Victory beer

Kolkata

We returned to Kolkata early afternoon, after an anxious wait at the airport. Thick fog covered the entire ground at Badogra, and as we rode to the absolutely deserted airport, our thoughts turned to changing plans on the go, and driving the 700km to Kolkata to ensure we made our departing flight to Bangkok. We were only delayed half an hour, much to my relief.

The familiar yellow ambassadors greeted us at Kolkata. To once and for all prove our adeptness at travel, we encountered the usual rip-offs, only to sort ourselves with a bargain cab-ride some fifteen minutes later.

Our visit to Kolkata was a total mess really. Our flight was departing at 1:00am, so we reasoned we’d need to be at the airport at ten. Given the magnitude of the flight we erred towards caution. Nevertheless, we headed into downtown Kolkata for a whistle-stop tour.  

We spent about six hours on the ground, three hours of which we were in the taxi in gridlocked traffic (at least it was a luxurious, spacious ambassador cab), and three hours in the streets. Of those three hours, half were spent in a restaurant (nice, but not the best we’d had), and the other half wondering aimlessly in heavy traffic and ramshackle streets. Despite my rather downbeat assessment however, I do have quite a strong impression of the city and its streets, and think the images of trams cruising along wide streets, yellow ambassador cabs, and exhausted stained, decaying, crumbling British influenced buildings will remain in my head for a long time.

Finally, after enough aimless wondering, we decided to hail a cab and head for the airport, knowing the myriad of ways in which we could entertain ourselves (chess, cards, reading, writing, push-ups, idle chat, shopping, eating etc.). We did so, and got into the car, settling in for what would be our final ride in India, and one more glimpse of the sliding streets and ceaseless activity of the big city.  

Surreal would be the best way to describe that final hour.

We whirled through the traffic like we always did; the horns beeping, the cars pushed up against one another, the animals and motorcycles filling the gaps like blood running through veins. Outside the mountain of activity continued, sky-high buildings going up in what seems like hours, crowds of young men around constructions sites, and people everywhere, as usual. I suddenly flashed back to it all, riding a taxi through the dark streets of Delhi, walking that first, fearful alley, finding Andrew outside the hotel, the snarl, and traffic of Delhi, and the historical heart underneath; I thought of the trash pit of Agra, and the most beautiful of monuments, standing out proudly, the world beating a path to her door, Jaipur and the Pink City, my firsts sunsets, the kites soaring in the sky, dusty cricket fields, and Muslim prayers ringing out in the early evening. Udaipur and the shimmering lake, the dense white buildings, the mountains, the forts, and to Jodhpur, the Blue City, and packed, crowded activity, a ride in the countryside to Jailsalmer, and the magical camel ride. And off, again to Delhi, feeling the stink in my bones once more, the slums beside the tracks in clear view as we rode in early morning; down to Varanasi, and the smoke and heat from the burning bodies, flaring up the darkness, to Kolkata, the monstrosity, the dark mosh-pit; at last a break, in Darjeeling, the gentle hill town with views of purity and the simple delights of a people; back to Kolkata, and out, to the car, to the city, and finally, the last image, a small boy, curled up on the dusty floor, his hair, his clothes, his skin, the same colour as blackened exhaust, blending in with the earth as the they were one, he a tiny mouse against the monster of development in the background, an unfinished concrete block crowding out any light that would come this way – this is India, the light and the darkness, the hope and the despair, the rich and the poor, the India of ancient cities and air-conditioned shopping malls, this is India, at least, the one I know.

The last photo taken in India, snapped from a speeding car.

And above all, two timeless friends in the seat next to me, squashed up as usual, sharing in the magical experience of India, smiles far outweighing our weary bodies, and our spirits ready for the next adventure.   

Your correspondent

A bond cemented through shared acts of.... pleasure

  

The effervescent Swags

Breakfast in Nepal

The peak of fatness... thirty days of curries and beer

Border between India and Nepal

We Kiwis have something about us. We can have absolutely no plan in place whatsoever, have no idea what we are doing, go against all odds and sense to do something, and somehow end up believing as if the day had been ordained for us. We might think, it was only because we ventured out there that something special happened. Had it not been for our visit, nothing would have happened. This, of course, is baloney, but it's a nice sentiment nonetheless. 

I remember waxing lyrical in a Filipino blog I wrote, about a meeting of fate between a whale shark and I. I wrote about how our paths were destined to cross, even when we were on opposite sides of the world. What utter crap. The reality is, we got very lucky, and just so happened to catch a short glimpse of a whale shark on a Thursday afternoon.

So, it is the ‘older, wiser’ me that describes our encounter with the Himalaya’s and our two minutes of glory, of which Facebook has seen no end, and which I take any opportunity to show off to people.

Let me start at the beginning.

We arose before dawn for the third morning in a row and got into a jeep for the one and a half hour drive to the start of our trek. The arranged pick-up time was 6am; we got to the jeep at 6:40am, unknowingly and unfortunately keeping Nico – an Austrian gentlemen and PhD Student – waiting for 40 minutes. We set off through the winding streets, and arrived at the base of our day-climb to meet our guide – a 23 year old computer science major, and part-time tour guide.

Our gracious guide

He pointed towards Nepal. We put our hands up to block the early morning sun and looked far into the distance.

“Where?”

He pointed to the ground; hence, we did what all self-respecting geezers (read: tourists) do and put one foot in India and one foot in Nepal. As we began the steep, 2km climb towards breakfast, we debated whether doing so was worthy of another notch on the belt. The firm answer: no. No stamp, no notch. No overnight stay, no notch. Further, Nepal, from everything I hear is a staggeringly beautiful country, so it wouldn’t feel right to say I have ‘been’ there – even though I just crossed in and out over the course of a day. To 'do' Nepal, you have to really 'do' it. 

Getta load of this guy and his classic hiking gettup

A well-deserved breakfast consisted of hot noodle soup and endless cups of tea, served to us in the house of a kind Nepalese gentlemen. His backyard was right outside, providing us with morning views of sun christened mountains, and goats feeding on the tussock land outside. I can say, it was a site far improved from the three foot wide garden at my Thorndon flat. 

Nike marketing department... call me

Our walk continued, higher and higher, and at about midday we made it to the top – and an altitude of 3,000 metres, and again congratulated each other. Pity about the view; once again it was a blanket of white.

Some snacks at a pit-stop... ever-present hard liquor

I am not one to despair however, and we spent about an hour and a half for lunch, enjoying more Nepalese food prepared for us by a family up there. It was delicious, and the hospitality most excellent. Having finished lunch, and somewhat, though not totally, dejected at not having seen the mighty Himalaya’s.

Look at me and my wanderings forever orbiting...

Preparing to depart, we sat with our backs to the blanket of cloud, on a long bench in our hosts backyard.

“Look!” Someone said.

There it was. The clouds had momentarily parted, and we had our view. The four of us stood in silence, four equals across a tiny bench, looking out at the view before us. Words can’t do it justice, nor can pictures, I suspect, but have a look anyway – they are pretty special.

The walk after that was more one of contemplation and reflection, as if the mountain range had somehow given us reason for thought, and that having seen it, we were somehow a little different.

That said, getting back to our hotel after the long hike never felt so good, and that night we cosied up in our enchanting little room with hot water bottles in our bed. I looked forward to breakfast in the morning, for I was hungry, but felt a little tinge of regret for the fact that it wouldn’t be breakfast in Nepal once more. 

Mystery man of the mountain
 

Eerie mountain area

The three muskateers and an Austrian...excuse the terrible fashion

Taking tiger mountain

Your correspondent, reporting for duty!

Darjeeling

It’s a given in India that any tourist attraction you visit will have thousands and thousands of people in attendance. So, when you wake up at 4am, hop into a jeep still half asleep, start driving up a steep and rocky hill, you should not be surprised at the thousands of people that greet you. And, it should be added, that most of the tourists are in fact, Indians. White faces are few and far between.

No condition is sufficient to stop the almighty Indian tourist (even the non-touristic ones).

Now, in any sane country there are likely to be systems and process in place to ensure that people are not overly inconvenienced and that various resources – including people’s time – are put to their most efficient use. For instance, ski reports tell us when the weather conditions are insufficient for snow sports; we might learn on the radio that Saturday morning football is cancelled, or that there has been an accident on a local highway. Hardly a tough ask, one would say.

India has its share of weirdness, and also its share of natural and man-made wonders – perhaps more than most, on both counts, one would say. It has been well documented by now (see previous 28 blog entries) that there are many puzzling and bizarre things in India, as well as its rampant peculiarities. This said however, we can expect reasonable knowledge about fog delays at airports, information concerning the trains, and other matters concerning large numbers of people and their travel arrangements.

So, it would be fair to say, India is organised enough to informed the masses of what they need to know.

Darjeeling, apparently, didn’t get the memo.

THIS PHOTO WAS NOT TAKEN DURING THE SIEGE OF TIGER MOUTAIN

We didn’t exactly awake with relish, for we’d gotten to bed rather late, and the air was still chilly at 4am in the morning. Nevertheless, it was with a deeply suppressed but rapidly rising anticipation that we greeted our driver at the foot of our hotel, and began the journey upwards. In pitch black darkness we rocked and rumbled our way up Tiger Hill, soon joining the convoy of jeeps, trucks, and other cars (easily unfit for such a purpose). Whilst the mist and darkness surrounded us outside, our cosy little car began fogging up, and we were treated to a half-dozen endlessly repeating tracks, including “My Heart Will Go On” by Celene Dion, “Whisky Lullaby,” Dear God” by Avenged Sevenfold, and [enter catchy dance tune], all marvelously enjoyed by our stumpy little driver.

We bought a ticket amidst the cluster-fuck of confusion, and continued upwards to the tip of the mountain, where we were to see the great and almighty sun showering its early morning orange glow on the white snow of the Himalaya’s. You can understand the anticipation.

The site itself was more akin to a crowd of people clambering for the prize at the top of a three storey building. The building itself was utter crap, and had three ‘tiers’ which offered various degrees of viewing comfort out a clear plastic window, which of course, spanned the panorama of the room. The bottom level was utterly crammed with people; standing room only. Our room on the second floor was also crammed, but people were seated in little plastic seats, and the top room featured lazy-boys of the type you’d pay gold ticket prices for (...wankers). Just outside the building were a big crowd of people slammed up against a railing, braving the gold to get the pure, outside view. All up there were perhaps three to four hundred people around, half of which had a crappy Nokia cellphone that took 1.3 megapixel pictures to capture the moment. And of course, this being India, there were people hanging off every ledge, jumping over every railing, and standing on any platform that would support a human body.

The conditions are set for a magic mornings viewing.

It was probably about 5am by the time everyone was in position, snapping photos and occasionally letting up spontaneous but short-lived bursts of surprise. Sunset was set for 6:15am. Great. Only an hour and fifteen minutes to wait. Naturally, I bought a few cups of chai tea and sipped on that.

You might think, by now, what an abomination: confused, chaotic crowds of people, all clambering for the greatest view in the world. Well, not so bad really, just an uncomfortable position to put up with until your view presented itself in magnificent glory.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, the morning was utterly freezing – probably about 1 or 2 degrees – there was a ghostly fog closing itself in on us, and thick, dense cloud covered any mountain we might hope to see. So much for the view.

So, there were about a hundred people outside braving the freezing conditions staring into a thick blanket of pure white, another couple of hundred people across three floors staring through a window at a thick wall of white, and three bemused Kiwi’s laughing and enjoying the site of it all.

It’s quite fun entertaining oneself for an hour or so waiting for something that you’re not going to see, and which you busted your ass to get to. I suggest: selfies, photos with locals (whose the bigger attraction?), pushing through the crowd at whim, finding new places from which to view the blanket of white (railings, edge of open-air staircases), marvelling at the shitter, and taking bets on how many days it would be before you actually saw any anything at all. May is the month, I’m told, so that would be… about 150 days.

You get to a point where you call it – ‘we won’t see anything’ – but evidently for some people that takes a while (hope, I suppose) because they didn’t depart until the morning light had well and truly come, and the fog had only gotten thicker. We watched them slowly peel off.  

My name is Terry John Richard Taylor. I am a knob.

I did what any self-respecting tourist would do. I bought ten postcards (for a buck) and promptly threw them in the bin when I got back to the hotel. I normally never buy postcards, or other tacky tourist things for that matter, but for once I thought, if I’m not going to take Tiger Mountain, I might as well buy a postcard. 

Look at that happy chappy in the beanie and red jacket

Enchantment in room A10

Darjeeling

After our butt-reaming in Kolkata, it was with a sense of renewal that we boarded our flight to Badogra airport, which itself is 700km north of Kolkata. We left the yellow ambassadors and exhaust stained buildings behind, and flew north, to a place we didn’t really know much about, but had heard good things. The most common refrain was that Darjeeling was a place to chill out and get away from the intensity of everyday India.

We got a private taxi from the airport, which was at sea level, and immediately felt the fresh cool air and the warmth of the sun. We drove along flat roads with nice scenery on either side, and began a slow ascent up a winding hill, eventually driving to 2,000km altitude, the scenery getting more stunning the higher we climbed. The driver navigated the road with skill; had any of us been driving I don’t think I’d live to tell the tale.

Darjeeling is known as a hill station, and as you approach the city (approx. population 100,000), we saw all the houses and buildings nestled in and amongst the hillside, which itself was covered in thick forest. Needless to say, the building standards were a far cry from Wellington. In the event of an earthquake, I don’t think a single structure would survive. The streets were narrow, but wide enough for a truck and a few motorcycles, with two to three storied structures on either side. It felt cool riding into town, and after a bit of walking around we settled on the Dekeling Hotel.

It was here that our period of enchantment began. The people at the hotel seemed a world away from the people we were used to dealing with (and a million miles away from Kolkata). They were nice(!), friendly, spoke good English, gave you a fair deal, weren’t in your face, and were just generally lovely and pleasant. Figures, they were Nepalese, a people who have been through a difficult past, and seemed to respond to this with kindness and humility. The room we secured was at the top of the hotel – the attic – and we had to crouch over just to get in the door, and indeed, walk around half the room! It felt like being in Alice in Wonderland, especially given the fact Ben and I are both over 6 feet. Somebody bought some tea in (picked and packed in Darjeeling) and pointed out to us the view from the window. It was above anything else in the city, which seemed to slope treacherously downhill, and far off in the distance, when the cloud cleared (if only for an moment) you could see the deep snows of the Himalaya’s. It was a magical moment.

Our enchantment in room A10 continued when we hit the streets. The air was cool but not chilly, and people just enjoyed being out and about, operating at a leisurely pace. Our spirits lifted even higher when we realised we could feed the three of us (not small boys, by any means) for less than five dollars at any one of the many family run and owned restaurants, and enjoy the most delicious Nepalese food. The best places to eat, I found, where the small, hole in the wall type restaurants that no one had heard of, and largely consisted of kids and the rest of the family. We were normally the only ones dining, and the whole place could usually only fit about six people. We also dined at some more upscale restaurants, which were also delicious, and naturally, had more varied menus.

We would browse around at the markets and shops, and marvel at the magnitude of counterfeit goods – pretty decent quality stuff too, all things considered, and all from Hong Kong. I bought some imitation Adidas running shoes for about $30 which have since served me well. We also found ourselves in a tea shop, and watching the last over of an India vs NZ ODI, in which an Indian batter smashed fifteen off the last over to tie the game – what a match, and what a moment.

Later in the afternoon I went for a run by myself (having not convinced the other guys (yet) of the benefits of running). I ran up the hill past everyone coming down, trying to show off a little, and got to the top completely out of breath. It hit me: we were at altitude, and it was definitely harder to breath. Even walking up stairs I would get short of breath.

I continued along the Tenzing Norgay road, and soon realised something: the track I was running, and the run itself, was by far the best run I had ever done! Not for the speed at which I tracked (slow), nor the depth of my breathing (shallow), but for the scenery, the feeling, and the sheer exhilaration. On one side was steep hillside leading higher and higher, and on the other, huge mountainous valleys as far as the eye could see, with villages dotted all amongst and in around. As I rounded the corner, the late afternoon sun would cast its eye over a village high up in the hills off in the distance, creating a mirage like image. It was fantastic. Every so often I would ask for directions, and eventually found myself following the train tracks and winding through the town. The locals all looked at me bizarrely, I’m sure, but would almost always offer smiles and waves.

I felt truly privileged to be in Darjeeling. I enjoyed it so much, and had the most amazing time. It felt a world away from India, and in a more practical sense, as if we were in another country. It might as well have been, given the Nepalese and Chinese influence.

In the final analysis, the best thing about Darjeeling was how easy it was to be happy there; as easy as the Himalayan freshness, and as bright as the smiles of the people living there.

Enchantment indeed.

Turkey

With a little help from my friends

This is the legendary MO. A chance meeting - if slightly creepy on my part!

Kolkata

Sometimes in travel you get breaks; a stranger kindly offers you a room when you’re stranded; you catch a ride with someone, or somebody helps you out when you’re lost, or sick. Other times you don’t get breaks, and you’ll be stuck at an airport for 6 hours until the fog lifts, you’ll wind up in a hotel with no air conditioning and no cable T.V., (oh, the agony!) or you’ll catch a bug from something you’ve eaten the previous night. These things you can handle. They’re an annoyance, but they’re part of the deal, the trade. There’s no joy or pleasure with some work to get there.

But there are other times when things happen that you’re not equipped to deal with on your own Such times lead to the inevitable tests of character, the throw-your-hands-in-the-air moment, or the despair of a spirit or feeling lost. In other words, you hit breaking point; you lose your shit.

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Thankfully I haven’t really had any of those travel moments. Our little episode in Kolkata fell into the annoyance category, but did put a dampener on an otherwise very enjoyable night.

MO flew with us to Kolkata. The coolest thing about Kolkata (before you discover it, so-to-speak) is the amount of yellow Ambassador cars cruising the road, and their spacious back seats. You might as well be in a 1970’s porn film with their interior design, though I assure you I wasn’t thinking such things as we drove through the Kolkata night in one of these cars.

MO checked in at the Chrome Hotel, while we stayed at the nearby Rockstar Hotel (a real shithole) down the road, as the Chrome didn’t have any rooms available. The four of us enjoyed a huge, delicious meal in a downtown restaurant, before heading to the rooftop of the Chrome bar for a drink.

This is where the fun begins.

We ordered four gin and tonics, with the bartending showing us INR1,600 on the calculator. Okay, that’s dear by Indian standards (that’s NZD$8 each) but we can live with it. Mo signed for it (a later point of contention). We enjoyed the drink and the conversation on the rooftop, and sent Swags in to order four more. After about ten minutes, he hadn’t returned, and it was getting cold. By the time we got in, an argument was ensuing. Turns out, the drinks were INR1,600 each, meaning the total bill for eight drinks, four of which we’d drunk and four of which were on the counter, was INR12,000, or NZD$240! That’s NZD$30 for a measly gin and tonic. That, by anyone’s standards, is ludicrous.

The disagreement came over the fact that the bartender quoted us the price for one drink, not all four, as we thought.

We went down to the foyer, and spent about half an hour arguing with management. Our differences were stark. They said we had to pay for all eight drinks, at INR1,600 each, because otherwise they were on the hook for it. Ours was that we were misled in the price, and that we were being ripped off big time.

Deals and cross deals ensued. They said all kinds of garbage, such as Bombay Saphire gin being premium, and that if we went to another place and drunk other types of gin, we would be taking huge risk with our kidneys. Adding to the dilemma was the fact that, according to the manager, the bartender and his manager would be on the hook for the bill, which would be a safety issue for MO, as in-a-sense, they would 'fuck-him-up' if he left the hotel.

At one point the manager said “I cannot guarantee your safety outside the hotel,” and for some reason, reasoned with MO that he was from Switzerland, a country that specialised in making knives. He was a sleazy sort of chap, the type that steals small amounts of liquor from spirit bottles to sell on the side, and proclaims to be a god-fearing Catholic. What a dirtbag.

We eventually cut a deal, finished off the remaining four drinks, then arranged to meet up in a few days in Darjeeling, all the while feeling slightly worried about our friend MO.

To make matters worse, the next day, after sleeping in the Rockstar Hotel, and waking early to catch a flight, I felt itchy bites all over my ankles and lower back. Bed bugs – yuck.

We didn’t get a break in Kolkata, really, and it really soured the experience, but in time we made peace with it (more about this later). All I know is that, it would have been much worse without a little help from my friends.

(full credit to RS, and MO for his coolness under fire, not to mention generosity)

The curious case of Christopher King

Varanasi

I tell a small fib sometimes: visiting India has always been a childhood dream of mine. The truth is, visiting India has never really been a childhood dream. The country didn’t cross my mind until sometime in my early twenties.

What I really wanted to do was visit Varanasi, and the reason I wanted to do that was because Brad Pitt’s character in “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” went there. In my favourite sequence of the movie, Benjamin is washing his clothes and shaving on the River Ganga as his daughter Caroline narrates a letter he wrote to her over the top. The sequence is very moving, and ever since seeing it, I’ve wanted to visit Varanasi. I’ve now achieved that goal.

Our flight to Varanasi was delayed by six hours due to fog in Delhi, and I began worrying that our ride wouldn’t be there when we arrived. Our guesthouse was an hour and a half away from our guest house. You can imagine my relief when a sign with my name on it greeted us outside the airport. Not quite Benjamin Button, but close enough.

Varanasi is said to be one of the oldest cities in the world, dating back to 5,000 BC. On the drive it, it certainly feels very intense, and very old, and it’s a noticeable step-up in intensity from the places we’d been previously.

It was dark by the time we arrived, and after settling in to our Guesthouse (located right on the river with some amazing views) we walked along the Ghats beside the river. Naturally, we were soon offered drugs. We declined.

After a while we came across probably one of the most intense scenes in life to date – the burning Ghats. At the Ghats, they literally carry dead bodies down from the city and place them on beds of wood for cremation. By the time we got there, four of five fires were burning, and you can imagine our unease at seeing charcoaled bodies right in front of our eyes, still burning away. For the record, a body on those beds is eventually reduced to a lump of heavily charcoaled meat; not pleasant. The searing heat of the fires, the smoke watering your eyes, the smell of burning bodies – all these things combine to create an unforgettable, if disturbing, experience.

The next day, after a sleep in, we had breakfast, and spent the afternoon walking up and down the Ghats. They are a whirl of activity, with people doing all manner of things. The most popular Ghats is full of tourists and hawkers, and you quickly want to get out of there. Walk further along and you’re amongst normal life again, with people washing clothes, bathing themselves, or just hanging out. As you walk along the Ghats, the view looking back looks really amazing, as all the colours of the buildings on the banks, and the multitude of steps, plus the river flowing beside it, give a psychedelic feel to the place.

This one is called... "Yobin and the cow"

I watched a burning ceremony for about one hour in the afternoon. First the body is washed in the water. Then the wood is stacked up, the body placed in the middle, and then the fire stoked from beneath using straw, cloth, and other kindling type material. The fire smokes heavily at first, and heats up over an hour or so until it becomes an intense furnace capable of cremation. Watching the body heat up at first, then begin to darken, you really can’t do anything but wonder in silence. I have an image locked in my head I don’t think I’ll ever forget – that of flesh melting of a human skull into the fire below. What you see in movies doesn’t even come close. By the time I’d walked further round the Ghats, had lunch, and walked back along the scene, the body has severely reduced into a slab of meat resembling a human chest. All the while, other bodies are washed and prepared for cremation. At any one time there are four of five fires going.

The next day we took a break from the intensity of it and watched New Zealand play India at cricket. We smoked them, thankfully, and enjoyed a day lazing around in the Guesthouse and going out when it suited us.

I took many photos from the rooftop of the Guesthouse. One of them was a lone male being rowed along the river Ganga by an Indian man. An hour or so later, I was flicking through my photos, only to find the guy I coincidentally photograph was sitting right beside us. ‘Mo’ (real name Manuel O) from Switzerland became our instant friend, and continued on the journey to Kolkata with us, and would eventually meet us in Darjeeling. He was, and is a top bloke.

I don’t think Benjamin Button would have stayed in a Guesthouse (but he had to stay somewhere, right?), and I didn’t shed my clothes and clean myself like he did; but then again, he is a character of fiction, and didn’t get to smell burning flesh and see human skin melting off a skull. I don’t know if I’m better for the experience, but I’ve achieved a goal I set myself, and if anything, satisfied my curiosity.

The adventures of John T. Swagger

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