The bus from Rishikesh to Delhi was an Uttarakand bus, so naturally it had to break down. Eventually I reached the hustling, bustling capital to find it swamped with monsoon floods: at one junction a woman tried to hold some of her sari above the waist high water as she struggled to wade past an abandoned bus, water inside and outside it. Water everywhere. Kashmir Gate was under water, and tuktuks were refusing to take passengers, understandably, so I got to experience Delhi's shiny new Metro for the first time - luckily nothing had leaked there! The next day I picked Lara up from the airport, the what followed were an amazing ten days together.
We train hopped to the Taj Mahal at Agra, then to Varanasi, where we spent days wandering ghats, hung out with Nick and got rowed across the river to see the other side of the city. Varansi was one of the highlights of my trip: the people there were very friendly and more genuine than many other places I've been here. This set the mood for the experience of the city itself: intense devotion to religion and ritual everywhere you look; compact, twisting streets; signs in Hindi and Tamil; and as Nick observed, the biggest urban cows we've seen anywhere. As with other holy places, the cows are better looked after too: the large black one that hung out at the end of our guest house sidestreet could have been a roadblock if she wanted to. Instead she simply hung out.
After Varanasi, we visited Orchha, a quiet village in Madyar Pradesh known for its temples, palaces and wildlife sanctuary. Then before I knew it, it was time to head back to Delhi, to the airport.
The next week was difficult: alone again. I'd traveled with other people for months - first with Nick, Trevor and Rotem, then with Lara. I'd forgotten how easy it was to get caught up in thoughts - sometimes not good ones - when you've only yourself for company. How easy it was to feel lost in a huge country like India, when you can't find anywhere to stay for less than 500 rupees after getting off a train at 5am in a city whose only awake inhabitants are scores of tuktuk drivers that follow you down the road demanding you use them to take you somewhere. It sucks when it takes you two hours of walking around with your backpack on to find somewhere to stay for one lousy night in one lousy city. Nagpur is an expensive, boring place.
After Nagpur, another train to Hyderabad, a massive improvement on Nagpur matched by an improvement in my mood. A more cosmopolitan city than Mumbai in my opinion - a subcontinental meeting point where all signs are in Hindi, Telugu, Urdu and English. Hyderabad, city of lights, city of culture, city of technology. (Okay, so they haven't sorted out reliable electricity there yet, but where in India has?) Visiting the Salar Jung Museum gave me faith in Indian museums again after the let-down of Delhi's National Museum: a massive variety of exhibits, mostly stemming from the illustrious SalarJung III's private collection - Grecian sculptures (including Veiled Rebecca - google it if you don't know it), paintings by European artists alongside Indian modern art, and much more.
Then from Hyderabad, finally, to my last destination in India: the coastline of tropical Goa. It was time to rest my eyes on the sea again, and this time to swim in its waters...
It's been raining in Goa, quite a lot. It's monsoon season. Still, after the small-town fun in Panaji, I've reached the tiny village of Palolem and its small but perfectly formed beach. Today it didn't rain while I was on the beach, and I bathed my worn out body in the soothing salt water, letting the waves push me around. Here close to the end of my wanderings in India, I am content.
Monday 30 August 2010
Sunday 8 August 2010
Valley of Flowers; the Ganga retreats...
As the worst flooding in 80 years hits many parts of Northern India and Pakistan, we return to Rishikesh to find the mighty Ganga subdued. Has Shiva been appeased by the millions of pilgrims here to worship him? Or are the freak weather systems that have flattened half of Leh all the way down to Pang in Ladakh just that, freak weather systems that have come and gone? Perhaps global warming is to blame. It is certainly true that as the total energy in our weather system increases, the intensity and frequency of storms and flooding will also go up. Look to Venus for the end result of a runaway greenhouse affect.
We've returned from the Valley of Flowers in northern Uttarakand, in the foothills of the Himalaya. Getting there was quite an adventure, involving sweltering local buses that were held up for hours by landslides or broke down with impressive regularity. For some reason buses in Uttarakand only leave very early in the morning, so we grew used to getting up at 6am! After reaching Joshimath, a small town in the mountains where we stayed the night, we got a shared jeep to Govinghat, where the walking began: a 13km hike up-hill alongside the river, one of the Ganga's tributaries, to the one street town of Ghangaria. This was hard work with our backpacks on, but only took us 5 hours (the LP reckons on 7!), so we were quite pleased with ourselves when we reached the top. (An Indian girl asked Rotem if she was an athlete!) After staying the night in Ghangaria, with its 3 hours of electricity in the evenings and erratic water supply, we made the final 3km ascent to the Valley of Flowers...
Only to find the entrance cost wasn't 350 Rs, as the LP (2010 edition) claimed, but 600 Rs.
Of course, this was only the foreigner price - Indians get in for 100 or so.
We were understandably a little shocked by this price - the highest any of us have encountered for an admission price outside of the Taj Mahal, and the daily budget for many backpackers. However, having come all this way, we decided to take it on the chin and go up to the valley.
The Valley of Flowers certainly lived up to its name. Miles of flower-filled meadows patrolled by lazy bees, lit by the hesitant sun who peeked out from behind the clouds to brighten our day. We walked the length of the valley where there are flowers, then turned back and returned to Ghangaria for the start of the long trek back to Rishikesh.
So, is it right to charge foreigners more than Indians? If so, how much more is reasonable? My own thoughts are that it isn't a bad idea - that local attractions should try to attract local people to experience them, as it's a part of where they live. So many people I've spoken to agree that often the places you never explore or visit (for no real good reason) are those closest to home, and it's a shame. Also, it is true that many foreign visitors are better off than many Indians - this is something that is changing quickly though; I'd bet my backpack most of the Sikhs we met on their way up to Hem Kund had more money than all of us put together. So, there have to be sensible limits to this system. When the price is 6x or more what local people pay, for no good reason, it becomes just one more scam added to a long list of them in this country. I would not recommend to backpackers on any kind of budget to go to the Valley of Flowers, as it simply isn't worth the entrance price. Which is a shame, because it's still a beautiful place to see.
In other news, I can now read most signs written in Devanagari (the script used to write Hindi), which has proven useful a couple of times with buses. I've found it to be quite difficult to learn, mostly because of the many varieties of "marks" - e.g. vowel marks, "n" marks, the nasal mark, and so on, and also because some conjuncts (consecutive consonants like in hindi) are letters in their own right, and there are already 53 or so basic letters. It's interesting though, writing in a script completely different to your own alphabet, and it's definitely rewarding when you get some practical use out of it.
We've returned from the Valley of Flowers in northern Uttarakand, in the foothills of the Himalaya. Getting there was quite an adventure, involving sweltering local buses that were held up for hours by landslides or broke down with impressive regularity. For some reason buses in Uttarakand only leave very early in the morning, so we grew used to getting up at 6am! After reaching Joshimath, a small town in the mountains where we stayed the night, we got a shared jeep to Govinghat, where the walking began: a 13km hike up-hill alongside the river, one of the Ganga's tributaries, to the one street town of Ghangaria. This was hard work with our backpacks on, but only took us 5 hours (the LP reckons on 7!), so we were quite pleased with ourselves when we reached the top. (An Indian girl asked Rotem if she was an athlete!) After staying the night in Ghangaria, with its 3 hours of electricity in the evenings and erratic water supply, we made the final 3km ascent to the Valley of Flowers...
Only to find the entrance cost wasn't 350 Rs, as the LP (2010 edition) claimed, but 600 Rs.
Of course, this was only the foreigner price - Indians get in for 100 or so.
We were understandably a little shocked by this price - the highest any of us have encountered for an admission price outside of the Taj Mahal, and the daily budget for many backpackers. However, having come all this way, we decided to take it on the chin and go up to the valley.
The Valley of Flowers certainly lived up to its name. Miles of flower-filled meadows patrolled by lazy bees, lit by the hesitant sun who peeked out from behind the clouds to brighten our day. We walked the length of the valley where there are flowers, then turned back and returned to Ghangaria for the start of the long trek back to Rishikesh.
So, is it right to charge foreigners more than Indians? If so, how much more is reasonable? My own thoughts are that it isn't a bad idea - that local attractions should try to attract local people to experience them, as it's a part of where they live. So many people I've spoken to agree that often the places you never explore or visit (for no real good reason) are those closest to home, and it's a shame. Also, it is true that many foreign visitors are better off than many Indians - this is something that is changing quickly though; I'd bet my backpack most of the Sikhs we met on their way up to Hem Kund had more money than all of us put together. So, there have to be sensible limits to this system. When the price is 6x or more what local people pay, for no good reason, it becomes just one more scam added to a long list of them in this country. I would not recommend to backpackers on any kind of budget to go to the Valley of Flowers, as it simply isn't worth the entrance price. Which is a shame, because it's still a beautiful place to see.
In other news, I can now read most signs written in Devanagari (the script used to write Hindi), which has proven useful a couple of times with buses. I've found it to be quite difficult to learn, mostly because of the many varieties of "marks" - e.g. vowel marks, "n" marks, the nasal mark, and so on, and also because some conjuncts (consecutive consonants like in hindi) are letters in their own right, and there are already 53 or so basic letters. It's interesting though, writing in a script completely different to your own alphabet, and it's definitely rewarding when you get some practical use out of it.
Monday 2 August 2010
It's been a while...
Partly I've not updated due to lack of internet in some of the places I've been, partly because I've been feeling quite a lot of negative things about India in general lately. So, what have I been up to?
After hitching to Manali, we spent a week there then headed south to the Parvati Valley, where we did some village hopping. First of all Jari, a tiny place with some beautiful walks in the hills around it, then to Manikaran. Manikaran was one of my favourite places so far, a pilgrimage destination on the mighty Parvati River which amazed me with its sheer power. In Manikaran are many hot springs and temples, including a massive multistorey Gurdwara (Sikh Temple). The Gurdwara was the first temple in India where I've left feeling positive about it (with the possible exception of the Haji Ali Mosque in Mumbai). Inside there is a big food hall where people are given free food and chai, and upstairs are communal sleeping areas where people can stay. The temple is a decent size but no larger than the more worldly areas. Oh and there's a hot swimming pool fed by the town's springs.
We spent a couple of days in Manikaran, then left to find smaller places again. First Pulga, about an hour's walk up into the hills from the road (including crossing one of the many new hydro dams in HP). Pulga was quite rainy, so we spent a lot of time hanging out with the Israelis playing chess and cards. Then after Pulga we headed further east along the valley to Tosh, another tiny village, where we spent a night before heading back west, stopping at Kasol. My initial impressions about Kasol when we went through it after Manikaran turned out to be hasty (I got stung by a wasp and took an immediate dislike to it!) - Kasol is actually quite a nice place, very cheap but with excellent places to eat and stay, and some really fun walks in the valley and woods around it.
After Kasol it was time to say goodbye to Himachal Pradesh. I felt quite emotional as our bus finally arrived in Chandigarh, capital of the Punjabis, as I really enjoyed my time in Himachal Pradesh with its friendly people and amazing scenery.
Chandigarh was another interesting stop. It is a planned city, kind of like Canberra in the ACT, also quite like American cities - the streets are laid out in a rigid grid. Different areas are called sectors, so the bus station near the centre is called Sector 17, and we stayed in a cheap hotel in Sector 43. We visited the Nek Chand Rock Garden while in Chandigarh, supposedly the second most visited tourist attraction in India after the Taj Mahal. Indeed it was worthy of the many tourists it attracts - an impressive and beautiful walk through lots of different rock sculptures, waterfalls and other interesting collections, finishing in an open area with swings and camel rides. It was on returning to the plains (and leaving HP) that the annoyances of India went back to full power though - rude stares became the norm; people photographing and filming us wherever we went; men copping feels of Rotem the moment she was alone.
Now we are in Rishikesh, and we arrived at the same time as a large Shiva festival, which has had both good and bad aspects to it. The massive press of people isn't annoying of itself, but it does mean even more unwanted attention. Some days it's funny, other days it can really wind you up and you walk around battling not to write off all Indians (or Indian men anyway) as rude, greedy, unthinking sheep people. I've still enjoyed Rishikesh despite this: the mighty Ganga fills you with awe as you watch it thunder past the town, moving at something like 30mph. Sometimes a huge wave will make the entire river rise by a meter, swallowing up trees and islands, before settling back down again minutes later. As evidenced by the chaos in Delhi and the catastrophe in Pakistan, the monsoons have come later, and harder, this year. Perhaps Shiva is angry. Perhaps he is considering his Dance of Destruction...
Next we're heading to the Valley of Flowers. After that it will be time to return to the blistering heat and chaos of Delhi, to meet my beloved at the airport. It can't come soon enough.
After hitching to Manali, we spent a week there then headed south to the Parvati Valley, where we did some village hopping. First of all Jari, a tiny place with some beautiful walks in the hills around it, then to Manikaran. Manikaran was one of my favourite places so far, a pilgrimage destination on the mighty Parvati River which amazed me with its sheer power. In Manikaran are many hot springs and temples, including a massive multistorey Gurdwara (Sikh Temple). The Gurdwara was the first temple in India where I've left feeling positive about it (with the possible exception of the Haji Ali Mosque in Mumbai). Inside there is a big food hall where people are given free food and chai, and upstairs are communal sleeping areas where people can stay. The temple is a decent size but no larger than the more worldly areas. Oh and there's a hot swimming pool fed by the town's springs.
We spent a couple of days in Manikaran, then left to find smaller places again. First Pulga, about an hour's walk up into the hills from the road (including crossing one of the many new hydro dams in HP). Pulga was quite rainy, so we spent a lot of time hanging out with the Israelis playing chess and cards. Then after Pulga we headed further east along the valley to Tosh, another tiny village, where we spent a night before heading back west, stopping at Kasol. My initial impressions about Kasol when we went through it after Manikaran turned out to be hasty (I got stung by a wasp and took an immediate dislike to it!) - Kasol is actually quite a nice place, very cheap but with excellent places to eat and stay, and some really fun walks in the valley and woods around it.
After Kasol it was time to say goodbye to Himachal Pradesh. I felt quite emotional as our bus finally arrived in Chandigarh, capital of the Punjabis, as I really enjoyed my time in Himachal Pradesh with its friendly people and amazing scenery.
Chandigarh was another interesting stop. It is a planned city, kind of like Canberra in the ACT, also quite like American cities - the streets are laid out in a rigid grid. Different areas are called sectors, so the bus station near the centre is called Sector 17, and we stayed in a cheap hotel in Sector 43. We visited the Nek Chand Rock Garden while in Chandigarh, supposedly the second most visited tourist attraction in India after the Taj Mahal. Indeed it was worthy of the many tourists it attracts - an impressive and beautiful walk through lots of different rock sculptures, waterfalls and other interesting collections, finishing in an open area with swings and camel rides. It was on returning to the plains (and leaving HP) that the annoyances of India went back to full power though - rude stares became the norm; people photographing and filming us wherever we went; men copping feels of Rotem the moment she was alone.
Now we are in Rishikesh, and we arrived at the same time as a large Shiva festival, which has had both good and bad aspects to it. The massive press of people isn't annoying of itself, but it does mean even more unwanted attention. Some days it's funny, other days it can really wind you up and you walk around battling not to write off all Indians (or Indian men anyway) as rude, greedy, unthinking sheep people. I've still enjoyed Rishikesh despite this: the mighty Ganga fills you with awe as you watch it thunder past the town, moving at something like 30mph. Sometimes a huge wave will make the entire river rise by a meter, swallowing up trees and islands, before settling back down again minutes later. As evidenced by the chaos in Delhi and the catastrophe in Pakistan, the monsoons have come later, and harder, this year. Perhaps Shiva is angry. Perhaps he is considering his Dance of Destruction...
Next we're heading to the Valley of Flowers. After that it will be time to return to the blistering heat and chaos of Delhi, to meet my beloved at the airport. It can't come soon enough.
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