Tag: India

The Taj Mahal

In all of our travels there are some places we have been that have brought me to tears. The Taj Mahal is one of those places – it is breathtakingly beautiful, and we are so fortunate to have now visited twice.

On our first visit all those years ago we fell completely in love with the Taj Mahal. We had brilliant clear skies and bright sunshine, our photos all squinting into the camera and shielding our eyes from the sun. Our randomly chosen guide fabricated his stories, and I finished the visit by dropping my iPhone into the squat toilet. Later that day a monkey stole Don’s bananas.

It was the perfect day.

No such shenanigans this time. We had a late start, waiting for a heavy fog to lift, but by the time we arrived the sky was a beautiful grey blue. The small arched entry gives away very little, just glimpses of white, until you emerge into the complex and the full building reveals itself – beautiful and grand, perfectly symmetrical. The sheer size is astounding. The magnificent white dome of the mausoleum fills the sky, the minarets stretching up around it. Beautiful red sandstone gateways and a mosque sit framing the grounds. Past the gardens and fountains huge tiled spaces spread out like mosaic carpets, whole panels of marble carvings make up the walls. Up close to the mausoleum the intricate decorations are revealed; perfectly carved flower petals, inlaid coloured stone, Arabic lettering surrounding the entrance.

The light was perfect. We took multiple photos of ourselves and of the Taj Mahal from every different angle. I even went back to the same toilets – the scene of the crime so to speak. And Monika our guide was fabulous, carefully weaving us through the crowds, providing stories and information, taking our photos and giving us our own time and space to explore.

I took a long last look as we left today, knowing deep down it’s unlikely we’ll get a third visit.

When stars align

Jaipur

The first time we visited Jaipur, somebody recommended we visit Jantar Mantar.

‘It has all these ancient astronomical instruments. It’s very interesting,’ they told me, ‘and it’s a world heritage site.’

Don would like that, I thought, he’s a science nerd. So I added it to our list of things to do in Jaipur.

It was searingly, crushingly hot when we visited that day in 2012. We entered the archway to a flat expanse of pale yellow concrete with numerous pale yellow concrete structures spread throughout. Concrete on concrete. We had no idea what anything was other than the giant sundial as there were no signs in English, and the blinding white pages of my guide book were hurting my eyes. Luckily the star signs were labelled, twelve sets of random concrete steps and arches. We took our photos near Sagittarius and Cancer and left dazed, sunburnt and no wiser than when we’d entered.

‘Well,’ I said last week to my sister Nat, who’d had the exact same experience, ‘Jantar Mantar is not on our list of things to do in Jaipur this time.’

However the City Palace, right next door to Jantar Mantar, was definitely on our list. Beautiful and ornate palace buildings built by the Maharaja on a sprawling royal site. Trees, hedges, lush grass, fountains and a gift shop.

We walked to the City Palace this morning, glancing at the giant astronomical structures as we passed by the open doorway on our way.

‘There’s that sundial place we went to last time,’ I said to Don, ‘remember?’

‘We’re not going there again are we?’ he asked in alarm.

‘Hell no!’

We lined up for our palace tickets, had them clipped and headed through the entrance. Excited to see the glorious City Palace before me, I looked up from tucking our tickets in my bag to be confronted by an enormous sundial.

‘What the fuck?’ I exclaimed.

Don right behind me took a moment. ‘What’s going on? What’s the matter? Where’s the palace? Hey, is that a sundial? Woah, wait a minute, where are we?’

We had not bought tickets to the City Palace. We had bought tickets to Jantar Mantar. We had not walked through the ornate entrance to the palace, we had walked through the concrete entrance to Jantar Mantar.

Oh how we laughed as the hot sun beat down on us.

‘Well we can’t leave until we’ve got our four dollars worth,’ said Don, ‘we’ll just walk around for a bit. Maybe there is something here for us.’

‘Have we got our four dollars worth yet?’ I asked a minute later as we stared in bewilderment at a giant concrete cylinder.

We took a selfie, found our star signs and deemed it done.

After heading out the exit (dazed, sunburnt and none the wiser) we walked further along the road until we found the correct ticket counter, and spent a fabulous couple of hours marvelling at the ornate buildings, the beautiful old clothes and textiles and the intricately decorated doors of the City Palace.

I am sure that there are many enthusiastic astronomy types, history buffs and mathematical geniuses who would find Jantar Mantar totally worthwhile and absolutely fascinating. And I’m equally sure that there are new and interesting things for any tourist to learn by visiting.

After having now visited twice, all I have learnt is to check in with Don on what activities are science nerd suitable.

However I am no closer to understanding why Cancer’s representation at this significant site is a group of giant concrete steps and walls with a concrete fence.

I mean, where even are the claws?

Foggy Mountain Breakdown

Kathmandu

It’s hard to describe the feeling when you arrive in a brand new country for the first time. The excitement of somewhere new, the anticipation of exploring the streets, tasting the local dishes, poking around in museums, shops and galleries.

We flew into Nepal this morning, our first ever visit, and we had all of these feels; marvelling as we passed the Himalayas and descended over the sprawling Lego like buildings of Kathmandu. We held hands as we landed, grinning at each other in delight.

Of course the short journey was not all sunshine and lollipops.

It’s likely a well kept secret that I used to be terrified of flying. Scared spitless. I would cling to the armrests every minute of every flight, refuse all food, and arrive at my destination with cramped muscles, starving and prepared to find a job in order to avoid the flight home.

Through sheer determination I have mostly overcome this fear, and I quite enjoy flying now. Except for taking off. I still hate taking off.

This morning in Delhi a heavy fog had settled over the city. Should be gone by the time we leave the hotel, I told myself.

The fog was not gone. If anything it was worse. Through our taxi ride, check in, clearing customs and security, I kept telling myself the fog would lift, or the flight would be cancelled. Either of these options would be fine with me.

The fog did not lift and the flight was not cancelled. Instead we were shuttled across an airport we couldn’t see to a plane we couldn’t see, up some stairs we couldn’t see and told to take our seats.

A litany of sabotaging thoughts and desperate responses ran through my head as we sat on the tarmac waiting to leave.

How can the pilots see the runway? How can they see anything? I can’t see anything. NOBODY CAN SEE ANYTHING!

Everything runs on computers and radars and technology these days, the pilots don’t need to see.

OF COURSE THE PILOTS NEED TO SEE! WHAT IF ANOTHER PLANE GETS IN THE WAY?! WHAT IF WE GET IN THE WAY?

There’s no way we’d be leaving if this wasn’t safe. This must be safe.

WHY DID AIR CANADA CANCEL THEIR FLIGHT? WHAT ARE THEY NOT TELLING US?

Everybody here knows what they’re doing. This is a huge airport.

THIS IS A FUCKING HUGE AIRPORT! NOBODY IS SAFE!

The flight attendants look calm, it must be fine.

THEY’RE PAID TO LOOK CALM. DO NOT TRUST THEM!

Don’t look out the window, don’t look out the window, don’t look out the window. I’ll just look out the window.

IT’S A COMPLETE WHITE OUT! IT’S WORSE THAN I THOUGHT!

Calm down Angela, you’re perfectly safe.

HOW CAN I BE CALM WHEN MY LAST INSTA PIC OF THE FOG WILL BE ON NATIONAL NINE NEWS?

Don made an attempt to distract me with some fun facts about Star Trek or Cheezels or who invented the mountains. I don’t know. I wasn’t having a bar of it, and he soon gave up. Instead I clung ferociously to his hand the whole time we were taxiing blindly across the tarmac, squeezing my eyes shut when the engines roared, the pilot having miraculously found the runway. God, my heart is pumping just writing this.

Without a word of a lie we broke through that cloud and into brilliant sunshine three seconds after taking off. Maybe two seconds.

It amazes me how bloody fast my whole body can pivot from abject terror to complete chill. My eyes opened and I loosened my death grip on Don’s hand.

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘it was just some low lying cloud.’

Even if I had heard him say this I wouldn’t have believed him.

We landed, we disembarked. Out visas were stamped and we collected our bags. Sanity and calm had well and truly returned. Sunshine and lollipops re-engaged, I was again filled with excitement and anticipation, chatting away to Don, the ground crew and anyone else who would listen.

‘It’s our first time in Nepal,’ I said to the man sorting out our taxi voucher.

‘Welcome to Nepal, Madame,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I said happily as he handed me the voucher.

‘You’re welcome. Could I perhaps interest you in an early morning joy flight over the Himalayas?’

A Roaring Start

Never underestimate the power of a rest day when you’re travelling.

Yes ok, a rest day on the first day of our holiday may seem a bit much, but I planned this knowing we needed to recover from our gruelling flight schedule from Australia. Let us never forget The Zombies of San Francisco or Hours of Entertainment. Besides, Don is older than he was the first time we went to India.

We left Brisbane at 10:30am yesterday, and arrived in Delhi at 2:30am this morning. Knowing we’ll be back on an early morning flight again tomorrow, I scheduled only two things for today’s itinerary – rest and buffet breakfast.

Still, it hasn’t been easy.

We had to set an alarm so as not to miss said breakfast after falling into bed at 3:30am. Having eaten at least one of everything the buffet had to offer, we then went on a post breakfast walk to check out the neighbourhood. We followed this up with a well needed nap, which was followed by a post nap walk to check out the neighbourhood again when things were actually open.

We rested some more in a local cafe over coffee and salted Ajwain cookies. Then Don had another nap while I had a massage at the hotel spa where a small woman tortured the bejesus out of any deep vein thrombosis in my calves and anywhere else thrombosis might lurk, including apparently my eyeballs.

We’re now in the midst of afternoon rest time, before deciding on where we’ll go for dinner.

We certainly are off to a roaring start.

A guide book and a map

Hyderabad

And then you have the opposite of the walking tour.

Today we took an auto-rickshaw to Golconda Fort, the sprawling ruins of a huge 16th century citadel in the middle of Hyderabad.

Because it’s handy to have a small guide book with a map, I bought one that may or may not have been photo-copied from a lovely old man who pestered me endlessly when we came through the entrance. I did refuse the postcards – really, I have no need for postcards.

“How useful will that be?” Don asked me.

“It’s as useful as 50 rupee,” I answered. “it’ll be handy to have a small guide book with a map.”

“For example,” I went on as we approached a long building with huge archways, “this is where they kept the elephants.”

“Does it say that in the booklet?”

“No, it doesn’t say anything about elephants in the booklet.”

“Is it on the map?”

“Yes, I think it’s building number 22.”

“So what does it say about building number 22?”

“I don’t know, there’s no corresponding legend for the map.”

“Then how do you know it’s where they kept the elephants?”

“I know this from experience and my extensive knowledge of ancient Indian architecture.”

I flipped through the booklet some more.

“Oh, wait, there’s something in here about the royal camel stables.”

“Well are they building 22?”

“There is no way of knowing this. However here’s something interesting,” I continued, “apparently there’s a mosque within the fort grounds.”

“Is it that one?” Don asked, pointing to a bright white mosque right in front of us.

“There’s no way of knowing this, but I suggest yes.”

“Well I suggest you put the booklet away and we just walk around and read the signs.”

“Fair enough,” I said, tucking the guide into my bag. “So do you think we got our 50 rupees’ worth?”

“I think you would have been better off with the postcards.”

Walking tours

Hyderabad

We’ve done a number of food tours on our travels – tasted delicious fish stew in San Francisco, local churros in Lima, famous skyr yoghurt in Reykjavik. On the first day of our India holiday in we took a Storytrails food tour of the bustling Rattan bazaar in Chennai with Karunya, sampling our way through the streets until we were absolutely stuffed with dosa, dal, hot milky coffee and sweet gulab jamon. Food tours are usually one of our first choices to explore new areas, but due to a number of factors this trip we’ve taken two city walking tours, and they’ve been absolutely brilliant.

We only had one day in Bangalore, so to get the most out of our time we booked an offbeat walking tour with Tours by Locals. Sushma took us for a local breakfast, before we set off on a fascinating walk that included the old neighbourhood of Bangalore, Dodda Basavana Gudi (the bull temple) and the hectic fresh produce and flower markets.

Today we walked around Hyderabad with the Hyderabad Walking Company. We started the morning drinking chai and eating Hyderabad’s signature Osmania biscuit at a local cafe at the base of the magnificent Charminar, before Navin took us up the steep stairs to the top of the monument to look out across the bustling bazaar area and the old gates of Hyderabad. We spent a while exploring the grand Chowmahalla Palace, then walked through Laad Bazar where thousands of colourful bangles are made and sold.

Neither of these tours felt like ‘tours’. It felt like we were wandering around each city having a conversation with a local. Both Sushma and Navin gave us time to take in each sight and experience. Each told us fascinating stories about their cities – legends that people still believe, and those that may be closer to the truth. They even took photos for us. And they were both genuinely interested in our own story and holiday.

The difference between wandering around by ourselves or being guided is pretty significant.

If it had just been the two of us we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to wander through somebody’s home in the old neighbourhood of Bangalore, or see the dhobi ghat where every day clothes are beaten and scrubbed in big open tanks before being hung to dry in the sun along the street. We wouldn’t know that the kings of Hyderabad were ridiculously wealthy, nor would we have been thoroughly entertained by the stories of their personalities, deeds and lives at Chowmahalla Palace. We wouldn’t have found our way through the crowded KR market in Bangalore to get to the beautiful flower markets, nor would we know the difference between the genuine bangles created by Hyderabad craftsmen or those made elsewhere and sold in the street.

I’m a fully converted fan of the walking tour.

Chamundi steps

Mysore

We like to use the local buses and trains when we’re in big cities, get a feel for how people commute, have a bit of an adventure working out the system to get us places.

However nothing beats walking. Walking really lets you explore neighbourhoods, buildings, shops and people. We’ve walked for miles through many cities across the world.

Yesterday we set off walking to Chamundi Hills that overlook the city of Mysore. Our plan was to walk to the entrance at the base, and then climb the 1001 steps to the temple at the top, taking in the smaller temples along the way and the beautiful views over Mysore.

With the benefit of hindsight, it’s extraordinarily apparent that neither of us had any freaking concept of a) a walk across Mysore or b) what 1001 steps is like.

“How far is it to the steps?” Don asked in the morning.

“Four kilometres.”

“That’s good, we can walk that.”

“And then 1001 steps to the top.”

“Ok, no worries.”

And off we went.

Google maps has done a lot for walking in foreign cities. Via what I can only assume is magic, you can track where you are without needing the internet. I have no idea how this works, nor do I care, I’m just grateful that it does. And so we tracked our walk to the hills – out the front gate, down the street filled with Levi jeans shops that aren’t actually Levi jeans, past the busy markets and around the glorious Mysore Palace.

Unfortunately Google maps magic shows you the way, but doesn’t tell you what the way is actually like; the roads, the terrain or the neighbourhoods.

On we trekked, past the bus depot and some government offices, across a busy roundabout and onto a major highway. Over a guard rail and down an embankment to an access road. Through a small local market. Over some ditches. Past some goats. Onwards towards some fields, now only 2km into our walk.

An auto-rickshaw driver who was parked by the road spoke as we trudged past.

“Chamundi steps?”

We were in the back seat faster than anybody could say how much, where are you from or how about that cricket, happy to be driven the final two kilometres to the base of the 1001 steps.

Now I’m going to be generous here and say we made it roughly 100 steps before our first rest. Those steps were randomly short, tall, deep and narrow. They sloped left, then right, and wound back and forth up the hill. Our next rest stop may have been after 80 steps. Then 60. I’m sure you can see what’s happening here.

As the number of steps we could manage decreased, the amount of rest we needed increased. We stood to the side each time, panting, sweating, our hearts thundering. Barefoot 80 year olds flew past us, teenagers stopped to take selfies.

On we went.

We’d been sitting on a step close to number 600 for quite a while when one of us finally cracked. I can’t remember who, doesn’t matter.

“Screw this, we’re on holidays.”

And straight back to the bottom we went.

This was not defeat, this was astute holiday decision-making in action. There will be plenty more temples available for visiting.

Ones not at the top of a fucking mountain.

THIS is lime pickle

Kochi

We had lunch at the XL Hotel in Fort Kochi yesterday. Don ordered butter chicken, I ordered a local dish – nadan chicken. Don had two beers, I had a Pepsi. We chatted about our morning exploring Mattancherry.

Then our meals arrived, and the conversation somehow became completely one-sided.

“Oh,” Don moaned when he tasted his dish. “Oh, this is good.”

“The flavour!” he exclaimed before I could speak. “It’s like it’s just that little bit more. A little bit over. It just goes over. You know what I’m trying to say?”

I opened my mouth to answer but apparently it wasn’t an actual question.

“Oh my,” he continued, “oh wow. I mean, you think you’re having lime pickle, but no, THIS is lime pickle. And THIS is butter chicken. It just is the thing. The real thing. THIS is butter chicken.”

I nodded. Yes, this was indeed butter chicken.

“So good. Is this the best meal we’ve ever had? It could be the best. I think it’s the best. This is the best butter chicken I’ve ever had,” he went on as he dipped his parathas into my curry. “Oh my God, yours is amazing too!”

He sat chewing, deep in thought, lost in contemplation of the amazing flavour that was my lunch. “So good,” he repeated, then back to his own.

He continued talking and groaning and working his way through the food in front of him until he finally leant back in his seat.

I opened my mouth to speak.

“No, no, I’m not finished yet,” he lurched back up, “I can fit more in. Wait,” he said to nobody in particular, and started scooping more rice onto his plate.

“We don’t cook rice like this. Do we?” he asked. “Do we cook rice the wrong way? We need to learn how to cook rice like this. I don’t even like rice. The carrots, the carrots in this rice are amazing!”

“Oh my God, that was so good. Ok, that’s it, I’m officially done,” he finally said, pushing his plate away and picking up the last scrap of parathas and dipping it again into the remains of my curry. “Except for this. Hey, are you going to finish that?” he asked, reaching for one of my chicken bones.

Finally he truly was finished.

“Well, that was one of the finest meals I’ve had in my entire life. Can you take a photo? No, no,” he waved me down and pulled his phone out, “I’ll take a photo. That was magnificent.”

He snapped a quick pic, then reviewed his work.

“You bet your arse that’s a good photo,” he was now definitely just talking to himself. “This will remind me how good that meal was.”

Yep, that plus this blog post.

Just India

Kerala

From the minute we returned home from our India holiday seven years ago, I’ve wanted to go back. There’s just something about India.

It always takes us a day or two to acclimatise to an overseas holiday – to recover from the flights, orient ourselves in the city in which we’ve landed and to generally remember we’re on holidays.

Chennai is a huge, busy city. We got ourselves stuck in a few snarly traffic jams, auto-rickshaws and cars stop-starting for hours. We walked several long, hot miles and spent many an occasion crossing eight lane roads where cars and bikes drove through, around and between each other. We ate cautiously and washed our hands religiously. It took us a while to find our India feet.

Now we are in Kerala, in Fort Kochi, and India feet are well and truly found. And I know that India is just as I left it.

India is a place where everything goes at its own pace, and everything eventually happens. People are friendly, accommodating and helpful, but nothing is done quickly. That doesn’t matter – you arrive at a place in your mind where nothing needs to be done quickly. Things get done in their own time.

You can just be in India. Early this morning we walked along the seafront and watched the fishing boats come in. Lots of people were out, and there was a calmness and apparent joy everywhere – girls walking with friends, people breathing, stretching and practicing yoga, young men laughing together as they swam in the Arabian Sea. Men operating the old Chinese fishing nets, smiling and calling me over to have a go. Sure, people were exercising, but nobody was running. Nobody had their head down in concentration and nobody appeared to be in any hurry to get anywhere.

Yesterday we floated the Kerala backwaters for hours; most of the time with nothing but the sound of the heavy poles hitting the water to slowly move our boat along. It was absolutely stunning, but I’ll admit we had our moments – it was a long time to sit and do nothing but take in the scenery.

But that’s what India does. Amidst the noise and crowds, it makes you sit still and take it all in – the sights, the smells, the people, the activity. So that’s what we’ll continue to do. And I’m pretty sure that when we eventually return home, once again I’ll want to turn around and come straight back.

NOW BOARDING GATE 6!

Chennai

We’ve had a great three days in Chennai that included a fabulous food tour through Rattan Bazaar and a day trip to the amazing temples and monuments of Kanchipuram and Mamallapuram. Last night we left Chennai and flew to Kochi.

There were signs all over Chennai airport announcing that it’s a ‘silent airport’ and that there are ‘no departure announcements’. Unsure as to how this would work, Don thought it best we stick close to our departure gate.

I’m glad we did. It was most entertaining.

“I wonder how you know when you’re allowed to board,” I said to Don just as a young woman leant across the counter at Gate 7 and started yelling at the waiting people.

“PASSENGERS FOR DEHLI YOUR FLIGHT IS NOW BOARDING AT GATE 14!” she bellowed. “PLEASE GO TO GATE 14!”

Nobody moved. She drew a breath and continued.

“ANY PASSENGERS FOR KOLKATA , PLEASE BOARD NOW AT GATE 7!! PASSENGERS FOR KOLKATA, BOARDING NOW, GATE 7!”

Five people made their way to the gate. The woman at Gate 6 stepped up.

“PASSENGERS FOR KOLKATA, GATE 7! NO SIR,” she yelled as a man approached with his boarding pass, “KOCHI NOT BOARDING YET!”

“KOLKATA BOARDING, GATE 7! PLEASE HAVE YOUR BOARDING PASS READY!”

“DELHI BOARDING GATE 14!”

Gate 7 Woman took over.

“PASSENGERS FOR DEHLI PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO GATE 14!”

This went on for some time, the gatekeepers yelling at the crowd, swatting away passengers with incorrect boarding passes and studying five metres of paper that had spat itself out of an ancient dot matrix printer whilst they’d been yelling.

“LAST CALL FOR DELHI!” Gate 7 woman yelled.

People eventually started running – no, sprinting – to different gates, trailing small children, pillows and bags, because they had somehow missed that their plane was about to leave, even though two women had been bellowing boarding calls at them for over half an hour.

Gate 6 Woman eventually lost her shit, bundled up the paper and threw it the best anyone can throw five metres of crumpled paper at Gate 7 Woman, who disappeared down the flight corridor with it. Gate 6 Woman was now solo.

“PASSENGERS FOR KOCHI ROWS 21 TO 30 YOUR FLIGHT IS NOW READY FOR BOARDING AT GATE 6. KOLKATA BOARDING GATE 7. DELHI BOARDING GATE 14!”

Her palm flew into the air any time somebody thought they might board early. “NO SIR,” she yelled at a particularly persistent man, “ROWS 21 to 30 ONLY!” Gate 6 Woman is my new favourite person.

Next minute Gate 7 Woman was back, and OMG she now had a headset with a portable amplifier around her waist. Don had to hold me up, I was almost crying.

“PASSENGERS FOR DELHI, YOUR PLANE IS ABOUT TO DEPART. GATE 14!” she yelled into the microphone.

Then that’s it, one announcement and the headset was gone and never used again. This is obviously contraband in a silent airport.

In the midst of this chaos, a tall young man strolled through the crowd, also shouting.

“PASSENGERS FOR DELHI, BOARDING GATE 14!”

Gate 7 Woman glared at him – this was obviously not his patch – and he too goes the way of the headset microphone.

It took some time, but eventually we were all on board. It had been compelling viewing; Don and I were in row one and had thus got to witness the show from start to finish.

Without a shadow of a doubt I am now a huge fan of the silent airport.