As tourist experiences go, this is as far out as you can get while still remaining comfortable – pampered even – and relatively safe, writes MAL ROGERS
‘A CHEERFUL morning is likely,” said the weather forecast in the
Hindustan Times
I was reading in a park in New Delhi. As black kites soared overhead, possibly keeping a watchful eye on the colony of fruit bats hanging about in a nearby sandalwood tree, or perhaps me, I noted that, “The afternoon will remain uncomfortable with highs of 39 degrees”.
The hottest place in India, according to the newspaper, would be Churu in Rajasthan where the mercury was confidently expected to top 48.3 degrees. That would have been 118.9 degrees before we switched from Daniel Fahrenheit’s German-Polish system to a Swedish one.
But in any language it meant it had turned out nice again in Rajasthan. And it was where we were headed that very afternoon. The 12 of us in our tour party included Manjeet Singh, our exemplary guide, Mr Singh, our driver and Bhunjeet, our bus boy.
We only had a day to enjoy the swagger of the old colonial buildings in Delhi, the bustling and colourful market of Chandni Chowk, the swashbuckling Imperial City and the temples where their gods allow you to wear orange, plastic flip-flops but not shoes (seems reasonable, I suppose).
According to Manjeet, some 17 million people live in this beautiful, loud, choking, smelly, crazy city. From what we could see from our rickshaw it seemed that – as with all the cities we chugged through – the entire population was out on the street, letting it all hang out on every corner, in every alleyway, at every city square.
“However crazy you thought street life in India could be – it’s crazier,” said Manjeet, and our whole party nodded in agreement.
The sub-continent must be a health and safety officer’s nightmare holiday. On our first evening walk we saw a whole family (father, mother, two kids) on a rickety old Vespa narrowly miss two rickshaws, which in turn had almost been demolished by a tractor carrying an unfeasibly large load of human beings and mangoes.
The cobweb of electrical wires which hangs low across every city street in India threatened to dislodge the load, both human and fruity. However, the driver managed to negotiate his way through. I was so astonished by this exuberance of humanity I almost stood on the dead rat lying on the traffic island. And we hadn’t even reached Old Delhi.
From the capital of India, we were headed south towards Agra, across the plain where in 1877 Queen Victoria was proclaimed Empress of India. You’ll not need to be reminded that Britain once ruled this vast territory from the northerly extremity of the Khyber Pass to the southern most point of Tamil Nadu.
The man who called time on the Raj, Clement Attlee – once described by Churchill as a modest man with much to be modest about – entrusted Lord Louis Mountbatten to do the needful and he handed India back to the Indians.
It’s an arduous enough journey across the plains to Agra, a relentlessly, grindingly, industrial city with one huge attraction – the Taj Mahal. As attractions go, they really don’t come much bigger. Described as the most extravagant monument ever built to love, the Nobel prize-winning poet Rabindranath Tagore called it “a teardrop on the cheek of time”.
Manjeet was more phlegmatic: “If the Raj had stayed another 100 years the British would have had had a clock face on the main dome. They loved their public clocks.”
The most striking view of the Taj Mahal is possibly from a few miles to the west, from the battlements of the Red Fort in Agra – from here the 17th-century white marble mausoleum of the Taj seems to float on the banks of the Yamuna with eyewatering beauty.
The overwhelming number of tourists alongside me gazing out at this, one of the half dozen most famous buildings in the world, were from the sub-continent; throughout our trip, Europeans were, by and large, a rarity.
The people were disarmingly friendly. Whole families would frequently ask to have their photographs taken with us. My tall companion was an object of wonder. Even the markedly less photogenic, such as myself, were regularly asked for their photo.
THE NEXT LEG of our tour took us through deepest, rural India - a technicolour, sensurround, smellavision experience of the sub-continent unfolded. Through dusty villages we drove, past street scenes bordering on theatrical confusion. On the roadside men with mangles would crush sugar cane to produce jaggery, or coarse brown sugar, alongside stallholders fried pakoras, sold naan bread, or marigold garlands. Roadside barbers under small tarpaulins plied their trade, street-side dentists tended their open-mouthed clients; you could even get a home loan from a man in a rickety chair.
We’d see the odd dead, sacred cow – probably killed by the traffic – being fed on by feral dogs, manky camels pulling their teetering loads of farm produce, old Morris Oxfords (now manufactured as Ambassadors) acting as taxis and 4x4s, elephants dressed up to the nines weaving their way to some religious festival or another, auto-rickshaws tooting and beeping like some atonal operetta – and everywhere women in bright coloured saris, like bejewelled butterflies flitting over the landscape.
India is a beautiful, uplifting, friendly, death-haunted, shambles. Life here teeters between extreme beauty, extreme meteorology and extreme nature. Snakes there are aplenty, big cats too – I further noted in my Hindustan Timesthat a leopard had strayed into a well-known Bollywood actor's bungalow. She survived, but death does come visiting in the afternoon sunshine – as it did for a young 12-year-old in Uttar Pradesh. Tending the family's herd of water buffalo, a crocodile suddenly launched itself from the muddy waters and pulled her to an early grave, according to Manjeet.
We left Uttar Pradesh and crossed into Rajasthan – with its parched red deserts, grandiose palaces and battle-scarred forts.
Jaipur, the Pink City, is the effortlessly charming, frenetic capital of Rajasthan. The Amber Fort Palace just outside the city is located in the Aravilli range of mountains. Overlooking the Maota Lake, the fort is awash with visitors (again, mostly Indian), local boys playing cricket, hawkers and tat sellers scampering, yelling, accosting, and shouting out the prices for their beads. Incessantly.
Monkeys cavort on the red walls of the fort, elephant wallahs guide their beasts through sacred cows, snake charmers, musicians, beggars, beautiful young women in saris, the inevitable Sadhu, or holy man, and peacocks strutting about importantly, undoubtedly aware they are the national bird of India.
To call this an exotic scene would to be employ what we journalists call understatement. The chakra, it could fairly be said, was 90, with gusts up to 100.
For 400 rupees (€6) you can catch an elephant up to the fort. All the elephant mahouts – with boyband good looks, according to Companion – were adept at getting you atop the animal into the saddle or the howdah, and up the steep path to the fort.
But fort is not the right word. This is a veritable treasury. Sandstone and marble, an excess of ivory inlaid sandalwood doors, opulently crafted gardens – the maharajas knew how to live. So did their wives and concubines (WAGs or WACs, we weren’t sure).
From Jaipur we headed south- east through parched, arid land – the Great Thar Desert – and onto Jodphur, one of the few cities in the world to give their name to a pair of trousers. As well as trousers, Jodhpur is famous for jooties (beaded shoes), exquisite furniture, and fabrics.
The tailplane of a downed Pakistani jet fighter takes pride of place on a plinth in the main highway leading into the town – the Indians aren’t terribly keen on the Pakistanis (just in case you haven’t been paying attention for the last 50 years) and the Pakistani border is only a few miles to the east across the Great Thar Desert.
Our tour, however, was more focused on forts, temples and evidence of maharajas living the high life. Manjeet described how one local maharaja was seriously dissed by the British. His butler, an Englishman, was mistaken for the dignitary at a certain function, while his master, the maharaja, was barred from entry.
So great was the maharaja’s ire at this British slight that he immediately downgraded the duties of his considerable fleet of Rolls Royces. No longer did his Silver Ghosts ferry the maharaja and his entourage through the breathtaking countryside of Rajasthan; now they were downgraded to carrying rubbish down to the dump, or fetching grain or fertiliser for the farm.
Laden down with assorted foul-smelling freight, the Rolls Royces would take their place in the steaming streets of Jodphur, grinding through the phut- phuts, the camel-drawn carts, and the writhing mass of traffic that is downtown Jodphur.
FROM JODPHUR it was south to Udaipur – the City of Lakes – and possibly the oddest thing we saw in India on the main highway. The temperature, as ever, was hovering around the mid-40s. Along the inside lane of the highway, and being dodged by trucks, trailers and cars – was a man rolling along. Literally.
Dressed in a loincloth, he was full length on the ground and rolling down the road just like we used to roll down grassy hills as a kid. Except he was rolling up hills as well. The roller was on a pilgrimage – according to Manjeet he could have rolled for as far as 500km to the temple which was his destination. He had one minder with him, who held a flag up to show that a zealous guy was on the road. A health and safety officer would surely have insisted on two.
India is possibly the ultimate tourist experience. We weren’t ravaged by as much sun and excess whiskey as were those early European traders, soldiers adventurers, missionaries and civil servants of the 19th century. We boasted no bullet wounds or tiger’s claw marks.
But as tourist experiences go, this is as far out as you can get while still remaining comfortable – pampered even – and relatively safe. In fact, so taken were we with the place that we decided that when the rickshaw wallah of destiny tells us it’s time to get out and pay the bill, we may well ask him if our souls can return here to beautiful, passionate, crumbling India.
And we can pick up those extra pashminas, and yak-hair throws Companion just couldn’t squeeze into her suitcases. Even so, we are now pashmina rich, but cash poor.
India where to . . .
Stay
All hotels are included in the package, India – Splendours of Delhi, the Taj Mahal and Rajasthan, but the following are worth considering for the independent traveller:
* The Suryaa, New Friends Colony, New Delhi, 00-91-112-6835070, thesuryaanewdelhi.com. In the heart of New Delhi, teeming markets and historical monuments are all in the close vicinity of the hotel. Double rooms from €400.
* Umaid Bhawan Palace, Jodphur, 00-91-291-251010, tajhotels.com. The world’s biggest art deco dwelling – now a luxury hotel – amalgamates Indian influences and fashionable art deco style into a fittingly five star experience. Doubles from €180 per night.
* The Trident, Amber Fort Road, Jaipur, 00-91-141-2670101. Ask for a room with a balcony and a view over the Mansagar Lake. The Aravalli mountains can be seen in the background. Doubles from €75.
* MAL ROGERSwas a guest of the Travel Department. He flew Aer Lingus from Dublin to London Heathrow, and British Airways from Heathrow to New Delhi.
* The Travel Department (the traveldepartment.ie, 01-6371600) is offering the India – Splendours of Delhi, The Taj Mahal and Rajasthan tour which includes flights from Dublin and Cork (via London Heathrow) and coach transfers. Prices start from €1,625 plus taxes.
