Guilaine and Kevin

It’s always tickled me that Jim Morrison could drone on for 12 minutes about it being the end – I’m more of a ‘rip the plaster off’ sort of person myself (admittedly I do whine for an eternity beforehand, but once I have made up my mind, I’ll rip that bleedn’ thing right off).

And so it is with our trip. We’re done, dusted, 12 months, 15 countries and countless other stats (203 posts, 3,000 photos) and memories that have brought us full circle back to London. Happily (but coldly) entrenched in N1, it’s flat, job and good food hunting (in that order) for the coming weeks.

Guilaine has some recipes to add, along with some rounding up of things to come in the next few days and weeks, but I’d like to thank everyone (God I sound like Meryl Streep) for reading, emailing, skyping, rendezvous-ing and welcoming us back with open arms.

- Kevin

Delhi claims to be the oldest inhabited city in the world. This is now our 3rd city to visit that has laid claim to that title.

A more accurate title or descriptor for New Delhi is to call it a conglomeration of urban villages – 48 in total and rising, all fenced off from slums and scrubland and increasingly carved up by industrial parks, motorways and metro lines. It sounds like it should be oppressive, but it isn’t. Thankfully, it’s still very much low-rise, and unlike Buenos Aires, feels open, airy and secure, if a little ratty around the edges (BA felt pretty safe to me – Guilaine). Admittedly, Delhi is the crime capital of India, but we’ve walked around at night carefree, give or take the odd packs of dogs and the occasional shady stalker.

To backtrack a little, we boarded the 2pm sleeper train from Varanassi Saturday, enriched by our time there. We shared our  cabin with newlyweds, all henna painted and giddy (definitely one of the 1% love marriages and not arranged if you ask me). We pulled into New Delhi’s bustling, bumblebee train station 16 hours later and feared the worst – chaotic, overcrowded, ridiculously laid out and frantic. The entrance to the Metro was pandemonium itself, but once past the security checkpoint – it was plain sailing. An aircon, high-tech, raised platformed train that wouldn’t look out-of-place in Bangkok awaited us. The only reminder that we were in India being the dozens of bare arses squatting in the overgrown and heavily littered scrubland/parks along the tracks doing their Sunday morning constitutional.

For some, Delhi is a city on the move, ambitious, affluent and definitely on the up. We elected to stay in the Muslim-dominated Nizamuddin village (not Mujahadeen as I mistakenly called it last night, when lost, to the bemusement of a security guard). The village, or enclave, is a 12th century smattering of congested narrow lanes which grew up around the shrine of a Sufi saint. Crammed with pilgrims, traditional restaurants (mutton kebab, my first in India – divine), spiritual music, bustling markets and surprisingly lively mosques, it’s a rich and rewarding way to end our stay in India. A ten minute walk from all this brings you to our guest house – set amid a plush quiet residential neighbourhood. It definitely lacks the hassle and cow shite-littered smattered streets of the Old Delhi quarter most tourists still flock to.

We’re very much at home here in Nizamuddin, loving the mix of old and new. Nowhere in Delhi captures this joie-de-vivre more so than nearby Haus Khaz village (a couple of stops southwest on the metro). Achingly hip shops (vintage Bollywood posters, clothes, jewellery, antique furniture – Guilaine is in heaven) sit side by side with cafes, chocolate vendors, rooftop restaurants, chai stalls, flower shops and galleries. The excellent DAG is well worth a look (it’s current exhibition featuring 75 artists – clearly the owners don’t know what dag means in Australia – or maybe they do – it’s the bit of a tail that gets cut off a sheep to avoid it shitting all over itself).

This is not the Slumdog Millionaire city experience. English is the language of choice here for the university students, troubadour heir to a rubber plantation, trust fund kids, entrepreneurs, creatives, an Irish culchie and a Frenchie, both of whom are sleeping rather badly, it must be said, as the sun sets on our 1 year hiatus.

- Kevin

It all started so well. India seduced me from the get-go and for the first few weeks I couldn’t understand why so many travelers found the country so difficult to love. Sure, it smelled and was dirty, but not overwhelmingly so. And after 6 months in Southeast Asia, we were immune to the sight of rubbish and less than pristine streets. I loved the food, the colours, the saris, and the south had a nice, chilled-out vibe. Kerala, Goa and Tamil Nadu boasted some beautiful landscapes and sights, and were rich in culture and heritage. Seeing children indulge in endless rounds of cricket, old men chatting around a yummy cup of chai, women sweeping the sidewalks, in a backdrop of palm trees, quaint colonial houses and handwritten adverts was enchanting and exotic.

So where was the turning point? When did my relationship with India start to sour? The heat is certainly partly to blame, as were the dusty, sweltering bus journeys we undertook. The train is a much more civilised experience. Once I started to feel cranky from my journeys, the not-so-pleasant part of India started to grate – the huge lack of sanitation, cow dung everywhere, the omnipresent smell of urine and sewage, continual encroachments on one’s personal space, infuriating bureaucracy, but above all else, the attitude of some of the men. It’s no exaggeration to say that I felt violated by some of the stares. From that moment on, India and I engaged in a love/hate relationship. Love/hate is too strong a word – on/off is more accurate. And so I started to feel slightly bipolar – hugely enjoying the best of the country one minute, and deploring the worst the next.

Overall though, my time in India has been enjoyable and I found beauty in every place I visited. Sometimes I had to look a little deeper for hidden charms, but most often they burst to the fore, in full technicolour mode. And I admit, I was harsh on the country, forgetting the tough life most of its people endure. Corruption is sadly encroaching on a lot of progress that could benefit so many. India’s economy, despite its recent downgrade by S&P, is rising and a new middle-class is emerging. However too few, from what I’ve witnessed, are reaping the rewards.

I read an article yesterday in the Times of India that pretty much sums things up. The state government of Uttar Pradesh (where Varanasi is) implemented a sanitation policy in 2005, with the aim of installing proper toilets in every home by 2014. The state has the highest rate of outdoor toilet habits, mainly because so many homes are not equipped with loos. A recent survey to evaluate progress revealed that very few homes were upgraded with facilities, despite all the money that was pumped into the scheme. Corrupt officials instead siphoned off the funds. This is no one-off. These types of stories happen all the time and are unfortunately leaving millions of Indians behind. This goes some way of explaining the poor hygiene I so often deplored.

Another complaint of mine was being pestered on an hourly basis by vendors, autorickshaw drivers, and more. But when you live on so little, you need to hustle for a living and it’s important not to lose track of that. I’ve been guilty of rudeness and always felt ashamed after, though a few deserved a brusk reply.

Kevin and I often felt that it was hard to scratch beneath the surface of most Indians. People will come up to you continually, to ask you your name, nationality, and whatnot. But beyond those initial enquiries, I failed to connect with a lot of these encounters. What we erroneously mistoke for seriousness and a lack of humour was in fact reserve. Everytime we invested a little time, we were amply rewarded with kindness, hospitality or a warm smile that instantly made me see things differently.

In a sense, I’ve learned to look at India anew these past couple of weeks, and try to see things more through her eyes and where she was coming from. It’s instantly made my stay here more enjoyable again. I still hate the smells, dirt, pollution, pervy men, insane traffic and scary drivers, but I am in thrall of its ancient architecture, streetlife, colours, food, crafts and everyday spectacle. And if I don’t lose sight of that, then the experience becomes one of reward instead of frustration.

In short, we’ve been through the wringer, India and I, but I’ve now come out of it with a keener understanding and a deep respect for the country. It hasn’t been my favourite destination but it’s undoubtedly been the most fascinating and exotic, and I feel all the richer for it.

Delhi awaits, and I’m hoping it’s a showcase for the best the country has to offer. The city is certainly ambitious and wants to sit amongst the top 10 metropolitan destinations of the world by 2020. I’m hoping such plans for future domination are warranted and that we’ll be dazzled by the India of the future. Otherwise I may contradict myself all over again.

- Guilaine

Addendum: This post was written during my last epic train journey. I’m now in Delhi and loving it. Phew, no contradiction needed.

Varanasi is a strange, unique place, and one I’m still trying to make sense of. Everywhere you look, some ceremony or rite is taking place – from weddings to funerals to holy baths. The cornerstone of the Hindu religion, the city straddles the sacred Ganges and is one of the most important – if not the most important – sites for Hindu pilgrims. Devotees believe that to die in Varanasi along the Ganges will cease the infernal cycle of reincarnation.

All the action takes place along the river, on the Ghats. In the early morning, men, women, children and  hoards of water buffalos bathe in the holy river (one of the most polluted water sources in the world). Others congregate on the steep steps, washing clothes, drinking chai, chatting, selling flower garlands and other religious offerings, meditating, begging tourists for money or offering boat rides.

The evenings are even livelier. Every night, a huge spectacle takes place on the Ghats, with 4 holy men or Hindu disciples (I’m not exactly sure) chanting, burning incense and candles, ringing bells, and engaging in a choreographed ceremony that draws in the crowds by the thousands. It’s mesmerising, beautiful, and puzzling all at once.

Bali enchanted me with its brand of Hinduism, one that was joyous, full of daily rituals, laughter, ceremonial offerings and feasts. In India, I haven’t witnessed the same religious fervour and certainly not one as lighthearted. Life, death and weddings have been the only ceremonies I witnessed. But in Varanasi I have finally immersed myself in India’s spiritual side. Not that I’m a participant, more a distant observer.

The most shocking ritual in Varanasi is undoubtably the human cremation that takes place in open air along the Ganges. I say shocking because it is for some tourists, though it didn’t trouble us. After 12 months on the road, it takes a lot to faze us. Dead bodies are carried on stretchers along the Ghats, wrapped in ceremonial robes, faces most often covered, and then burned on a mound of wood in front of passersby, with a small area designated for family members. Photographs are strictly forbidden (as they should be, though we did take a couple with the zoom lens from a respectful distance) and locals watch tourists like hawks to make sure you abide by this rule – and to charge you very hefty fines should you violate the law. Some see these open-air funeral rites as lacking dignity, with the dead exposed to prying eyes, but it all seems fitting somehow. While the bodies were aflame, children played cricket nearby, old men sat chatting by the fire, cows and dogs vied for attention and men swam on the shore. Solemnity is not for Varanasi. Life goes on.

- Guilaine

Less than 1 week to go before we head back home. So how do we feel about the trip of a lifetime coming to an end? Sad, nostalgic, a little apprehensive about the future, but also excited and optimistic.

It goes without saying that we’ve had an incredible year. One I will forever remember and never regret an instant of. I was never the likeliest candidate for taking on such a crazy adventure. The seed was firmly planted on a lazy Sunday morning in spring 2008, when Kevin and I discussed exploring Southeast Asia in more depth – 3 months quickly turned into 6 and then progressed to a full year. In part inspired by my friends Spas and Nina, who were then about to embark on their 1 year travels to the Americas, we felt encouraged to run with our wild dream.

Has the experienced changed us? It’s hard to tell. Until arriving in India, I would have said that I became a more patient and chilled-out person, but the country has steadily been bringing out my old demons to the fore. The trip’s certainly been a huge eye-opener. I was always aware of issues facing developing countries – poverty, lack of sanitation, malnutrition, environmental degradation, corruption, etc. But witnessing the impact of global warming firsthand, huge structural problems, the plight women face, the rise of the middle-class, increased consumerism, and soaring economies has greatly enriched my understanding.

I have loved every country we visited and feel a special connection with each place – though some bonds are stronger than others. I know I will continue to follow their progress attentively and, whenever possible, revisit some of my favourite places – see you soon Brazil and Laos.

Wherever we went, Kevin and I actively sought to understand the essence of each country, its politics, culture, history and traditions. I hope it’s something we successfully conveyed and shared on this blog.  More importantly though, I hope we walked away with an accurate understanding. Reading the local press, engaging with locals, riding on public transportation, going to local markets and restaurants and actively seeking out alternatives to the tourist trail were the best ways to tap into the heart and soul of each nation.

There are many things I will try to take back from this journey – the warmth and humour of Cambodians, the infectious exuberance of Brazilians, the outgoingness of Indonesians, the resilience of Bolivians, the culinary prowess of Thais, the work ethic of the Vietnamese, the laid-back attitude of the Lao, to name but a few. Each country has made its mark and I am forever grateful to the hospitality we received in each.

- Guilaine

P.S. Further proof I haven’t changed much – I had to dig all the way back to Brazil to find a picture of myself that I like. Yup, still as vain as before. Note to self, book a hairdressing appointment asap.

Louis Le Brocquy died this week. I can’t think of a more fitting place  to mourn his passing than Varanasi. The painting above made a profound impact on my 12 year old self. Loitering in a school corridor, I saw it being taken out of its protective packaging (as part of a touring exhibition) and was mesmerised.

Ten years later, while staring at it in the Hugh Lane gallery, Dublin, I spied the good man himself, sat motionless, staring at it too. I was too awestruck to say hello, but in hindsight, silence was vital for his portraits.

He once said that he wanted his paintings to reveal the archaeology of the spirit. Haggard, beaten but defiant, his perfect muse was that other giant, Samuel Beckett. Beckett too would approve of Varanasi. It’s a place where haunted corpses burn on funeral pyres with Vladimir, Estragon, livestock and squatted snarling dogs bear witness.

- Kevin

No visit to India is complete without a trip to Agra to view the world famous Taj Mahal. As always with such notoriety, one wonders if the hype is justified. Lord knows I’d seen countless images and footage of the building but the Taj didn’t disappoint – far from it. In fact it was more spectacular in the flesh, despite its familiarity. We got up at the crack of dawn to take in the greatest emblem of Mughal architecture, to beat the crowds and the heat. The early morning light, with the sun peaking behind the minarets  gave it an added air of majesty.

Perhaps what lends this monument such mystique is not only its perfect proportions, stunning white marble, beautiful, elegant design, but also its achingly moving and romantic story. When his beloved wife Mumtaz died in childbirth, Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan was so heartbroken that he decided to order the construction of a mausoleum of unparalleled beauty worthy of the women he loved so dearly. Construction of the Taj took 22 years to complete and, sadly, by the time it was finished Shah Jahan was no longer in power but imprisoned in nearby Agra Fort. One of his sons seized power but at least had the kindness, if you can call it that, to lock up his father in a rather beautiful, gilded chamber overlooking the Yamuna river and the Taj, where he could gaze at his creation. When he passed away, he too was buried there, alongside Mumtaz.

The two graves are not actually open to the public – there are two cenotaphs inside the Taj, ornately decorated, but they are empty. Instead, Shah Jahan and Mumtaz are buried deep in the bowels of the monument, away from scrutiny.

The Taj dominates Agra, but the city boasts some other marvellous monuments, like its fort and the ‘Baby Taj’, a mausoleum built for the father of Empress Nur Jahan, Mumtaz’s aunt. Agra is also a surprisingly pleasant place to visit – large avenues, tree-lined roads, spectacular Mughal architecture and in our case, a wonderful host family, all contributed to a lovely and hassle-free experience.

We elected to book a homestay and, as with our first experience in Fort Cochin, we were made to feel right at home with a warm, hospitable and kind Sikh family, who treated us like relatives and cooked up some of the best Indian food I had on this trip. I now regret having stayed in so few family homes as both experiences really enriched my understanding of Indian life and made me see a different, altogether less guarded side of Indians. Kevin and I both found it difficult to connect with locals on this trip – it’s not that people aren’t kind or hospitable, but there is a reserve and beyond the usual chatter there is rarely a genuine bond created. Perhaps it’s just us, but from what other travelers have shared, it seems this feeling is widespread.

- Guilaine

Pushkar is the perfect place to reach for the off button, stop everything and have a good long think. It’s the most prominent Hindu site in India and gets absolutely swamped at certain times of the year – particularly in early February when the world’s largest camel fair comes to town.

Fortunately (we don’t like camels – official, although Guilaine is backtracking on this one) at all other times of the year, its a peaceful lakeside town. Beeping of horns is banned, there are no taxis and limited motorbikes. There are, however, lots of wandering urban painted cows, cricketing children, lounging ladies, shopping grandparents, screeching aunties, dozing uncles and disheveled holy men aplenty. All slowly make their way down to the ghats at sunrise, midday and sunset for a good old puja (prayer), full of chanting, drumming, gonging and devotional ditties. And wedding season has just started, so loud speeker Justin B songs until midnight.

The lake itself (little more than the size of a couple of football pitches) is the holy resting place of a mighty lotus flower tossed to earth by Brahma. With over 52 ghats, 400 temples, more than 1,000 donation boxes, 32 florists and a cheeky bunch of local monkeys, it’s a colourful exotic bolthole 5 hours drive up the mountains from Rajasthan’s capital Jaipur.

Watching a Hindu ceremony of worship is a joy – less mournful than many other religious rituals, its not quite on the Bali scale for spectacle and sheer abandon, but the serenity, flower petals, forehead paint and rhythmic humming, chanting and swaying stays with you long after experiencing it. No photography is permitted (fair enough) and no footwear allowed (well, wash the friggan bird, monkey and cow poop off the steps of the ghats then and I might obey that one sir) within 50m of the holy waters.

Throw in the most authentic boutique and heritage hotel we’ve stayed in – aptly named Inn 7th Heaven, a five-story haveli (mansion) with open courtyards – and you never want to leave. But leave we must (on a 6am train). Our next destination is the once in a lifetime Taj Mahal (or if you are Hindu, once in this lifetime).

- Kevin

As Guilaine has blogged, we have lived it up bigtime for the past couple of days, crashing in the blissful air-conditioned luxury of the Pearl Palace Heritage boutique hotel (dodgy magazine selection though). We found the best way to get the most out of India, without its shortcomings blighting all the amazing things it has going for it, is to reach for the off button at least once a day. Comfortable, clean surroundings to unwind, re-energise, revitalise and refocus. With the widest flat-screen we’ve had all year to boot, I indulged in some well-needed TV.

Watching Indian TV is very entertaining, particularly the adverts. In a mixture of Hindi and English (Hinglish) most are for whitening cosmetics – a national obsession of the burgeoning middle classes. One fantastic advert shows an up and coming Indian tennis player. Her coach remonstrates her about it being ok to look dark during practice, but for the tournament he wants her to whiten up. Cue to product placement shot, then closeup of darkness ‘magically disappearing’ and girl winning the tournament. Game, set and match. Hair, however, must be black – and shiny. From ‘Rroot skalp-to-teep’.  Magic plays a big roll in adverts for women (tampons magically soak up moisture), easy meals are ‘magic’ while air fresheners work, yip, like ‘magic’. Men’s adverts don’t work on magic – air cons work like ‘Ferraris’, aftershave makes you look like you own a ‘Ferrari’ whilst drinking Sprite, of all things, will make you look like a ‘race car’ – presumably a Ferrari.

Institutional intrusion permeates the programmes themselves – if a show is about to show, or discuss something taboo (kissing, premarital sex, violence, swearwords) a governmental message scrolls across the screen to warn, and to give an sms number you can text your concerns about the content to. If enough people complain, the programme will be taken off the airways. Heavily censored (Basic Instinct 2 was 12 minutes long) to begin with (I watched the horror movie Final Destination without seeing any of the death scenes), even the translation subtitles get the censorship treatment. Hearing Bruce Willis call someone a son of a witch instead of bitch made my day. (‘Yeppie kaye mother****’ just doesn’t quite land the same punch if you ask me – Guilaine)

- Kevin

Our time in Jaipur has been one of indulgence. No, we haven’t stumbled on a hidden stash of cash but your money seemingly goes a little further here. We’re staying in the gorgeous Pearl Palace Heritage, one of the nicest hotels we’ve had all year. Opulent but not ostentatious, tasteful and with great service to boot, it’s what every hotel in India (and elsewhere for that matter) should strive to be. Did I mention that we’re only paying £25 per night for this? Each room has its own theme and ours, aptly, was the Jaisalmer room, our last location in India. The walls were adorned with sculptures referencing the desert fort but thankfully, that’s were the similarities ended – immaculately clean, scented with fresh petals and fragrant incense, it bore no resemblance to the dusty, urine and shit-soaked streets of Jaisalmer.

Jaipur is a great place to shop too and after a year of deprivation (or more if you count the time we saved up for this trip), it’s been nice to unleash my inner shopping demon. The prerequisite experience is to hire an autorickshaw and let them drive you around to the ‘best jewellers and textile merchants in Jaipur’, where supposedly you won’t get ripped off and will be offered only authentic pieces at unbelievable prices. Of course, we know that the drivers make a good commission and that you need to be very wary. Luckily, we met the lovely and outgoing Shakeer, who promised to take me to the best jewellery shops in town. Well, I’ve been doing my own investigating and I think I can safely say that I can spot quality and have a vague notion of what I should pay for it. I was thoroughly unimpressed by the first shop but the second turned out to be what I was looking for – a wholesaler in nice premises, where the staff weren’t pushy, could make you something to your heart’s desire in no time at all, at decent rates too. I indulged in a couple of necklaces, one made of beautiful turquoise stones but was underwhelmed by their silver bangles – the one thing I was really looking for.

Turns out I found my bangle in a luxury shop affiliated with the incredible Rambagh Palace, where for the lofty sum of £350 per night, you can stay in the Maharaja of Jaipur’s old abode. It’s now been converted into a super luxurious hotel where plebs like us can enjoy a martini and nighttime spectacle of traditional music, singing and dancing in its sumptuous gardens. Ah, to live like the truly rich. At least we got to enjoy an excellent cocktail and a never-ending bowl of snacks, and live it up for a couple of hours. But back to my bangle. The price was no different than those I was shown previously, but the quality infinitely better. The shop in question proudly displays all its jewellery worn by famous Hollywood actresses, socialites and models so its credentials felt pretty real to me. Not to mention its location – I doubt the Maharaja would be affiliated with a bunch of scam merchants.

If I was to confer any shopping advice in India, it would be to source the quality shops located in pristine locations. Another favourite of mine was the authentic Kashmir pashmina shop in Jaisalmer’s Palace. Yes it might be pricier but at least I know that it’s real and the quality was by far the best I found in India. I’m sure there are better deals out there but without local knowledge, I prefer to err on the side of caution and buy from the upmarket boutiques. At the end of the day, it’s still a steal compared to prices back home.

Our little lap of luxury is coming to an end today. We’re off to Pushkar for a couple of days, one of Rajasthan’s holiest cities. From opulence to more a humble and spiritual lifestyle – this is India in a nutshell.

- Guilaine