Category: Adventure

On the plane from Sydney to Bangkok, a some three weeks ago now, I met Bipeen – a Nepali who has been living in Australia the last couple of years who was on route to visit his family in Kathmandu.

“I’ll pick you up at the airport” he wrote me on facebook.

Sure enough he did, and his kind and generous family invited me to stay a night and experience typical family life in the Tibetan area of the city.

Tibet may be in strife but at least Tibetan culture is everywhere!

The view from Bipeen’s family home.

I spent the next day on the back of Bipeens bike, exploring temples and shops, and coming home with far too much stuff than I know how to get to transport to Sydney (what you can see on the top picture above is the least of it).

We even squeezed in a Bollywood movie named Kites (one thing I forgot to do in India). Set in Las Vegas and Mexico, with English words jumbled throughout the Hindi and an onscreen kiss (oo la la – a big no-no for Indian movies) – this movie was a new breed of half-Hollywood-Bollywood. A very over-the-top love story about the torment over choosing between true love and money. The protagonists chose love, a very lustful love… I loved it!!!

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The next day I farewelled his family and set off to find some hiking buddies in Thamel. Instead I met up with Gil, a Brit I’d made on a plane from Coimbatore to Delhi about five days go, and while missing to meet up with Vilas, an American I’d met on the plane from Delhi to Kathmandu (are you noticing a pattern here?), I enjoyed an entertaining night on the town and on shisha (well I gave it a short puff anyway – I’m not very good at inhaling) and laughing at those who were better at it.

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While Nepal may be far more relaxed than India, it faces similar issues: horns still beep (albeit not as loud), beggars still beg (while with more limbs attached), and street husslers still hassle you for this and that, with bargaining required for every last rupee. On most occasions I’m too lazy to argue over a dollar or two and then when I see seasoned travellers getting everything from rooms to taxis to souvineers, for half the price I pay. Apparently it goes part and parcel with the nationality: Aussies/Brits/Americans/West-Europeans pay the most, then South American/ Spanish /Eastern Europeans, and with Israelis/Middle Eastern and hippies with dreadlocks getting the best deals without even trying… Slowly slowly I’m starting to haggle, as friends demonstrate the way. They say a price, you say half, then you meet in the middle. That’s the game and while it’s a pain in the arse, I’m starting to realise that playing it actually feels better than knowing you’ve been ripped off.  

My worst experience in Kathmandu was THE BABY NEEDS MILK SCAM.

“Please please come,” a mother with child in one arm grabbed me with the other, leading me to a supermarket. “My baby needs milk,” she said, showing me an empty bottle. I looked into the child’s big brown eyes and I nodded, how can I not buy this poor baby some milk?

As I walked into the supermarket I saw the checkout chicks shake their head. When the mother lopaded me up with two large boxes of powdered milk, each 1000 rupees ($20) and a third smaller box for 800 rupees I wasn’t sure what to do. I was expecting a small carton of milk costing a dollar. “You have to mix them,” she said. I put one of the identical boxes back and handed 1800 rupees at the checkout. As I exited the woman thanked me and invited me over for tea at her house, some 1 hour drive away. I declined politely then looked up to be surrounded by more women with babies in their arms and empty milk bottles in their hands.

“Milk for my baby, please, please,” they said. “I have five babies at home. I need to give them milk. Please.” I look into more little children’s eyes and nearly fall for it again.

“I have no money left,” I told them, “share with this lady.” 

“There is ATM over here,” a mother that couldn’t have been older than twenty told me, pulling me toward the bank. Then it dawned on me: I’d fallen for the oldest scam in the book. The boxes of milk powder had been placed to one side of the road, and the woman with the baby was now looking for more prey to scam into buying more mik powder which I guess she could sell.

“If you can’t afford to feed your babies then stop having them,” I told them, walking away in a huff. I hate so much what poverty does to people. I found out later that babies are rented out for the day, that often they are dropped so they look like they are “crying for milk.” $40 for 10 minutes work. A clever yet deceptively sick way to make one’s living.

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Similar and in a better way to India, as you can see from the photos, Nepal offers many good experiences that make up for the few bad ones. One of these good little moments was in a shop where I bought some little chimes and asked the shop keeper what the symbols on it mean. “OM MA HUN,” he read. “It means accept the now. 100%. This is happiness. The sound is the dance of silence in your heart. It represents inner peace. Peace comes when your heart and mind are balanced.” I thought it a lovely little message to take away, and I didn’t bother negotiating on the price.

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Gil and his friend Brett were leaving the next morning for Pokhara. “You’re welcome to jump in our cab!” they offered. Porque no?! And so began a new little adventure…

Counting the days in Mumbai and the Golden Triangle I probably spent a total of one week in what most seasoned travelers would laugh at me for calling raw-India. It was raw enough for me. And I definitely didn’t shed a tear as I stepped on the plane.

The overnight train (in first class) was easy, hop on at 1230am, get off at 6am, and in between catch a few tunes on the last of my iphone battery and a few winks of sleep. I’d organised for Mohan, my friend’s driver who had hooked me up with the friend with the dodgy car, to pick me up at the station. I figured it was a little risky – seeing as his car might be the same as his friends – but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least I have some connection with this guy as opposed to the random taxi and tuk tuk drivers that bombard you when you step off the train.

This time my faith in humanity was rewarded. Rewarded with a fricking cool car, a quick tour around the city, chai tea local style, and a good connection for future purchases I might want be sent to Oz, and travelers I might want to point in his direction (no I’m not getting a commission)… Seriously, Mohan and his 1950s ambassador car, were awesome!!!

Mohan. If you’re going to Rajistan and want to do it in this cool a/c car, let me know and I’ll pass on his details.

India Gate – a war memorial for lives lost in WW1, 90,000 Indian soldiers fighting on behalf of the British Empire who were occupying India.

An impressive looking temple we drove passed. I think Mohan said it was Hindu, but don’t quote me on that – I was quite tired.

Tea local style.

Presentation is everything. I love these little glasses that fit neatly into a wire-tray of glasses. So cute!

It was very very VERY good tea. And the biscottis, a wholesome breakfast.

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It was a golden end to my blink-and-you-miss-it Indian adventure. Farewell Golden Triangle. Goodbye India. Hello Nepal!!!

If you read my last entry you will probably remember it was written in an exhausted and over-it state of mind. But, as we all know, for every down there is an up. You never know what is waiting for you around the next bend. Or who is going to pick you up at the Jaipur train station.

With my pack on my back and three bags in my hands, I stepped down from the half-moving train, and while scrambling to look in my notebook where exactly my meeting point is, a knight in a white turban holding a sign called out my name. He took my bags and directed me to his car, enthusiastically telling me stories about his experiences with Ayurvedic massage,  art, and hotels – some of his life passions.

Mr Singh is not just a driver, he is also the owner of the Hotel Pearl Palace, where I had prebooked my night (in India arriving at 1030pm one must be organised). Pushing through my tired state within minutes I found myself sitting in his rooftop restaurant enjoying an incredible view of the sparkling city lights, drinking beer and philosophizing about creativity, money, religion, opportunity, freedom, friendship and facebook. It was quite a spin-out.

White turbans, in case you didn’t know (I didn’t) are a sign of a Sikh. As is the surname “Singh” to which many Sikhs are called. Sikhism is an offshoot of Hinduism that started in the warrior-class around 500 years ago. Sikhs are very friendly, very passionate about their jobs, and have a strong attitude to work hard, share generously, and enjoy life. Well that’s what the books say and my little experience with one confirmed the stereotype.

Mr Singh pulled out his laptop and showed me pictures of the new hotel he is building down the road: each room a different theme, from jungle-themes to karma-sutra and beyond. The golden key ring I was holding was his design, as was the chairs and tables n the restaurants, some resembling trees, others like hands… amazingly creative. Quite an inspiring character, I must say.

Eventually, after almost 24-hours on-the-go, I made it to my room.  I turned the A/C off and collapsed on the most comfortable king-size bed I’ve slept in in years. I looked across to the lavish artworks covering the walls, and up at the peacock feathered artwork plastered behind the fan above me – every single item in this hotel was clearly chosen with love and care. Am I staying in some expensive hotel? Nope. I paid a little extra for the air conditioner (not quite sure why I bother considering I always turn it off), and the night in what seriously felt like pure luxury, cost only 900Rs (about $20!). What a turn of events. Maybe India isn’t so bad.

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The next day I met Tom and Ben, fellow backpackers from England and Oz, at breakfast. We proceeded to spend the day shopping for gems and silver, fabrics and bags, as well as visiting a few forts and getting lost in local streets. These guys had been in India, and had the blokey had-enough-bullshit and not-gonna-take-no-shit-from-noone down pat. I’d never thought I’d take delight in hearing someone tell another person to “piss off” (the lightest of the language used). But I did. It was strangely satisfying, like some kind of revenge for all the rip-offs I’d experienced. Not to mention the power of true bargaining… “How much?” I’d ask. “1000 rupees” The shop keeper would reply. “200” one of my new friends cut in. “No way” the shop keeper would say, yet before long we’d settle on 300. I’d probably have paid the full 1000, or at least 900, had I not had these boys around. I have a lot to learn.

Wandering local streets was celebrity time again. But this time the tables had turned – it was the children, and the adults, who insisted I take their photo. Every time we thought we were done, they would pull us over to someone else and point and pose and smile. It seems there is a model inside everyone…

Actually this photo reminds me of that print ad for… I think it was Burberry… where Agnes Deyn and other models are jumping toward the fish eye…

When we finally escaped we became the Pide Piper…

We did manage to squeeze in a famous array of Indian foods with a Rajistan Thali.

Check out a close up:

Thanks to this mind-body ayurveda connection I’m learning self control. I stopped when I was full which was long before the plate was done. I did try some of everything. The pink and yellow was the best. Sugary who-knows-what. Mmmm mmm!

Below is a couple more of my favourite candid shots:

Women ninjas…

So cute!

Maybe even cuter!!

AUM…. AUM… Everyone’s eating.

“What are you looking at?”

“I’ll have what she’s having.”

A fort.

A shop.

The view from the top.

I have never felt so dirty and disgusted in my entire life. A thick layer of smog and filth covers my skin. My feet are black. My finger nails are blacker. It is definitely one of those all-I-want-is-a-shower-and-bed moments. But my disgust is far deeper than these physical qualities. In the last 24-hours I feel as if I have been lied to and deceived by more people than in 27-years of life.

My tendency to see the best in people is getting the better of me.  I was warned by my sister, and even in Melbourne when an Indian taxi driver acted like my friend then ripped me off $40. I tried to prepare myself but it seems my mind is so cultivated to look for positives that it is harder than I thought. I knew in coming to India alone I was throwing myself in the deep-end. I guess I didn’t realise quite how deep, and that it would be full of rips and currents trying to pull me under. Or maybe I’m just not as strong a swimmer as I thought. My temporal conclusion: India and I, DO NOT MIX.

Well I wanted to experience India and I got it. I wanted to experience Indian trains and I got that too. And I’m glad tomorrow night’s will be the last.

I’m in AC-3tier which means three beds stacked on top of each other in lines creating a dorm room inside an air-conditioned carriage. Seeing as I was traveling 5-10pm I thought a lower bed a good idea- easier access to try foods and observe what comes past. No. The lower beds turn into a chair and shared by all meaning you can’t lie down and there is no way to escape. Always always always choose the top bunk – then you have a choice. I am surrounded by children and babies who are probably quite cute from a less exhausted-westerner-fed-up-with-India perspective. Don’t children count as people needing a ticket? Why didn’t I choose a top bunk? It’s okay. It’s only five hours. I can ignore the wrenching smell of breast milk for five hours. I should be more grateful – a moment ago I thought I was going to be thrown off the train for not printing out my ticket…

“What seat are you?” asked a neighboring passenger.

“41” I replied.

“No, this man’s ticket is 41,” he informed me.

My first time on these trains and Mohan (my friend’s driver) had met me in Agra and looked up my seat number on his phone. At this time I didn’t know if I could trust him – considering the disasters experienced with his friend’s car in Delhi. And when it came to this ticket, I had no written proof of anything. Thank God it was just an honest mistake – as it turned out I am seat number 45 and a 50 rupee ($1.50) fine was all I got for not printing out my ticket. I am grateful not to be spending the night laying next to the almost-naked moaning dude laying on the train station floor.

I don’t know how much more of this I can bare.

Especially the children who look at you with big eyes and an open hand. One at the station pointed to her mouth so I bought a deep fried samosa for her. It cost the same price that two poached eggs cost me this morning (20 rupees – 60 cents), which would have been better for her.  I suppose deep fried crap is better than nothing, although nothing you give in this country ever seems to be enough. Everyone wants more. Even a generous payment for a tuktuk is looked at by the driver as an insult – even when you tip over and above the agreed amount that you already know is a ripoff. “More? Please madam, I want some more…”

I can’t blame them – if I were in their shoes I’d probably be doing the same. They have been brought into this mindset that sees rich foreigners as there to be sucked try, as much as one can.

I must warn you, these thoughts are coming after a long day that began with a 230am wake-up call in Delhi.

It was another day of highs and lows – the highs which included the Taj Mahal and the coldest and greatest banana lassi I’ve ever tasted (I downed three), and with lows mainly revolving around the uneasy feeling I get simply from being eyed down and ripped off by every single person that sets eyes on me.

“Did you notice every guy is looking at you?” a friend noted. “They’re not just looking at you, they are seriously fucking you with their eyes.”

Eyes of awe. Eyes of despise. Eyes of people thinking who-knows-what.

I can ignore the eyes to some extent, especially when I’m with other backpackers, but as I discovered today it’s in the moments I find myself alone that I become easy prey. My life’s not in danger – just my wallet… and my respect for other members of the human race. If I ever come back to India it will be with a big strong man, or at the very least a confident street-smart friend, to travel with. But to be honest, I’m doubtful I’ll return. At least not any time soon.

The drive to Agra was another shut-your-eyes-and-pray-your-driver-doesn’t-crash moment – surrounded by honking large trucks – all with drivers you can be sure have not taken their proper 2 hourly break. Then my driver presented me with a tour guide I had not requested.

“You can tip him if you like,” my driver dismissed. Say goodbye to another 500 rupees. At least he was a good guide, sharing lots of facts and figures I’ve now forgotten, and not-half-bad photographer either – directing me to stand here and there, in between the bursts when people would throw babies in my arms for more photos-with-the-foreigner.

Walking to the taj

My favourite of a just a few takes…

My guide and me with Jaap, my new Dutch friend.

The fort in the distance is where the poor taj who built the Taj Mahal spent the last years of his life 🙁

Me the celebrity. Lol!

I had to laugh when my fans thanked Jaap instead of thanking me. If you are travelling with a boy you must be married to him – at least that’s what this culture seems to presume.

I wasn’t at the taj for sunrise as I had planned, but when the 50 degree heat hit at about 10am I was glad my site-seeing had long been done and dusted. Now I was free to spend the rest of the day hanging about in a little cafe with other backpackers. That is, after getting all my bags form the car where (alone for ten minutes) I got ripped off by one of those stupid shop scams.

“It’s important you see this,” said my tour guide, “they show you exactly how the stones were carved into the Taj Mahal.”

First I was induced into a state of pity – shown the skinny workers making handicrafts and the deformed fingers that were resulting from the work. Then I was taken into a showroom. I was strong in the first showroom, but not so strong in the second one. Damn it! Just a couple of items that I’m sure I paid triple-price for. These sales people know their stuff.

View from Jaap’s hostel where (thankfully) I could leave my bags for the day.

It doesn’t look like much but this banana lassi was the bomb!!!

Just like with the beggars I give money to, and the tuk tuk drivers I over-pay, these little rip-offs put me in a funny head-space. The price I’m paying is cheap for the number of hours these people put into it, but the prices (about 1000 rupees, or $25, per piece) is still a lot of money to which almost none of it will make it into the hands of these weathered artist-slaves. And then there’s the compulsory bargaining process, which I’m too lazy to really be good at. I mean, I really can’t be bothered arguing over a dollar, but each time I don’t I know the dollars in my not-so-big budget, do add up. Oh man, what a head-fuck. I tell you what, if there is one thing I will take away from this place it’s a renewed appreciation for all I have: for my country, my people, and life in my western world.

Anyway I made it through the day, and soon I will arrive in Jaipur where (hopefully) my hostel will pick me up and I’ll finally get that much-needed shower and sleep.

India is another world. I am an alien on another planet. E.T. want go home…

More than any other country I have visited, in India you have to trust your instincts. Look into someone’s eyes and you know. Even if people who should know assure you it is ok – that you can trust this taxi driver and that the driver knows the location of the domestic airport located some ten kilometers away – if you look into the driver’s eyes and see nothing, or have ‘that” feeling. Trust it. And try the next cab that drives past.

When the driver starts taking narrow winding streets, trust your instincts. Do SOMETHING!!! And it was only at that final crux when everything inside me shouted DANGER that I finally listened to my intuition.

“Airport sir? Domestic airport?” I asked firmly with the tone of a scolding parent. He stopped the car and turned around almost scowling. The look in his eyes said it all. He knew I knew and he wasn’t sure what to do. “You take me to the airport right now. NOW!!!” I screamed in the most aggressive bellowing mean voice I didn’t realize I had inside me.

“Domestic airport? Ahh… Yes ma’am.” He squirmed, looking around for help. “Airport domestic?” he asked a plump man with a moustache who was walking passed. The man pointed back to the direction we had come. The blank faced hollow eyed driver turned the car and took me to the airport. I then had to direct him into the terminal and point out the departures sign when he started to drive into the arrivals. He took my bags from his trunk and said, “250 rupees,” without looking at his price book or the meter, which I then realized he had not turned on. Seeing as a 40 minute journey in the same type of cab had cost 70 rupees the day before, I looked at him in disgust and handed him the 80 rupees I had in my hand, a sum I new was far too generous considering this man (who I still did feel sorry for) had either tried to kidnap me or pretend to get lost simply to rip me off, and then had again tried to rip me off by asking for five times what the price should have been. He accepted the money. I walked away seething inside. Did I mention how much I love India? I definitely have a love-hate relationship with this place. And at this moment it is far more hate then love.