikh gurus and outline of Sikh practice.

And in the back, the Sikh kitchen, massive pots of dal and other thali dishes for the masses, 30,000 meals served every day for all comers.

The gates open, we step back to avoid the rush for the next serving.

Then a few hundred meals in perfect discipline and quietude. We did not partake here, but we did much later in a Jain temple on the route to Mumbai.

Then more strolling through the busy markets. Pete and Ali in foreground. We could have spent days here…

English girl Paula, Mike in purple shirt, James

Ali, ‘Polly’, Greg, Archie, Ariana and Steve in front left

Ariana spying something tasty

Next day my good friend Pete the Australian ( next in age at 58) and I headed for handicraft markets, walked miles through some attractive areas, with directions from local boy who was waiting for a high-school cricket tournament to start. I was tempted to join him. However, we eventually found a government handicraft emporium, full of rugs, jewelry, prints, fabrics, clothing, what have you. We were entertained by a very knowledgeable sales guy, perhaps a nuclear scientist moonlighting. Here I got the delightful little costumes for my grand-girls, and a large bunch of tea. Pete, in the early stages of a behavioural pattern, OCD even, spent a long time looking at rugs and fabrics, eventually buying a few as I recall, as a peace offering for the partner managing the renovation crisis at home.

After wandering a bit further through a rather upscale area we hit a string of other shops outside this high rise. The high-rise housed an upscale handicraft shop with fantastic jewelry, ceramics, wooden furniture, gigantic animal sculptures. Enormous prices. We opted for some street vendors in tents. Here I got the very attractive (to me) smock-like shirts for the guys, with some good bargaining. The vendor wanted me to buy some white ones like local guys (and Archie) sported. I preferred the very handsome coloured ones. Turns out that seems to have created a problem, as we shall see much later…

 *    *   *

On our last night we had a farewell dinner for the four people leaving the truck for home in a decent restaurant in the market near the hotel.

I enjoyed our time in Delhi, though it was a change from the heavier historical focus of earlier stops. We did not visit many of the typical sites, like Humayun’s tomb, the Red Fort, the Jantar Mantar observatory, Parliament, the many museums, the outlying historical sites marking Delhi’s previous locations. In fact we had already seen much of the Mughal legacy previously. We would have to spend a week or more to really take in other parts of the city’s story. Instead we largely lived for the moment, among the crowds, on the subway, in the markets and in the restaurants, large and small.

This lady’s relaxed posture reminded me of my dog and the one petrified at Pompei, proving that dog culture is universal. We left her making the best of a hot afternoon.

Let sleeping dogs lie.

We left behind the dazzle of Hotel Dazzle (just joking), heading for Jaipur, the Pink City. Immediately we enter the modern state of Rajasthan, named after the fierce warrior clans, the rajputs, who rose to prominence around the 10^th century with serial conquests of much of India, and persisted in power as vassals through the Mughal and British empires. The origins of the rajputs are in dispute, but they are probably indigenous to the Rajasthan-Gujart region, descended from the distinct Gujara-Pratihara tribes dating perhaps as far back as 500 AD. One rajput ruler appears to have been the first to assume the title maharajadhiraja in 780. Except a brief detour to Delhi, we will be traveling in Rajasthan, through the many J-cities (Jaipur, Jaiselmer, Jodpur) for a couple of weeks.

After a couple of hours on country roads we arrived in Fatepur Sikri, the hill fortress built by the powerful Mughal emperor Akbar, in celebration of the birth of his son Jahangir in the small town of Sikri in 1569. Concerned about producing an heir, Akbar had sought the intercession of Shaikh Salim Chisti at Sikri, and it was there by chance that Jahangir was born. So in 1571 he began the construction of a new capital in red sandstone, renaming the site Fatepur (city of victory) Sikri. Reflecting Akbar’s deep interest in Indian culture, the extravagant design owes much to Hindu and Jain temple architecture, especially that of Gujarat which Akbar happened to be conquering at that time.

At Fatepur Sikri Akbar plunged into an eclectic investigation of a wide range of contemporary religious thought and practice- the Quranic arguments of Sunni, Shia and Ismali factions, the mystical Sufi, Saiva and Vaishnava sects, the beliefs of wandering ascetics, even Portuguese priests. His search for spiritual perfection evolved into the Din Ilahi ( divine faith), an ideology centred on himself, if not as a god , at least a great visionary.

Akbar’ s transcendental aspirations are perhaps reflected in the spectacular beauty of the fort and palace. As we traveled across India, each temple, palace or fort seemed to outdo the last; certainly Fatepur Sikri was one of the most memorable of all the sites we visited.

Fatepur Sikri gate, looking down on the town

The Buland (Lofty) gateway, suggesting a Persian influence

We pass through to the extensive central courtyard

to a dais where the Emperor to receive couriers and other visitors

Some modern visitors

Details of the elaborate decoration, all in sandstone

Entrance to the palace proper

Interior detail, more carved sandstone

Detail of wall trim

A massive vault with remains of its mural

Another badly faded mural

A mosque, in imported white marble

Mosque detail

The rooms of the harem

A walkway

Fatepur ‘tank’, an internal reservoir to preserve monsoon rainwater, gathered in a network of drains, through the dry period. A ‘tank’ of some sort, usually quite massive, was a necessary feature of all the forts and palaces, insurance against the dry season and siege as well.

An adjacent garden

Lunch at Fatepur, a typical Thali plate with a mix of dal, vegies, etc., before we hit the road again…

…the road to Jaipur. Along this stretch and others further on, we passed impressive stone-works obviously creating stone decorations for sale. Usually there would be a dozens of these emporiums in a single stretch, handsome stuff.

And to our hotel, the fabulous Bissau Palace, greeted by the current Rawal of Bissau. The hotel was developed in the 1920s by the then Rawal Raghubir Singhji, from the palace of his ancestor Thakur Shyam Singhi (1772-1830), a regional potentate who reputedly personally murdered three rivals at a feast…we watched our backs in the charming dining room.

Nestled in a green oasis amid a rundown area of Jaipur, the wonderful décor authenticates the date over the entrance: 1785

One would expect a stuffy mustached British Bigadier to appear for tea at any moment. Breakfasts were great, the pool wonderful, the bedrooms mindful of a room where a member of the harem would await a visit from the Thakur.

Not that I have ever been in such a room…ours was more modest, but mindful of a Persian hideaway

The street just outside the oasis surrounding the Bissau Palace.

Morning market. Typically the vegetables on display were magnificent in local markets. Here, some fine oriental radishes.

Other neighbours. These cows are obviously being maintained. It turns out the cows wandering the streets and highways are owned by locals. Sometimes they have prominent brands documenting this ownership. Often the cows (and dogs and pigs) on the streets are part of the local garbage management system. In the morning garbage guys collect stuff into piles in the street for the garbage-eaters to munch on. Sustainable recycling.

Just around the corner, one of the gates of the Pink City, so called because in 1876 the current Maharaja Ram Singh had the whole town painted pink, traditionally the colour of hospitality, in honour of a vist by the Prince of Wales. (Pinkness is still mandated by municipal law).

In fact the Pink City is the Old City, the original Jaipur, the first planned city in Northern India, begun in 1727. It is named for its founder the rajput Raja Jai Singh, who had earlier donated the site for the Taj Mahal. Its marble came from the Kacchwaha quarries in Rajasthan. His ancestor, the Kacchwaha raja Man Singh, a loyal ally of Shah Jahan, built the nearby Amber Fort. Jaipur remains the capital of the modern Rajasthan state

Early morning on a main pink street.

Elaborate pink architecture.

More pink. The ‘star of David’ at the right is in fact the Shatkona a symbol used in Hinduism, Jainism and Buddhism that represents the union of  the male and feminine form. Like the Swastika, adopted in a reverse orientation by a more odious bunch, this is a symbol appearing widely over space in time, in varied cultures. Stylistically, it is identical to the Jewish Star of David and the Japanese Kagome crest.

The ‘Window Palace. It fronts the ancient harem. The windows allowed the otherwise sequestered concubines to look out onto the street, for festivals, or just to alleviate the boredom of it all.

Mid-day, the pink streets are busier.

Off we go to the Amber Fort…

…briefly glimpsed from an alleyway enroute.

Amber Fort, begun in 1592 by Raja Man Singh, a very successful commander in Akbar’s army, as the capital of the Kacchwaha rajput, a regime that lasted for over 800 years. It was extended by the Jai Singhs before they moved downhill to their new city of Jaipur.

We entered this massive edifice through the Suraj Pol (Sun Gate)…

…leading into Jaleb Chowk (main courtyard). Here I exercised my great bargaining skill, honed in the horse market at Kashgar on the Silk Road, to beat the price of my fine elephant shoulder bag down to 850 rp. (the boy subsequently offered two for 750 each). The elephants themselves are apparently not well cared for, alas.

The fine elephant bag, still in regular use for my sojourns Montrealward.

Off another square, the entrance to the maharaja’s apartments,

the Ganesh Pol decorated with wonderful frescos. At Amber we had probably our best ever guide, a school teacher ironically filling in for the scheduled guide. In front of this Pol, out of the blistering sun, she tutored us in all sorts of Indian lore, as well as the history of the fort. At one point she interrupted herself to admonish a local boy who ventured too close to our space with his cellphone camera, literally dragging him off by the ear. Must be a great teacher.

A temple, perhaps the Siladevi.

A magnificent internal garden in the maharaja’s palace…

…viewed from the walls above.

Harem rooms in the background, overshadowed by hopeful clients who arrived much too late.

Décor detail.

Silvered ceiling near the harem

A view of the Jaigarh fort, above the Amber, built by Jai Singh in 1726. It is part of an extensive wall that stretches for many kilometers along a ridge towering above the Amber and the nearby villages.

A view of the village below, the wall stretching along the ridge and a corner of the huge ‘tank’, Maota Lake.

Life in the village beneath Amber walls.

Unlike the cobras on the street below, we were not charmed enough to cough up cash.

On the way back to Jaipur we stopped to view the Jal Mahal, a summer resort built in 1799 by Madho Singh as a regal summer resort in the lake-like Man Sagar. Being refurbished as a tourist venu.

Then we toured at length the amazing Jantar Mantar observatory begun by Jai singh in 1728, one of five he built across India to express his passion for astronomy, with expertise gleaned from Europe by his agents. The name is derived from Sanskrit , meaning ‘instrument for calculation’, and this indeed what these remarkable blocks of sandstone do.

This one is the smaller of two Samrat Yantras, sometimes called “Supreme Instrument”,  an equinoctial sundial of enormous proportion. Although one of the simpler instruments, and not too different from sundials which had been developed hundreds of years earlier, the Samrat Yantra is important because it measures time to a precision that had never before been achieved. The larger Samrat Yantra at Jaipur, for example, is capable of measuring time to an accuracy of two seconds.! (jantarmantar.org The Astronomical Observatories of Jai Singh ).

This smaller one is only acurate to 20 seconds. Really!

Rasivalaya are instruments for measuring the celestial latitude and longitude of the celestial bodies. There are twelve instruments which represent the twelve signs of the zodiac, one for each measurement to be done when the corresponding sign of the zodiac transits the meridian.

The Jai Prakash may well be Jai Singh’s most elaborate and complex instrument. It is based on concepts dating to as early as 300 B.C. when the Greco-Babylonian astronomer Berosus is said to have made a hemispherical sundial. The smaller Kappala Yantra at Jaipur is an example of such a dial.

The Jai Prakash is a bowl shaped instrument, built partly above and partly below ground level. The diameter at the rim of the bowl is 17.5 feet for the Jaipur instrument, and 27 feet at Delhi. The interior surface is divided into segments, and recessed steps between the segments provide access for the observers. A taut cross-wire, suspended at the level of the rim, holds a metal plate with circular opening directly over the center of the bowl. This plate serves as a sighting device for night observations, and casts an easily identifiable shadow on the interior surface of the bowl for solar observation. The surfaces of the Jai Prakash are engraved with markings corresponding to an inverted view of both the azimuth-altitude, or horizon, and equatorial coordinate systems used to describe the position of celestial objects.

The Rama Yantra and Digamsa consists of a pair of cylindrical structures, open to the sky, each with a pillar or pole at the center. The pillar/post and walls are of equal height, which is also equal to the radius of the structure. The floor and interior surface of the walls are inscribed with scales indicating angles of altitude and azimuth. Rama Yantras were constructed at the Jaipur and Delhi observatories only.

The Rama Yantra is used to observe the position of any celestial object by aligning an object in the sky with both the top of the central pillar, and the point on the floor or wall that completes the alignment. In the daytime, the sun’s position is directly observed at the point where the shadow of the top of the pillar falls on the floor or wall. At night, an observer aligns the star or planet with the top of the pillar and interpolates the point on floor or wall that completes the alignment through the use of a sighting guide.

The instrument is most accurate near the intersection of floor and wall, corresponding to an altitude of 45 degrees. Here, the markings are at their widest spacing, and give an accuracy of +/- 1’ of arc.

These last two instruments are puzzling. Websites incomplete or clueless on these ones.

Lest you think all we did was sink deep into history and astronomical technicalities, we did enjoy a lot less drier fun…

Well, in another sense, not  dry. For a start, the Bessau Palace pool was delightful, welcome respite after long days touring. I continued to practice my favorite stroke, the arduous butterfly. Doug, duly impressed, was determined to emulate, to the point of challenging me to a race. Steve the referee called the start, and Doug took off in a violent thrashing of arms. I have to admit that seeing him splash forward I choked, completely lost the rhythm that is so essential to the butterfly. Humbled, I don’t recall what Doug exacted as his prize- except I dropped two caste levels and had to sweep the bedroom.

Less demanding, an evening in a great roof-top restaurant, the ‘Kalyan’, listed as one of the ten best in Jaipur, quite believably the case. The atmosphere was wonderful, the food great, the drinks memorable,

and the live band quite charming.

On our second evening we ate at a sort of officer’s club, in an open courtyard attached to a room full of ancestral portraits. It might have been ‘Durg the Fort’ which looks right on the web but is maybe too far from centre town. Anyway, another really good band, and dancers keen on engaging the diners in their sport. Ali, of course, a trained dancer herself, joined in the fun with the pot-headed lady.

Food excellent again- I had an excellent tandoori plate, chicken, lamb and lots of veg. A great send-off from one of the most interesting and comfortable of our stops, a great intro to Rajasthan.

Next day we left Rajasthan for a detour towards Delhi.