A jot jaded in Jaipur

The train journey to Jaipur began with a typical sea of unashamed staring, however in this case perhaps more murderous than ever, and we even received some offensive shoving and wafting on our passage through the heaving train. One portly man, with enchanting eyes and an unsavoury approach to seating legs akimbo given the risque dhoti man skirt he was donning, who had been glaring with unnerving fervour turned out to be most altruistic and offered me board above the leather bench seating to save my legs. In the flipping crippling luggage compartments! Cue 3 and a half hours of agonising jostling on the unforgiving metal bars cramped into a foot squared of space. Jack wasn't doing much better squeezed onto the bench intended for 3 beside at least 5 other people. I quickly became a bit of a transient celebrity and was showered with beedy cigarettes, seasoned nuts with lime and onion and biscuits passed up by eager hands from below. When we arrived in Jaipur, the famous city of pink nestled in the majestic centrality of Rajasthan along a line of formideable historical habitations such as blue-hued Jodhpur and the sandy giant fort of Jaisalmer in the desert, we were expecting more sedate surroundings splashed with small, crumbling cubby holes and perhaps a dusty old castle in the distance. And so we were slightly taken

Inconspicuous invaders in the train station

 aback by the vastness of the city, its haughty hum of the traffic and the screeching of brakes with the familiar clash of horns- all sounds we'd grown more than accustomed to this month, but having more recently transited tranquilly through an archaic backdated cluster of litte towns we'd almost blissfully forgotten the characteristic clamour of denser dwellings. We began a search for a cosy little hide away to offer respite from the enormous city we suddenly found rising dizzily around us. The Lonely Planet hotel recommendation was a little soulless, too neat and clean for our seasoned tastes.  

We appealed to our rickshaw driver for advice, but his first suggestion was unfortunately a little far from the center and a bit pricey. Although the colonial era style was intriguing. If not a little too dappled with exotic, endandgered animal hide. But like Goldilocks and the three bears, or Jo & Jack and the three havelis, the third and final attempt was a real winner. Our driver's recommendations had improved impressively alongside our fumbled attempts to convey the rustic, authentic nature of our aspirations captured masterfully within simple adjectives that bridged the language barrier such as 'maharaja', 'colourful' and 'drapes'. Well done Mr. Driver! Nestled in a quiet little side street near the old town centre, we found a towering mock-style heritage haveli with ornate alcoves around our balcony door and period wooden furniture to match the early 20th century decadence. It was a small price to pay that Jack kept drastically misjudging the corner to our patio table bashing his shoulder tortuously against the stone recesses that hemmed the door.

We climbed two flights of wide winding stairs excitedly to arrive on a beautiful, deserted rooftop terrace with little canvas canopies enclosing sofa snugs around pretty marble tables. We ordered a beer and slipped into more Kingfisher sponsored drunkness, watching an traditional local puppet show with raucous rounds of knee-slapping adoration and applause before enthusiastically quizzing the two gypsy guys who commandeered the stage with their bewildering display of rudimentary puppetering, which steadily progressed to us being hideously ripped off but delighted with a giant puppet of our own in the shape of an elegant Maharani queen who reveals an alterego Maharaja from under her skirt on the flip side. 

In the morning, we ventured into town to stroll through the markets, and check out the local trades. We began jocosely delving whole-heartedly into shops to try

on various amusing articles of worn leather chapals, oestentacious turban headgear and loud sunglasses. However, this gregariousness only served to find us beset on all sides by baying propreitors. We quickly began to adapt to the harsh environment and developed evasive techniques such as a myriad of foreign exclamations of confusion, basic guttural sounds denoting a complete lack of comprehension, or my personal favourite: a feigned yet commited allusion to a total inability to speak, like Ariel in The Little Mermaid. The only establishment that got my undivided attention and a fair share of my rupees, was the infamous MG Sweet Shoppe and their glimmering and vast array of deliciously alluring lumps and chunks of sugary goodness. I generally try and force feed these to Jack on a daily basis, vibrantly promoting their various ingredients and consequential virtues despite his perennial and unfaltering dislike. On this occasion though, he capitulated and sunk his teeth into a rose petal variety, but it all culminated with his disdain unfortunately intact.

We headed for the astoundingly unimpressive palace of Jaipur at great cost despite the fact they were setting up shambolically for some sort of event. The place was strewn with ladders, tools and wires, and a hoard of insensate workmen who stared stoically back at punters looking to circumvent their obstruction, having parted with a painful 300 rupees for

the injustice. There was however, a seriously formideable amoury, far more gruesome, extensive and inventive than any we'd seen, and two enormous silver urns wrought from 14,000 completely beaten unsouldered coins said to hold 4,000 liters which were transported all the way to English soil by the pious Hindu Maharaja Sawai Madho Singh II filled with drops from the river Ganges to acompany hi, to King Edward VII's coronation so that he may not need to consume English water. Having seen the state of ghe Ganges first hand, this seems somewhat rich. Other than that, Jaipur palace was pretty disappointing. Our next stop conversely, was thankfully an utter marvel. The Jantar Mantar is one of 5 observatories built by avid star-gazer Raja Jai Singh II between 1727 and 1734 to provide a large expanse of lofty instruments for both he and his keen cosmological pupils to conduct investigations and map the stars whilst scrupulously studying astrology. We opted to employ a guide to articulate each instrument, and acquired some flash looking smooth operator with a vat of gel dripping down from his slick hair in the swealtering heat, peering out behind giant shiny sunglasses who whizzed us round on the borderline of disinterested. We however found the whole thing completely enchanting and pryed with a few extra questions to get our money worth. After this, we took a wander into the park nearby, stopping at a serious score of street vendors for our extensive lunch of sweet and sour filled puri balls, vegetable burgers and more MG sweets, for me. 

To remedy a tiring day of wandering lost along the unforgiving streets having completely misjudged the grandueur of the old city, we hopped in a taxi and headed up into the hills to the small fort we could see atop a cliff cresting Jairpur to the North. We arrived in the nick of time as the winding 8km journey was far longer than we'd expected, and rushed in as the last visitors of the day to look out over the walls of the perculiar fort which had been rennovated fairly substandardly in what looked like recent history, its painted walls displaying attempts at the antiquated Indian style art but looking more like cartoons. The views however were astounding, and we quickly found our way to a very welcome licesnsed West facing outdoor restaurant to enjoy a beer and some pakoda as guests to the sinking sun. The light was magnificent, casting and orange and pink glow over the darkening city.

Trials and tribulations of the day were ameliorated, shrinking with the light and as the sun

hit the horizon and the call to prayer rung out over the expanse, as the sheer strength of the sounds drifting up was suddenly brought into focus. Hovering hundreds of feet up high, I guess we hadn't expected to sense any of the city's soundscape intimately, but gazing out over the vast sea of lights that were flickering on in the night, we realised the city was as large as London, and producing a proportional din. After the serene sunset, we bumbled arm in arm down a stony 2km winding pathway snaking the side of the mountain back into the city, much easier than the 8km drive and a serious saviour as there was not a rickshaw in sight at the entrance to the fort under cover of darkness.

The following day we headed out at 5:30, destined for Monkey Temple to the East to see the sunrise. We finally arrived after our driver (brother of the haveli Manager, and as such vastly more expensive it turned out) had picked us up 15 minutes late, stopped twice in an attempt to fill his rickshaw with petrol angrily finding all the stations shut before getting lost heading in the wrong direction down a dual-carriage way for 10 minutes. But we found this more amusing than anything, being far in advance of the rising sun still, and began the walk up a steep and stony path to the crest of two meeting mountains. The scene was animated by the awakening of those who lived there; goat herders, mothers of many and groups of jocular early morning local laughing yoga enthusiasts who would erupt into violent laughter at the top of their lungs into the crisp, misty air. Rounding a corner onto the

declivity dowm he other side revealed a sharp skyline of majestic mountains. Their tips shrouded in dense cloud to the edge of a sunken cluster of small temples and snaking stairways which lead to deep and mystical stony pools. But no monkeys. We wandered around, soaking up the strange solitary atmosphere, and fending off the vehement attempts of the lone holy man wafting us expectantly towards his favourite shrine, muttering mainly of course about donations and bushkars. Having satisfied our curiosity checking out the sporadically strewn temple, we were heading back for the stony path and decided to scale daringly the large ridge to our right which seemed to be overlooking a sharp drop some hundred feet down into the valley in which monkey temple was mystically nestled. After some hairy clambering, we found ourselves high atop the quiet movements below, elevated above large masking condensation clouds which were scattering the growing light mysteriously. We sat and quietly watched the ghostly sun rising through the mists enjoying our perspective. Not long after, a terrifying rabble erupted behind emmited by hundreds of monkeys plunging down through the mountain undergrowth from where we'd come early that morning. It was a disquietening sight accompanied by a symphony of fearful screeches. We sheepishly descended the sanctuary of our peak and ventured through the stone pool beleagured with babbling monkeys, males throwing their weight around for all to see, mothers clutching their babies alert to all goings on, and boisterous juvenilles bounding around playfully. We sat amidst the madness for several minutes, occasionally offering a danging foot as aparatus to facilitate swinging or scrambling up or down the wall. To our recurrent fright and delight.

Mastering the mountains

When we were back with our rickshaw man after the wonderful sunrise exploration, we headed for the Amber fort about 11 km outside of Jaipur. The enormous construction peeked out from behind thick cloud as we grew closer, marvelling at its size higher still in the mountains. A train of enormous decorated elephants carried visitors up on their cushioned backs, whose legs we dodged skillfully to arrive at the entrance. We looked around for several hours, taking shots on Jack's ancient Nikon film camera he'd inherrited judging aperature, ISO, F stops and other whimsical settings. After a coffee we headed back via a glorious water temple plonked out in the middle of a huge lake behind the city and implored our driver drop us at the zoo rather than our hotel as we still had several hours before our train to Delhi. 

The incriminating Pal Mahal photo

Thus ensued a fierce altercatiom as our imperious guide, who had openly refused to allow us to stop where we desired on the lake for a view of the Pal Mahal ensuring us he had a much better position (which turned out to be centre of tens of tourists and tacky plastic toys and souvenirs for sale), was now decreeing in a haughty manner that we were breaking contract with our sudden request to divert from our initial end point. It seemed irrelevant that this journey was a good 2-3km shorter than our initial route and our attempts at conveying this went unheeded. It was around this time our patience wore as thin as the down trodden fraying fabric of our tattered shoes and even the indomitable Jack was stirred into battle. Our driver called in a friend who happened to be passing by for moral support in the dispute, and we hashed it out for 10 to 15 minutes trying to helpfully enforce the idea that the customer is always right, an ethos we were sorely missing. After much turmoil, we pulled up beside the zoo and endeavoured to engage in a final knowing handshake with the driver sharing a not unfriendly glare of ultimate mutual acknowledgement and respect but with a prevailing antithectical stance, With the touts in the shops, the ticket holders at the landmarks, the laborourers in the palace, the drivers of the rickshaws, we have found an unassilable indifference to the customary reverence of the customer and the value of comsumer rights that we enjoy so unknowingly back home. With everything becoming a minor battle, you have to constantly remind yourself of the difference in culture so as to prevent events from having the feeling of a aggrivating person affront. Having warded off that innate presumption, most people seem to be like unassuming water coconuts and are found to have a soft interior beyond the tough exterior husk. So we left our driver without an overall sense of ingratitude and headed, via the diabolical zoo we left within 10 minutes, to the train station to depart for Delhi.

On the prowl.......

So we arrived late in Bundi and quickly found a cute little room in a slightly dilapidated haveli with no less than 11 windows. Although unlike the Jodhpur palace of dreams, this one had a whole wall of bizzare puzzled windows of varying sizes shapes and sizes with opague filling, rendering the outside unviewable, doubly so as they were all locked tight. We did have a small balcony though, which overlooked a little side street temple caked in draping electrical wires bundled into precarious clusters all buzzing madly. So we looked out happily over the town and snuffling hairy pigs scrounging around below, all the while preparing for possible electric shock. Dinner was served by a lovely aspiring musician in the rooftop restaurant next door effulgent with a blinding glow of a thousand fairy lights.

We slipped quickly into inhebriation after a constant stream of cocktails, also slipping into comfortable recline with the owner who proceeded to serenade us for most of the night. It pains me to say, but not only were his song choices utterly perculiar, they were delivered with forceful vibrance in a really rather disagreeable tone-deaf splurge from a stifling 3 feet away in an empty restaurant. Sweet guy though! There was absolutely no way I could make eye-contact with Jack with the violent eruption of giggles bubbling up fast in my belly so we carefully avoided locking eyes lest unacceptably rude hysterics burst forth mid-shoddy-solo. I later found he was doing exactly the same.

We woke early to scale the precipituous palace and ancient abandoned fort up a long and toilsome stony path through the shrubby mountain, between the inadviseable hours of 11 and 1pm. With the sun at its zenith our sweat runneth bountifully. But the exploration of the overgrown and crumbling 13th century fort and the views of the expansive valley it afforded were awesome.

After lunch, we hopped on a bus to Kota 2 hours South of Bundi where we were to board a 2 hour train to Sawai Madhopurwhich which was not far from Ranthambhore National Park. We headed for a hotel recommended in the Loney Planet as a top budget option, but it looked a bit like a crack den with flickering surgical lights illuminating the entrance foyer, so we opted for a swankier marbled number a few doors down. We ate a weird room service dinner with two attempts at fresh lime soda which were each and progressively utterly disgusting tasting a bit like egg and salt. Conveying our complaint, and as a matter of fact our entire order in the first place to the staff who perplexingly, being stationed in the tourism industry, spoke not a word of English, was an interesting battle.

We woke at 7am to head off on our first safari into the park. Admittedly the drive to its edge was a bit disillusioning. Many hotels with tacky photoshopped images of tigers were displayed brazenly in front and many ill-tempered townsfolk glared at us in our gypsy jeep like unwelcomed guests. But upon entering the park, we were stunned by the early morning sunrise shooting shards of misty light through the dew dropped trees. Nestled in a car with 4 other English people, an older couple from the North and two young and funny girls from London was a nice break from the aforemnetioned animosity of locals and we kept our eyes peeled for wildlife whilst recalling and swapping stories of abberant travel journeys in India. There was loads of beautiful spotted deer, antelope and beautiful birds everywhere. My favourite was the giant Indian tree pie. Much like our black and white one, but bigger, and orange! Simple things. Also, apparently this gutsy species is known for cleaning the flesh out of tigers' teeth, so we were edging closer to the beasts in some way. The babblers who landed about the car with the tree pies, obviosuly expecting a treat from passers by which must be the norm, was another favourite. Its mad, darting yellow eyes alonside it's corpulent spherical figure made it look ruffled and crazy.

The tour was wonderful as we saw reams of animals wandering idly in their natural habitat and the scenery was stunning, edged with lush mounds of mountains and hillocks all around. We ate a more successful meal than the evening previous atop our hotel and chilled until our next ride at 2:30pm. As soon as we entered the park we spotted footprints, and heard warning calls of antelope and deer signifiying some disturbance in the animal kingdom. So we took off after the footprints and scaled a severely bumpy track edging up a steep hill to oversee a giant section of the park from maybe a hundred feet high. No tigers. But a stunning view! We'd seen very little on this jounrey, as the trip to the top had taken so long and we began our descent heading slowly in the general direction for the exit. When we were on flat ground our driver's ears pricked as we heard loud warning calls. A few other jeeps were visible in the distance, so we lay low with them observing the environment for more signs and signals of our target.

What transpired over the following 45 minutes was utterly elating, enchanting, bewildering, distressing and a spectrum other conflicting emotions. By the time we were growing certain a big cat was at least in near proximity judging by the behaviour of the other animals, perhaps 10 other jeeps had arrived. A bellicose bellowing erupted from a cluster of vehicles as someone had spotted a flash of stearked orange in the grass. The sound was deafening and the atmosphere was tense. The idiotic guides were actually arguing furiously with one and other in regards to the location of the beast and the relative location of their jeeps. We were at the back of the whole charade, sat beside our 'spotter' who had done very little but look at his phone for the durtion of the journey so far, but was decidedly more animated at this point and actually leapt from the jeep abandoning us and beelining for the commotion for a better look himself. With our head in our hands, we couldn't help but feel a strong sense of shame and sorrow for the tiger if it was infact near by, and the unscrupulous disturbance to it's habitat and natural behaviour to which we were unfornately begrudgingly complict. And at this moment of silent dispair, not 20 feet from us, a large and beautiful tiger stepped out from the bushes to our left...

The effect of this sighting is indescribeable, I just remember my heart leaping and my eyes stinging with disbelief. I clung on to Jack's back as we both actually gasped in awe, and he raised his camera to catch the moment. All of this happened in a slow-motion split second, as in a flash the other beasts present at this circus hurtled into action. Vying to get their load of tousits as close to the action for a tip as close to their estimations as possible there was a crash of action from all surrounding jeeps. Whilst the gorgeous tiger steped svetly through the undergrowth, holding our transfixed gazes, drivers thrust their vehicles into dangerous manouvers overtaking one and other smashing through the scenery to move closer. Our moronic man had turned on a sixpence and darted in front of a row of at least 5 jeeps bringing us within perhas 15 feet of the tiger, the only time it aknowledged any of our existences, snarling slightly with displeasure at the encroachment.

We couldn't help but feel utterly disillusioned by the fiasco, but at the same time utterly blsssed to be in the company of such a rare and beautiful creature in as near as natural habitat, protected (almost entirely) from humans and their disasterous and deathly desires. It was so incredibly stunning, and so utterly unexpected, we felt unbelievably lucky to be beside a majestic tiger within only 3-4 hours being spent in the park. It's giant formideable muscles moving beneath its infamous fur as it loped through the hot afternoon air amongst the trees was a sight I'll never forget. Its glorious head was so large, and striped with beautiful markings and is forever etched into my memory. It stood beside a low branching tree with its long tail heald high curling perfectly at the tip and enjoyed a deep yawn after a day long nap to avoid the sweltering sun. All this I'll remember, whilst I ty to forget the reaction of the locals, stewards who are suppopsedly entrusted with its protection. Seeing the top carnoivore in India conjoured imaginings of their dominance of the wild over-taken ruthlessly by human beings' blood lust, and recalling hunting images from the tea museum in Munnar made it all the more real how absurd it would have been to respond to such a sight with murderous inclinations. Let alone the ridicudlous response of the exploitative rangers in our company. I guess the tiger is in a safe environment from murderous poachers, and money from tourists is hopefully sidled into preservence of the large park where they're free to roam and hunt. And whilst it's not necessarily the wild and the lush untouched jungles its great great ancestors would've been king amongst, at least it's alive, and well.

The whole experience was classic India. Unbelievable beauty superseded by a pervading lack of common sense. Oh yea, speaking of common sense, I happened to have misplaced my camera prior to this excursion... Symbolic of the mysterious nature of the tiger and its secretive existence perhaps? Well, this is how I consolled myself. (Alternatively, attend Mr Jack Fillery's India exhibition in May for further photographic enlightenment.) 

We fell back into our room completely bewildered and uncharacteristically speechless, stunned by our fortune. We ventured on one more almost perfuntory safari the next morning, still on a high from our spoting the previous day, before heading for the train station bound for Jaipur.

Whoops. This post turned into a whopping essay again... Sorry.

The People of Pushkar

Too many selfies, I know. Sorry

After an early walk into Jodhpur's heaving avenue of cooking items in search of a gift to embellish Jack's father's repertoire, we arrived back at Singhv's Haveli and its wonderfully friendly staff who had booked us our journey to the bus. We boarded a cooky little rickshaw which trundled us to the bus station. Perplexingly, we were driven to a roadside stop to wait for a small and ridiculous people carrier which then took us about half a kilometer down the road to another bus stop to board another coach. The Tata branded little bubble vehicles can hold perhaps 4-5 people in the back, although locals are more to likely squeeze 8-9 aboard the little tottering chassis which sways precariously over the small and narrow wheel arches, notably more on corners. It is a little noddy cart we've ridden in a few times at various points in India with amusement, while harbouring the quiet unspoken concern of rolling...

The dusty old bus felt, if possible, more dilapidated than almost any we'd ridden so far, but matched the arid sandy landscape we were whizzing through within it. The only event to stir us from lazy hazy starring out the grubby semiopaque windows was when Jack's arm, which had been resting happily out the open window in support of his camera during photo shots of the transit, was covered in a reddish paste of warm chunky matter. I happened to be dozing blissfully unaware beside him when I was woken to tidings of the terrible trojectory which had splattered disgustingly down his arm. A portly old woman on the bed bench seats above had hideously hockd up either a horrifying hunk of her lunch or perhaps been ridding herself of the repugnant remnants of pad tobacco she had been loathsomely ruminating. I was up in a flash and emphatically rebuking the puking

Amazingly amused after 'the ordeal'

monstrosity of a woman for her impetuous purge and was met with an insolent smile and what really felt like feigned incomprehension, accompanied by a smile. The only utterance to emit from the perpetrator and her cohort was a redundant 'mind out' in poorly pronounced English from her male accomplice. With any further fury futile and falling on oblivious ears I studiously set to desperately disinfecting an impressively calm Jack, and committed my only act of littering on this entire trip whilst ejecting the tainted wet wipes with disgust out of the window. Sorry Mother Nature, but this was an emergency...

We were dropped on the road side, in the middle of nowhere again, beside another confused Swedish couple, and after half an hour of bewildering dialogue with locals we found a bus station to take us to Pushkar. We arrived following a surprisingly smooth half an hour journey having witnessed a glorious iridescent sunset from the windows of the busy bus which cost about 7p to ride. We opted for modest lodgings, spending £3 per night this time, following the opulence of Jodhpur. The little homestay which we were shown to by a small friendly man had a magical little fairy lit rooftop terrace which overlooked a little street that connected us to the small town centre. From the vantage point in this cosy rooftop restaurant we saw a wedding procession directing a devillishly dapper groom riding triumphantly on horse back. The crash of sound reached our ears ahead of the sight as a more than ample marching band beat their drums and blew their horns furiously, followed by dozens of men holding giant torches ablaze with a thousand brilliant lights which were powered, in all honesty, by long, trailing electrical lines linked to a generator on the back of a truck which tailed along behind. Pretty funny watching such an opulent display with mad behind-the-scenes guys running frantically around. We ventured down into the fray and after a brief back alley arm wrestle with some whiskey swilling locals found a small garden restaurant which we slipped into and sipped cocktails with clay oven cooked pizzas laughing shamelessly hard at our relentless repertoire of in-jokes that have been developing infamously over the weeks. Anyone sat in close proximity probably hated us for our rubbish sense of humour, but they keep us in stitches, and that all that matters. Right?

Made it! AND before 7am

We woke at 5am to scoot off to a small mountain South of the town, and climbed hundreds of crumbling stairs in the dark to seek a lofty vantage point for sunrise around 7:30. As first on the scene alongside our climbing partner Martin, from Germany I think, we watched a small and steady stream of sweaty adventurers arrive over the following hour, before witnessing the magnificent orange glow of the unobstructed sun breaking over the majestic misty mountains in the distance. Spying Pushkar from above displayed its central lake beautifully, and made it easy to navigate the little street which fanned out around when we were back on the ground later.

A group of calm black-faced langur monkeys joined us for the event and we sipped chai together in earnest appreciation of an ethereal morning. 

When back on the ground we visited a temple dappled with ancient coin inlays and were forced into a slightly manic pooja offering, sort of begrudgingly tossing spices and flowers into the lake before being forcefully implored to leave a donation. The pushy religeous displays unfortuantely wear a bit thin after the 10th or 20th thousand time. We circumvented the lake dipping into a spectrum of handicraft and hippie shops to pickup gifts and garments and ate some delicious vegetarian street food from a chirpy man assisted by his giant smoking pan. The friendly kitchen guys even helped me divide up a pineapple I'd been hopefully carrying around, and we shared it accordingly. A group of pretty gypsy girls adorned in beautiful saris and sparkling jewels took a slice sharing their sugar cane whilst we discussed the possibility of a dance class late in the afternoon. Should've gone really, mainly to see Jack and his robust beard dragged around on the dance floor in the middle of the day by a clan of zealous gypsies The blistering sun beat down on our backs as we rounded the far side of the lake and crossed some whimsical white-clad holy men walking with sticks and exchanged a cheerful Namaste. Having learned enough Hindi to offer a friendly 'app kay see hang' or 'how are you' not only seems to mean we get less burned during financial exchanges, perhaps decreasing our tourist price inflation by a sizable percentage, but also conjours convivial connections during brief hellos with passers by. Possibly the best picture Jack has take so far was of the proud and jovial gentleman with seriously sagacious white mustache and beard combos modelled happily in front of the lake. We bid fond farwells, strolled in opposite directions, and executed acute high fives when we'd checked out the stellar photo. Once Jack's gone through ghe 4,000 pictures he's taken so far (honestly) we'll be able to revisit the moment.

At 4pm we had a date with  the gypsy camp on the edge of town. Jack had met a guy when filling up our bike with petrol and we were invited to go back and hang out. We sat with Vijay and a constant stream of crazy kids peeking their heads round the edge of the simple tent where we were sat drinking chai, giggling, pointing and practicing their English - which gave us the perfect opportunity to practice our awkward Hindi much to everyone's rapturous delight! Vijay was such an inspiring 21 year old who had befriended an American woman years ago, and set up many of the camp kids in private school with the help of her funding. His vision for his extenxed family and friends which encompasses every member of the large camp was so admirable and he was so enthusiastic, we were truly touched. He even had a beautiful girlfriend from Dursley Chime a few miles from home in Poole, who had spent a few months in Pushkar and fallen in love with the camp and its mischevious kids. Small world! We were marched around playing a myriad of hilarious games, spinning gleeful children wildly and sometimes dangerously with every step, not that anyone seemed to mind at all. My favourite little guy was the tiny spikey haired nutter who I nicknamed Coconut, for his unruly do. During

Coconut

every round of tag or Hindi chanting group games we played, inevitably I was mercilessly picked on and finished the afternoon covered in sand and dirt having fallen over, alot. We finished off a few more cups of chai and some delicious spicy aloo (potato) and left feeling utterly inspired by the enthusiasm of the children and the application of Vijay's aspirations. Being surrounded by people with so little, but such alot of energy willing to share everything was a humbling experience. Jack took some wonderful pictures of the gorgeous children smirking cheekily and thought it would be cool to contribute with proceedings from a future exhibition perhaps... Feeling elated and energised, we had a hilarious dinner at Sixth Sense, where we laughed way too much perhaps more affected by the infectious mischief of the michevious children. Nothing to do with the enormous beers.

The owner of our bedsit and his little son/ nephew/ cousin were hilarious. When we arrived home slightly sozzled, the elder yet alarmingly small manager slumped heavily into Jack's arms after a seriously fuzzy, misjudged knuckle bump perhaos having had too many gins or too many jazz cigarettes. Who knows. We propped the little guy back onto his shakey legs and slipped quietly away from the confusing and stilted conversation that was developing. Mid-morning the little pre-pubescent one was watching ostentaciously loud moderate to hardcore porn on his tablet slack-jawed in the middle of the restaurant whilst I sat stunned beside Jack who was talking on Skype. Having finally removed myself from that situation and settling our meagre bill, we made our way back to the camp with our bags on our backs and a sack full of sweets and biscuits to say our fond farewells. Then we hopped reluctantly on a bus and were immersed in a moment of queit abandon reflecting on all the characters contained in the little village we were leaving.  Bound for the train station, we began our journey to a little town called Bundi which we had randomly selected with an iny-miny-miny-mo technique for a stop off on our way to Ranthambore national park for some tiger hunting! Poor choice of verb perhaps, tiger spotting I meant.

 

Moist Mahal

We had sensibly decided to break up the epic 24 hour pilgrimage across the northern states from Uttar Pradesh to Rajasthan, with an allegedly unmisseable interval in Agra perusing its cultural jewels. I initially thought the sleeper train would offer welcome respite from the hectic and heaving streets of Varanasi, however it quickly became apparent that the environment was infact not dissimilar in its oppressive nature. The burning stares of innumerable voyeurs were now in continually closer proximity than those which we had left behind. In each carriage there are around eight cosy compartments encaging eight people in each. The space was organised into seating and beds for six against one window, and a further marginally more spacious two beds beside a thin gangway which picked through the mayhem. For approximately £3 each we had secured tickets to traverse the 1,185km across the country with a stop off alongside the Taj Mahal, and the foolish frugality of our financial investment showed immediately. After an uncomfortable hour or so of avoiding, then ostentatiously attempting to engage the bold and unremitting glares from unperturbed men, women and children, we ascended to our precarious sleeping quarters having locked our bed boards into place with the use of great, thick chains. Comforted to some small degree by occupying beds opposite each other, we closed our eyes and slipped into uneasy sleep, stirred at regular and terrifying intervals either by other rambunctious trains thundering past, or the malodorous stench of the slightly primitive and certainly  poorly preserved toilets which divided each unsavoury carriage. 

With good knowledge of the habitual lack of announcement prevalent in in the transportation systems, we awoke in good time before passing through Agra, and leapt off the battered train around 7am. We checked our bags into the out-dated cloak room and stepped out of the train station into steady lugubrious drizzle. We selected one of the frenetic taxi drivers at random, under the one provision that he would transport us in something more substantial than a sodden rickshaw for the day. With depleted energy levels due to the uncomfortable sleep of the previous night, we quickly agreed on an almost certainly extortionate fare for the journey and made our way to the Taj Mahal.

Due to the exquisite nature of its existence, vehicles which run on anything but environmentally friendly autogas are not allowed within one kilometer of its glistening walls. We trudged through the deluge to be confronted by further rigorous entrance regimes and after much pushing, shoving and unpleasantness we were accosted as terrorists and informed that the travel scrabble we'd been maliciously harbouring is completely forbidden whilst circumventing the grandeur of the Mahal, lest we detract from its supreme glory presumably. Through the derogative insolence of our retort we found that apparently: having fun, dancing, laughing and smiling were also prohibited within the complex. Miffed yet amused with capitulated and hiked the lengthy roundtrip to a dank storage room to deposit the contraband.

Finally making it to the great gates of the new wonder of the world, we were stunned even by their opulence and beauty. Through the grey mists of sheets of rain we could just make out the majestic contours of the magnificent mausoleum and edged inside in awe. To rectify the injustice of the scrabble episode, we'd purchased only one audio guide, and sneakily installed my stashed earphone split to surreptitiously enjoy a stolen narration. Arm in arm, under cover of hoods and scarves, we sauntered around soaking up the glory of the grounds, not to mention the torrents of rain of course. 

It truly was spectacular. Arriving early was a blessing as we avoided the surge of hundreds of visitors and took a langorous pace around the gardens. At the height of the Mughal empire one of the most influential and illustrious leaders, Shah Jahan, had honoured the memory of his beautiful, benevolent and most beloved third wife Mumtaz Mahal, who had died whilst giving birth to their third child, with this grave of unparalleled beauty and dignity.

In a year of distress during which time he was allegedly rarely seen and only ever in black, Jahan swore to install a heaven on earth to truly reflect her celestial characteristics. Work began on the building in 1632 and some 21 years later his plight was ended and the glorious Taj Mahal shone out as an effulgent beacon of hope and love and as a source of solace and retribution to all who would enter. Once a year on the anniversary of her death, Jahan charitably engaged with the poor and needy donating a monumental 100,000 rupees during a festival within the Taj's walls in honour of his late wife.

The Taj Mahal must've been an awe-insiring sight when first constructed in finest white marble which is said to turn milky and translucent under the glare of the sun, and mirrors perfectly in the calm River Yamuna. It is enclosed in the centre of four towering minarets which lean almost undetecably outwards, allegedly to give the Taj an illusionary essence of magnificent and marvel, or to incentivise the spires to fall outwards in the event of an earthquake thus protecting the valuable building. The marble is inlaid with innumerable tiny and exuisitely placed little stones of turquoise, jade, emerald and more all forming an intricate adornment of fine floral patterns. Huge Hindi etchings edge the great doorways, and intricate jalis (finely carved mesh walls) cast beautiful shadows on the cavernous inside. 

After basking for several minutes in view of the Mahal we

returned to our sleeping taxi driver to continue our tour of Agra. After a soggy spot of lunch, capitulating to a completely undesired and objectionable visit to his friend's farcical marble studio and emporium (in which Jack insisted on a game of marble backgammom which he triumphantly won allowing us to leave without a bitter taste in our mouths), and a battle at the local market where we acquired matching woolen hats and a second water proof - we arrived at Agra Fort a few kilometers down the river from the Taj Mahal. The old bastion was where Shah Jahan unfortunately spent his final 8 years. His mutinous son Aurangzeb hear a rumour that the King was weak and dying, and sprung seige on his sickly father. It was a stark affair gazing mournfully out towards the Taj Mahal, imagining the solitary usurped emperor doing the very same at the very same windows of his own Fort during his incarceration.

The strong hold was equally as impressive, and we even managed to handle some hungry squirrels and a docile lizard on our exploration, making this visit totally worthwhile. After a damp and hilarious day in Agra, we boarded the train in recently purchased identical jackets (to cap off the nauseating matching outfits) and bounced aboard the train for Jodphur - after a lengthy wait due to an inexplicable 3 hour delay which was of course accompanied by a characteristic lack of information. But even after a day of relentless rain and a discourteous delay, nothing could damped our spirits as we'd had such a frigging laugh and possibly enjoyed one of my favourite days. Little did we know what lay in store only hours away.....

Jovial in Jodhpur

We arrived at a highly recommended humble little hideaway named Singhv's Haveli after a surprisingly fairly priced rickshaw journey. Following the belligerent brush with the ballistic policeman over the embezzled bag, we must've been resonating staunch immovability with our sour moods palpable, as there was far less of a battle with the throng of vying drivers than usual. Giant guilded gates dotted with ornate bolts creaked inwards to reveal a quaint little courtyard skirted by the sharply rising yet unimposing walls of rickety floors creeping above. Up a steep and tottering stair case sat the charming restaurant strewn with comfy pillow loungers amidst billowing lengths of colourful drapes.

www.singhvihaveli.com

We ventured on up intricate entanglement of precipitous little pathways seemingly hollowed directly out of rock, and past a gloriously adorned lounge room complete with a marble chess set and fantastic feature long and decadent hanging swing in the centre of the room, we found ourselves atop the 5 story historical haveli heading for the master suite. Unlocking our beautiful baroque doorway we found an unbelievable room nestled inside which was fit for a maharaja.

The cosy period room was glowing with warm terracotta walls adorned in intricate Indian art and snug little enclaves situated around ambient stained glass windows, where we sat to gape out regularly. The view as we opened our doors was magnificent as we were nestled in the center of the old city, basking in the blue hued landscape under the towering shade of the great Mehrangarh Fort which overlooks the city from 400 foot above. Thankfully a huge proportion of the population has retained the indigo style residency which is endemic to Jodhpur. Allegedly the preferred colour of the Brahmin holy men in ancient times, other townspeople followed suit either in appreciation of the aesthetics, or as the colour is said to deflect the sun rays cooling the home whilst acting as a repellant for pesky mosquitos. Whatever the reason, the effect is stunning.

After a brief jaunt through the quaint and quiet streets locating some new underwear to restock Jack's depleted wardrobe, we spent the evening drinking beers and eating endlessly to ward off any prevailing negativity generated in the dreadful police lair earlier that morning. The initially coy haveli staff relaxed in our progressively drunken and giggly company and a thin, epically moustached man even retrieved me several packets of biscuits when I asked whether there were any stored in the depths of the kitchen, which we happily shared. Every single time we headed up or downstairs to our beautiful room I couldn't resist a surreal sweep in the golden swing that hung in the middle of the lounge. How often do you get to do something so random indoors, let alone in a stony haveli in the middle of India! Each oscillation made me laugh hysterically with joy, and I don't think Jack became bored of it, even after the hundredth time. The beer intake definitely helped with these tolerance levels I think. He even got involved:

The next day we circumvented the magnificent Fort and took a casual early saunter, navigating busier morning streets heading for the centre of town. Wider and endlessly more spacious than the streets of Varanasi we were able to walk at a leisurely and deeply appreciated relaxed pace observing the business of the locals. Rough natural cotton was gathered in huge bundles to sell to bed makers, and shops of glittering metals housed skilled workmen beating pieces of copper into a vast array of attractive looking cooking tools. Everyone was resoundingly friendly and calm and we felt peaceful. The centre was inhabited by a larger more busy market supplying infinite ladies' arms with infinite glitzy bangles, and miles of beautiful shiny Indian hair with hundreds of sparkling clips and brooches. We came across a tiny little spectacle-clad old Indian stood atop a small stool amidst swaying stacks of eggs piled high into the sky. This old grafter has been running his omlette business since the late 1960's and has frequented the pages of innumerable travel documents and guides over the years. And so for breakfast we ate a world famous delicious omlette cooked to perfection over his well-worn pan, which alledgedly fries through 2,000 eggs daily.

We strolled through the steadily inclining zig-zag streets making our way to the entrance of the breath-taking Fort. Having stashed one of our two cameras so as to avoid the mounting costs of photographic equipment which is charged as an irritating extra at all tourist hotspots in India, we paid our entrance fee and began ascending the enormous stony passage to the entrance gates. For all the Lonely Planet's miscalculations, they had appropriately deemed this the best Fort in maybe all of India, and we felt inclined to agree. Sat atop a vast rocky hill jutting out majestically, described by Rudyard Kipling as 'the work of angels and giants', the Fort formidably fringes the city dripping history and intrigue onto all in the streets below. As legend has it, Rathore ruler Roa Jodha chose Bhaurcheeri, the mountain of birds, for the site of his hefty stronghold in 1459, and displaced a solitary hermit named Cheeeriq Nathji, or Lord of the Birds, in order to begin his work. Deeply unimpressed with the irrefutable relocation, Cheeriq cursed the ruler with "Jodha! May your citadel ever suffer a scarcity of water!" Although responsive Rao Jodha attempted to appease the hermit by building a house and temple within the Fort in close proximity to the cave used by the hermit for meditation, even today the area is plagued by a drought every 3 to 4 years. To instigate a more auspicious beginning, Jodha selected the next hill along and this time buried a man alive in the foundations for good luck. Good luck for all, except for the sacrificed Raja Ram Meghwal really. However, he was promised that in return his family would be ever looked after by the Rathores and to this day his descendants still live in estate bequeathed to them by Jodha over 650 years ago.

A collection of stunning facial hair

These tantilising tales were recounted for us through the theatrical narrative of the complimentary audio guides, which Jack and I set to play at each prompted interval with exquisite timing so we could enjoy the stories in perfect unison. The gigantic entrance gates were angled on a corner at the end of the winding pathway and laden with lofty piercing spikes to deter the forceful fury of elephant attacks, which we thought was very clever. In addition to the 20 meter thick imposing walls and other impressive structural features Mehrangarh Fort has remained utterly impenetrable throughout its long military history. The ornate facades of stunningly carved temple and artistic turrets instilled an inspiring antiquity in every corner. A robust armoury display harrowed our souls with aggressive instruments of violent combat from centuries gone by. Some of the best preserved and decadent palanquins, traditional seating vehicles mounted atop elephants, camels or 6-8 hardworking yet unlucky men, were on display in the middle of the Fort. The views were formidable and a gentle feeling of awe and admiration generated by our aerial perspective drew you into an ambiance of old wherein you could easily imagine the security offered by such a building in the face of an advancing army. 

We hobbled down the cobbled streets under evening's shadow having watched the sun sink sublimely over the rocky horizon beyond the city's ancient wall. A relaxing saunter to a nearby and vibesy establishment dripping in quintessential colourful drapes and mood lighting afforded us aa quiet beer and snack stop before bed. Jodhpur had certainly treated us well with its warm inhabitants and epic history lessons, and we'd instantly fallen in love with the place. Splashing out on our room for 2,400 rupees per night, approximately £22 and our second most expensive lodgings, was wonderful therapy for the hectic prelude at the police station. Funnily enough, when reiterating our experience here to Indian friends later down the line, referring to Jodhpur with similar pronunciation to that of a pair of jodphurs a jockey might sport simply evoked confused expressions and incomprehension. We had berated the Lonely Planet for its 'Language' section which displayed such translations as 'rest-oo-rent' for restaurant, and 'thaynk-ooh' for thank you, but actually this panned out to be incredibly useful and we learned that simply sounding the word out as Jodhpuur with accent on the final vowel induced immediate understanding and the traditional Indian head wobble of acknowledgment. Whatever this place was called, however it's expressed, we loved the majestic blue city of calm and could have nestled there for much longer soaking up its serenity and giggling our pants off.