Island Hopping

The sleepy yet ridiculous reality of the heavenly nature of the islands is best exhibited in the bizzare beadledom and officious officialities of the local regulatory commisions. Securing a fare on one of the dilapidated ferries, aside from the haunting tales of an only recent tightening of the safety reins given the solemn sinking of a commerical ship only 3 weeks previously, is utter madness. One must arrive at the ticket office at any one of the opening times dictated by the befuddled locals, which ranged anywhere from 6:45am, though past 7:30, casually on via 8 until the final, reluctant arrival of staff around 8:45. I can't help but admire the unfailing conviction of all Indians in the realms of direction giving and advice mongering as regardless and often entirely devoid of any accuracy, information is unequivocablly conveyed in no uncertain terms to the trusting traveller who then must piece together a web of facticious responses and select their chosen path none the wiser. The recalcitrant glare of the unenthused ticket officers behind the thick, cloudy barrier of glass was met with a massive disorderly rabble, in which I hadbecome inextricably sandwiched, trying to chaotically organise themselves into one of the two ques which was further segregated into gender specific rows that clashed tumultuously, unlike the calm waters lapping the shores beyond the office. This bizarre and outlandosh approach to your conventional que caused a battle of the sexes at the front of each double line as each vyed violently for a place in front of the tiny window to gain the attention of the officer. The glass itself was only vaguely translucent given the myriad of ancient sticker residule from old, pallid, yellow hued scraps of paper with various inane instructions scrawlled atop, and lengthy ridiculously formal letters addressed to the likes of Chief Examiner of the Protocol of Island Transportation Division Department Executive Manager which contained such beweildering jargon infused discourse I was certain that very few had ever  othered to note such notes in their staggering verbosity, let alone comprehended them. 

When I finally arrived on Havelock Island, diver's paradise, halfway up the main bulk of the Andaman Isands and about 40km from the East coast, I excitedly booked myself onto two dives with the venerable Barefoot team and headed happily for the beach under what must've been around 35 degree heat, coconut in hand and sweaty smile on my face. Fruit was the unfavourable absence of life at ANET as the only rare treat was India's tiny bananas at breakfast which contain small but suprisingly hard black seeds. Something about the pulpous texture of a banana is so incongrous with a sudden hard pip that the experience leaves me feeling uneasy. How I'd been missing the melange of papaya, pineapple and melon of the mainland and so had been induldging heartily since emerging out of the jungle. The fine white sands were more or less deserted further along from the crowded and shady retreats of the Indian tourists, and I bathed in the crystal clear presence of the gently lapping bath-warm sea under cover of the shady canopy of more enormous littoral trees which towered above gently shedding leaves to provide soft bedding on the sand. The romantically named beach 'Number 7' is the bizzare colloquialism of Rangahar beach as named in local vernacular, although why the visiting masses can't refer to it by it's proper name is anyone's disillusioned guess.

Seriously sweaty
approaching devastating
high season hear

I headed for some lunch in the sleepy market infused streets of what could be percieved as the centre of the island and trundled off to beach Number 3 several samoas heavier. I passed some fishermen and their sons who were quite expertly practicing well exectued backflips, applauding racously at necessary intervals, before I headed round a deserted corner aside the water edge which was dappled with a length of beautiful mangrove trees. No sooner had I finished filming that days 5 seconds of film, a project inspired by a yoga disciple I'd met in Goa aimed at capturing the spectrum of bizzare and beautiful goings on of this trip ready to be stitched together and watched back in their entirety, than I suddenly became the focus of a fast approaching pack of angry dogs.

A solitary stroll by the tangle of mangroves before
the incident

I raised my arms and gazed fearfully forwards knowing it best to avoid the eye contact of territorial dogs, but the damage was somehow inexplicably done and I was immediately set upon from all sides. My lungi wrap-around sarong was ripped off and a few painful nashes to my calves left me instinctively screaming for help. To my tearful relief, a group of young boys closed in moments later with paniced looks across their faces before two more men came running from the other side of the beach. One way to interact with the locals I suppose! The beastly pack scattered and the group examined my legs and resolved with compassionate, conciliatroy exchanges of concern, in the complete absence of a shared common language, to escort me immediately to hospital. They  seemed wary given the blood speckled appearance of my legs and our walk together was speechless but the sweet, deferent boys dutifully and quietly hurried me the 5 minute hobble to hospital and then their concerned faces filled the doorway to the dusty old, almost deserted nurses' office in the eerily quiet state building. I was touched by their warmth and gave them a gracious, valedictoty high five each before they reluctantly left me. The nurse cleaned the 3 or 4 surface wounds and doused me in staining iodine. The bites were far less savage than could have been the case, and I was incredibly lucky and indebted to the local kids for ensuring the whole fiasco transpired without serious scathe. An incipient yet insidious bruise from a paricularly healthy bite on the inside of my right calf left me hobbling for a few days and unable to dive, but the waves of consternation took an evening to subside and after the stout character building experience I ultimately resolved to transit only when accompanied by a respectablely sized stick in future.  

Although I had been assured vaguely in an offhand and disinterested manner that rabies was non existent on the islands, there seemed no definitive reference on the internet, and so when back on the mainland several days later I sought a programme of jabs to ensure I didn't catch the rage and return home a foaming beast. However, until then I was stranded on the small and snoozy islands without the consultation of a more laudable medical establishment as ferries were booked up from Havelock to Port Blair for the next two days, on an isnald of non-existent internet connection. So I was utterly alone and decided jovially to spend my potentially last remaining days as a sentient, healthy and sane being on Niel, the next island along and more placcid smaller brother of Havelock.

I found a small, humble cluster of huts and occupied a beautiful wooded, rustic haven of my own before borrowing a friendly Uraguayian's bicycle for a slow and languorous exploration of the island, given that my calf muscle was still rock solid and as black as the heart of the unfriendly beast who inflicted it. Neil was a true paradise of sedative tranquility and I found myself alone, undisturbed all day long save a quick pancake with a jovial Israeli and until a communal dinner with the other residents before an early night in my wicker hut with my book. 

I woke early to head back, via some typical travel time turbulence on Indian transportation, for the final day at ANET before hopping on a flight to Chennai which by chance was happily the same as Cammie's. Whilst my stay at ANET wasn't the enlightening introduction into environmental sustainability and management I had been hoping for, I learned so much and had such a flipping beautiful time on the archelagio of islands. I do however look forward to hearing about the developing initiatives of the organisation which to be fair is still very much in its primary years of expansion having been revived in 2009 since its humble roots in 1990. The last two years only have seen the company staff and protocol expand dramatically into the education sector, working nationally with schools, children and students whilst taking on interns and volunteers, and next year the art department will add a further faction to the community spirit being nurtured there. So it was a valuable experience to see and feel the blossoming of such an inspriring organisation and I will take alot away with me for future thought having witnessed the behind he scenes nature of a great ethos. Well, onto the mainland for a final few days in mother India, unnervingly making flight amidst world news of a mysterious unaccountable plane which diverted from the flight route between Kuala Lumpur to Bejjing, on a mystefying and inexplicable diversion hundreds of kilometers over to the Andaman Islands before its signal was lost for 4 days, which I believe is now drastically descending into the weeks. Fingers crossed our flight path withstands and the missing plane is found soon.

Another on ANET before absconding the Andamans...

After the school group left, and happily we could stop ascending to the roof top of the library every 5 minutes to retrieve my light-up frisbee, the pace didn't really pick up as expected. The heat of the day, the luxurious shade of the trees and the clockwork nature of the meals at ANET caused the first 6 days to slip laxcidasically by in a waft of book reading, sketching and library dwelling. I was finally given a project to design and articulate a guided tree walk for visitors, gratutiously utilising my degree whilst tackling some botanical knowledge in the process. I loved ambling along the jungle dirt tracks and precariously climbing trees to retrive samples of their tropical leaves or inviting flowers, whilst matching

Some sort of scandent species. If I had my
booklet, I'd impress you with the Latin

their characteristics against the verbose musings of the euphuistic botanist Parkinson using an archaic dusty version of his Andaman Flora I found in the library. Researching with the abominable internet connection caused progress to venture down a less than expedidious path, but after unabatedly battling on for a week I had finally gathered all the necessary information to compile. The next step was to tackle design software PhotoShop and InDesign to edit photos and order the chaos into some sort of coherent booklet form. The deeply and divinely sarcastic Aditi from Bangalore arrived in the nick of time to share some pearls of PhotoShop wisdom whilst providing regular cutting remarks on my performance. Padi as she told me she prefers to be know to friends, which was a joyful revelation given the ostensibly harsh and mocking ambience of most of our previous interactions, helped me cut some of the photos of tree bark, boughs, leaves and flowers I'd been gathering to include in the booklet.

After 2 weeks of much toil and trouble with the seemingly nonsensical functions of Windows' maddnening malfunctioning software, I had finally finished, and was pleased with the professional look of the final product. I layered the background beautifully with the help of English art therapist Ruth's leaf prints which she had been creating to build an art library whilst volunteering to assist with ANET's launch of an art department. Her Switz husband Klas, an architect trained in Scotland where they met, had been helping construct a little tree house up in the canopy of a small banyan tree near our volunteer tent which was a fantastic and exciting achievement and venue of ensuing star gazing evenings. Before the two left for the next leg of their 6 month break from work we trudged through the jungle up Mnt. Harriet North of Port Blair, cunningly entering the national reserve under the beguiling guise of students which exultingly saved us over 9/10s on the fare.

To begin with it took some time to settle convivially into the castaway community as, besides the difficulty of pronouncing let alone remembering the plethora of unusual names of the mostly Indian cohort, the majority of researchers were embroiled in the depths of their thesis studies, dissertations or university granted investigations and so had little time or energy for engaging passers by. Supplement this with the sometimes seemingly unmannered social interactions of Indian people as perceived by the bubble wrapped, soft and blithering politeness of the English, and I felt a little isolated to begin with. However, I quickly settled in as other volunteers, interns and dive master aapirants flooded in, amd I grew accustomed to the scathing remarks from Aditi, warded off the dark and often aggressive sattire of Nitya to enjoy the the dynamics of the jungle dramas. 

Ruth, Klas and me recuperating after a grueling dive

During work on the tree guide, the days happily remained blissfully relaxed with daily yoga on the wooden boarding of the library veranda, performing diurnal sun salutations to mark the passing of each gorgeous day with the help of ship shape Canadian yoga guru Zan and her hardcore yet soothing style. Ruth, Klas, Zan and I went on a few dives to Cinque Island some 40km south to an astounding underwater universe alive with sundry scores of species darting about their daily business amongst bright coral of all shapes and colours. When out of the water, and breaking from the internet and InDesign battles, Zan and I crafted jewelry from the beautiful plumage of an unfortunate Andaman Cuckoo dashed on the road (surely nothing says enironmentally conscious like such dedicated recycling devotion), practiced yoga and desecrated our clothes with scissors to suit our rustic setting with bedraggled raiment. Some of the other 

Padi, Thitlet, me and Indu a little smug after our
ray encountees

volunteers and I verntured off on a dive less far afield a half hour boat ride from the coastal doorstep of the jungle. We swam beside an enormous manta ray even before descending into the warm depths, felicitously flapping along after the blissful beats of its enormous wings. When we descended to the sea bed we found a beautiful chamelionic colour shifting camoflaged octopus and a gargantuan blotched sting ray far bigger than me relaxing beside a rock.

 

When I'd completed the tree guide, the slightly shambolick organisation of the volunteer project left me without any idea of the location of the ANET elders, let alone any further projects to take up, and so I began helping French-Indian Cammie with a mangrove fauna data collecting project, with the help of the new volunteer and slightly soporific Nick from Leeds. This was made all he more fun due to the timing of our morning endeavours coinciding with high tide which provided wet marshy, clay pits to squelch up between the toes during investigations. Plus the added bonus of wallowing in the glorious sun shine and the advancement of my tan having spent many days mostly under the canopy of the trees. It was cool being able to tag along with various researchers and volunteers helping and observing ongoing projects. Strolling onto New Wandoor at night with ANET's dedicated chefs slash Sea Krait monitors, as well as John, ANET's meek and modest longest standing affiliate whose roots are amongst the Karan people who migrated to the islands for work. He was a deep source of botanical knowledge on the islands and their flora and fauna and was leading the Sea Krait monitoring. Around

My personal favourite marrying of photo and caption.
Hung beside a close second which was a similar out
of focus, dusty shot of a grumpy looking pair in ragged
tracksuits in front of their wooden home labelled
laconically: 'A Local Couple'

this time I also had to venture to Port Blair to renew my visa for an extended 15 days. A chaotic occurence that took two attempts, tackling the 50 minute hurtling bus ride either way into the dizzying hectic hive of the costal town. It did however afford some enlightening visits to the Cellular Jail, where horrific incacerations of Freedom Figters were exercised before India's independence, which apparently warrants a tree narrating the grisly history lugubriously during a decadent but heavily dated and uninformative son et lumiere, plus a sweep through the ancient Anthropological museum which given the history of the Islands was vastly interesting to ponder, if perhaps not a little underwhelming in some displays.

During my last few days at ANET I was able to exersise one of my favourite new hobbies sketching birds of the subcontinent, and began a speices library to help visitors spot and identify 26 common birds likely to be darting through the trees around ANET. On

A Stork-Billed Kingfisher
nestled inconspicuously
in the middle of the branch

Valentine's day I also went out with some of the researchers to take part in the international Backyard Bird-watching event which had the whole world embarking on a quick count of speices in their home environment to help gather data on widespread international environments. So having completed a few various projects of my own and assisted whoever and whatever was in need in the sleepy recesses of the ANET remit, I began to pack up my things in the final week, and was getting ready to depart. Having been left very much to our own devices, which was probably a good lesson in focus and motivation, the days at ANET had been a blend of some self-imposed hard work, self-exalting diving trips to the sea bed and self-directed expeditions of discovery around the beautiful bucolic surroundings. I'd learned so much about the endemic and continental flora and fauna as well as some local history and so took a few hedonistic days off in the paradisiacal islands just North of Port Blair before I flew back to the mainland.

A Rustic Residency

Skimming in over palm trees and brightly coloured houses against a cloudless blue sky on the Andaman Islands really made me smile. Mainly in contrast as this moment of quiet quiescent reverence was preceeded only hours before by a highly unsavoury incident with some savvy streetwise macaque monkeys at the hotel, who viciously pillaged my innocently drying clothes leaving the tattered shreds crudely strewn. My efforts at squeezing both head and arms through the dirty bannisters of my balcony to grasp some remaining frayed items were inexorably met with the sudden and belligerent toothy grimace of the head honcho, which sent both myself, and the hotel porter who was asssiting me, rolling comically backwards into the room and scrambling to slam the door firmly shut, my head accordingly battered. Anyway, Port Blair airport hemmed with coconut palms and decorated in washed out sun bleached licks of paint felt suitaby tropical as I filled out my visa application and signed various disclaimers designed to prevent visitors from crumbling the coral reefs and besmirching the beaches. Long itemised lists of prohibited items, actions and activities decorated almost every wall, my favourite being the extremely detailed forbiddance of 'eve teasing', or 'wrong fully engaging a female in deroggatory acts of verbal accostation' and such like. The punctillious judicial jargon was a struggle for me to wade through with the help of an Engilsh degree so I wandered how other nationalisites and those who exersice local vernacular are supposed to derive any influence from such balmy bureaucracy. 

I was heading for ANET, the Andaman and Nicobar Environmental Team, for a 6 week volunteer placement to offer my services for the good of their myriad of inspiring projects. Ravi, ANET's taximan, aside from being half an hour late, was very jovial and a good companion to drive me through the lush jungle forests to New Wandoor about 40 minutes North (regrettably it later transpires that his beguiling smile masks an undercurrent of guerilla commission and extoritinate charges and he proceeds to subtly shafts us of much cash. Still, we are in India so it's really only friendly banter). The South Andaman Island is the largest of the Andaman and Nicobar's 572 stong archipelagio on which roughly 400,000 inhabitants scatter themselves, with one quarter residing in Port Blair. However, there are other far flung factions completely adverse to the comparatively urbanite town dwellers of this small port. A multitude of tribes including the Jarwars, Onges, Andamnese and Karen people occupy many of the islands, the inhospitable former actively warding off an contact with the developing world around them. The story goes that following the devestation of the tsunami, a relief helicopter hovered in over these peoples offering supplies and assistance but it was soon forcibly rebuked and repelled by a gust of resolute arrows fired from tribesmans' bows. It was quite humbling to be so near to such untouched civilisations especially given the history of India and its wide spread colonisationation which nonetheless stretched this far into the ocean but left some stones unturned having not infultrated these primitive havens. Millions of years ago along

the huge Indian Tectonic Plate collided catastrophically with the Burmese Plate to coincidentally form the clandestine yet comely islands which are hundreds of kilometers from the East coast of the mainland in the Bay of Bengal, and are actually much closer to Burma and Malaysia than India itself. The 750 km of islands lay along the Alpide Belt, running from this area, through the Himalayas, into Europe along the Alps and off into the Altantic, which is geologically significantfor its turbulence and seismic activitiy evident in frequent cyclones, quakes and the unforgettable tsumani in 2004. In fact, whilst I was on the islands an earth quake struck underwater measuring a reasonable 5.5 on the richter scale, although we didnt feel the tremors. Driving from the port took us first out of town and alongside vast expanses of salty lakes that settled in the wake of the giant tsunami wave, alterring the agricultural dynamic of the land, uprooting trees and devestating houses, however harborring new and diverse eco-systems which sprung up in respone to provide a positive lining to the dark cloud, and are now protected throughout the islands. Houses grew more sporadic as the jungle grew thicker around us and we descended into the Island.

We pulled off the sleepy rural track into a shade of the entensive jungle canopy and a dwelling of large rustic but well structured wooden huts, tents and shacks. Interconnected by little dirt tracks that split up the foliage strewn ground which rustled and crackled with scurring lifeforms away your every step, the little labyrynth had an exciting robinson crusoe ambience. House rules sensibly dictate that you never set foot on the paths by night without some form of torch, for fear of crushing a toad, trampling a newt, or even rousing a king cobra...

                            Daily doses of fauna. A rare veroxie gecko (although I'm certain this isn't how it is spelt), a chilled 

                                  and inconspicuous leaf insect, and the perplexingly entitled bronze back snake, given its brazen green colourings

I was showed to the volunteer tent, an impressive yet fundamentally austere canvas room with 5 others housed on thin, single camping mattresses. However, the busy choice of interior decoration remedied its stark simplicity in exhibiting a relentless fleur de lis type print repeated hundreds of times in floral rows throughought the entire inside surface of the tent, calmed somewhat by the hanging of additional bunting and soon my display of pictures, hanging decorations and photographs. Part of ANET's remit is pressure on local policy regarding waste and energy consumption and as such measures including rain water harvesting are employed to try and reduce the facilities impact on the environment. So showers were sought by upending buckets of browny green hued water over your head in the privacy of a set of wicker wooden huts, it was awesome, so bloody intpuch with nature! But I use the term privacy loosely due to the gappy approach to woven sheets that constituted the four walls of each cubicle (an eye-brow raising factor of the washing facilities I combatted with strategically hung items of clothing draped over the danger zones). The toilets were rudimentary shacks situated off the leafy path ways, and the wash area enabled the spritely brushing of teeth under the shadow of sundry species of shady trees which sprouted ambrosial panicles of beautiful spinulous pinky firework flowers which could be observed blossoming and wilting in diurnal cycles.

To my dismay the showers were also home to several large species of brown speckled thick legged spiders, a formideable looking, vaguely tarantual-esque tropical version of our house spider. There was a notably terrifying encounter with such a creature during the sort of lengthy shower in which I was endeavouring to wash my body, matted hair and almost all my clothes. Realising I had an accompanying vouyer upon opening my eyes after the first bucket made the remainder of the wash a tricky affair. Every bubble of soap that wandered haphazardly into my eyes resulted in an awkward slippery struggle to regain visual in order to verify the spider's acceptable proximity. A loud and running commentary of my feelings and emotions to my friend in the next shack along was a source of some comfort, although rarely seemed to warrant reply. The next day I numinously found an ever so slightly smaller spider frozen dermonstratively in its final death battle with a giant red ant curled up together on my sketch book and so I was able to cautioualy investigate its sizeable and sturdy body loaded with a multitude of terrifying tiny, shiny eyes and long hairy legs with the help of rudimetary tongs fashioned foom shells.

I even stroked its little body and later sketched its progressively le grotesque form which I steadily began to appreciate, and the whole caper really provided rudimentary therapy for the crippling phobia.

The first week on the Andamans was slow as a group of 30 students flooded the jungle on a school trip. However this afforded some fun fire side poi and hula classes during one of ANET's delicious barbeque nights. The expert chefs crafted an enormous bamboo wicker grill that they then secured over a dug out coal fire about 6ft by 4ft which was piled with banana leaves encasing chicken, fish, potatoes and whole red onions. Intridued by the set up I offered my help to make the large grill, only to be met by a vacant stare and a resolute if not unfriendly 'no'. There went my hope of any cooking classes this month! But each to their own, and as a result most likely: the food was absolutely awesome. Throughout the month breakfast, lunch and dinner appeared in abundance under the wooded shelter of the dining room in a rustic buffet form. Dahls, pickles, coconut vegetables, fish and paneer curries, salads and papads covered the table and comfortably fed the 40 or so staff members and visitor groups.

ANET is surrounded closely by an enveloping coastline wrapping tightly round two of its

corners, which exhibit a stunning array of life. The mangroves are home to hardy species of salt water resilient trees with high knee roots and are exemplary of 8% of the Earth's coastal regions. The trees and plants thrive in their saline habitat by nifty adaptations such as waxy surfaces to their foliage to prevent evaporation of their valuable water, and pores on the underside to expel the salty byproduct. The clay ground is bleached, cracked and dry during the low tide and under submerged ankle deep water by high tide, during both of which it is equally teeming with life. Mudskippers, fiddler crabs, sea snails, hermits, target fish, sting rays and eels live amonst the spindulous mangrove roots which offer early asylum to juvinilles and other slow moving vulnerable creatures. Every footstep through the sand caused a flicker of a thousand scurrying legs or flaps of fins as crab and skippers disappear down their holes at the speed of light. The mudskippers were arguably my favourites, semi-amphibious fish which skim the water surface and can survive on land for many minutes due to a pocket of water they store behind their big googly eyes. Their rapid blinking coats the eye with moisture whilst transferring an imperative splash to their gills keeping oxygen flowing into their lungs before they dash over a puddle to replenish their watery stores. The adaptations are never-ending and incredible. 

The other beach further round the corner on the costal outcrop is a littoral zone where the towering jungle meets the white sandy beach in a picturesque clash of environments. Palm trees creeping to between 30 and 40 ft are flanked by utterly ginormous didu, andamn redwood and mahu bullet wood trees which must be pushing heights of 80ft+ in some instances. A treacherous walk through the jungle absailing down root ropes to scale earthy drops brought us out into a leafy expanse of creepers and ferns which encased a football field sized clearing of the trees before we ducked under some draped branches to emerge on the beach further North. Sentinel exposed boulders contain some of the jungle from spilling over onto the beach, and watch over the coast line fortified by creepers and the resillient roots of strangler trees. These are grisly arboreal beasts which find footing in any environment from rock to other living trees before they envelop and dominate using their host as a foundation. Some have even defeated the largest banyan trees to produce an alien metamorphasising tree of several species dripping in different coloured veins and branches. The beaches are laden with utterly enormous boughs and roots of fallen trees mercilessly uprooted during the tsunami

before being hurtled to far flung beaches to rest. The salty solution has stripped them bare and the sun bleached their skin over many years so their presence emits a haunting white glow over the beaches. But by night, their intricate hairy roots, which form towering tangled verticle circles up to 15ft high, are home to banded sea kraits, potently venemous snakes which seek refuge there for sleep. One night we spotted 8 different blue lipped sea snakes, some sleeping amongst the roots, some langarously slithereing away to avoid the glare of our red filtered torches. The gutsy proximity between man and beast can be sufficiently strained by the fact theat their poision emitting fangs are set far back into their small gape so that only a bite to the ear lobe or the webbing of the fingers could perhaps be suitable for a deadly bite. And exerting such a mortal wound allegedly dilapidates their energy stores so significantly, they'd be hard pressed to bother when slithering away into the sea seems like a far less strenuous measure.

ANET has two push bikes and aside from the lack of gears and the disgracefully weak brakes, and the fact that the front of the frame lurched heart-wrenchingly forwards when too much inadviseable relaxation loads pressure onto the handlebars, they facilitated enlightening cycle rides round the sleepy tracks of the local area. A 5km ride away was New Wandoor beach near the fishing jetty, an area slightly besmeeched by the luckily tucked away but rather horrendous and strangely barren Sea Princess resort. The front of this ghastly tourist edifice edges the beach with typical Indian architecture, a perplexingly ugly pooly laid concrete fence of about 4 and a half foot high which was spined forebodingly with shards of glass to prevent intruders....should they not wish to hop the gate which breaks the wall a few feet away. It was a bizarre establishment we would occasionally head to for beers in their central bar run by officious staff who insist on blaring obnoxious dance music, or more appropriately the same 5-10 ostentacious tracks, much to all residents' and visitors' disdain. The huts hemmed a central expanse of sporadic palm trees in regimented rows leaving the area feeling a little barren, aside from the aspiring night club the haughty bar men run in the middle. It's just so perculiar that land in the middle of the most heavenly beaches is so monumentally misused and missing the mark.

But further down the beach a ring of coconut, puri and kalupi venders encircled a perciliar dilapidated but once colourful beachy building mounted bizarrely on 6ft stilts that, deserted, looked out not imposingly and more interesting from behind the palms over the beautiful white beach. I loved cycling here after a solitary sit in the Buddhist Meditation Centre for a fresh coconut and attempt at sounding a conch to the amusment of the proficient locals. Ignoring the warnings of salt water crocodile, dips in the crystal clear shallow waters were beyond celestial and wrapped up a sweaty midday bike ride sublimely. Although like the animals which infuse every single corner of the junge, intertidals spaces and beaches it is easy to adapt and quickly acclimatise to new surroundings and accept the environment insensately, I tried to ensure this was not the cae in New Wandoor. Most moments I feel like I had to pinch myself to appreciate the mental landscape which was my home for 6 weeks.

Distressed in Delhi

Jaipur to Delhi at 4:30pm on the February 1st was by far the most uncomfortable train journey of both our lives. We boarded without note, easily locating our two empty seats beside a tidy, well to do looking young woman. But as the minutes drew closer towards our departure, the crowds swept in like a tide of disaster crashing against the dilapidated walls of the dented train and those sitting obliviously inside. It turns out that purchasing a ticket on busy government trains is utterly futile, as perhaps beyond 80% of those cramming in besides, under and on top of you will, most likely, not have bothererd. A rotund couple pressed in close and the woman muscled in resolutely besides Jack, smiling vacantly, causing the mass of bodies atop our 3 people bench to undulate precariously over the sides with each inhabitant occupying a slither of surface to rest a butt cheek or drape and outer thigh with uncomfortable and constant shuffling. The male component of the offensive couple removed his shoes and hoisted a moist foot up onto the bench beside me aiming his crotch menancingly in my direction as I nestled with growing animosity beneath his dank armpit. The impassive ticket collector threaded lazily through the crowds in a bewilderingly hollow attempt to collect official documentation from any person who bothered to lethargically display their ticket, much to the collector's slightly begrudging exertion. Within no more than 5 minutes or so, and with demonstrative distainful scowls, Jack and I ascended into the rafters, shuffling bags and blankets to cramp into the foot and a half of space afforded to the upper berth seats 3 storeys high. Even here we were soon bombarded with ticket evading miscreants, but we staunchly protected our purchased seats and managed to stretch out our legs to the other side providing some respite for our stiffening knees. The 5 turned 6 and a half hour journey was spent in this manner, disappearing from our swealtering, crippling reality into a continuous array of films masterfully installed on my tablet before Jack brought it out for me. Amidst the odiferous musk of the mass of sardined bodies, and the audacious clangor of the tinny Hindi music played by the hateful smarmy boy opposite us on his phone, there were small and unwarranted vitriolic reverberations between Jack and I as each tried to convey, curb or counteract the growing irascibility that bubbled dangerously below the surface. 

We eventually arrived in Delhi at 11pm, to brutal wall of callous rickshaw drivers. Given the dispute in Jaipur followed by the testing train journey, our energy stores were dangerously depleted and we were becoming hard pushed to fight our way out of a paper bag. Like a night in shining armour, or more accurtely: a trendy Delhi-ite in a large puffer jacket, Arman arrived on the scene to guide us on our way. Attracted by our expressions of dilapidated dispair, he shooed off the treacherous taxi drivers who were trying to strip us abominably of our final rupees, and marched us to the booking office demanding a fair price for our 4km journey. My eyes were disappearing behind tears of relief and gratitude as he warmly bid us farewell, masterfully restoring our faith in fellow man in the nick of time. 

We turned off a main road to face a meretricious mash of hotel signs hanging blindingly down over a small alley cram packed with hotels. The garish Grand Godwit reception was a welcome refuge to our worn out weary forms, and we retreated upstairs to our room ready for a steady flow of room service and relaxation. The room was the most pristine we'd stayed in the whole month with epic facilities, elegant accents, and a freakin' power shower with wall jets and unlimited hot water! We were in a moody marble heaven. The only time we ventured out was to attempt to see the sunset with cocktails on a sky scraper, which turned out to be a huge disaster with more taxi man debarcles, Jack actually having to single-handedly haul an autorickshaw out of a hole in the road and a long and fruitless drive around the whole of town. After a quick stop in a busy mall, which was like stepping into a  blinding futuristic labyrinth of windows and lights giving our shopping preferences of the month, to replensih my underwear stores having left my skimpies dangled alluringly over the balcony of our recent lodgings in Jairpur, we quickly scarpered back to our room and enjoyed more room services and the buffet breakfast the next morning before we headed to the airport.

Saying goodbye in strange lands was appropriately abominable. Every indelible second flashed before our eyes as we struggled to accept it was over so seemingly fast whilst marvelling at the flavoursome amount we'd crammed into only a month just like a fragrant and turgid, hot samosa. Having a co-pilot for the month was, besides utterly essential as it turned out, endlessly ethereal. As sturdy as Rambo, and as funny as Leslie Neilsen, I will miss my travel buddy immensely. Words cannot describe. Seeing such a bewildering  country through two sets of eyes has the blissful dual benefits of enhancing appreciation of the beautiful colours and warm souls in circulation, whilst rose tinting the grimier corners and dubious encounters with a sumlime shield of humour and jest.

Oh well, alone into the fray I go.. 

Oh S#!t. 

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.