The Taj Mahal

Day 18

Departing from the dreaded Hostel Nirvana we found that in fact they'd trapped us in. The large gate was locked with a padlock so the only option was to scale the neighboring walls. Tom, Dom and I chose the shoulder height wall perpendicular to the gate. It had a ledge on the opposite side which we could quite easily use to step onto the dusty street below. George however decided that the shoulder height wall was insurmountable, and chose the slightly lower wall to the right of the gate. Tom, Dom and I watched on as he straddled the wall, only to realise that the drop was higher than he imagined. He proceeded to make a pigs ear of his decent to earth. With a lack of grace that would have had Ganesh flapping his ears in disgust, and simultaneously had us crippled with laughter as we watched on, too occupied to help, George slid down the side of the wall. Awkwardly he touched ground. "I thought it would be easier", he confessed, looking at his grazed palms. Tom produced a med kit; fixing George up with a plaster and some friendly mockery.

The comedy continued as we witnessed two frisky dogs going at it in the middle of the road. We left them behind with a few 'doggy style' jokes, pressing on for the Taj Mahal. 

It was just past sunrise when we arrived. As we got there so early the queues hadn't yet formed but we had a minor setback when security refused to let me in with my bag, which was 'too big', George's dice and cards, incase he 'played with them', and Tom had to debate that infact his much smaller bag was perfectly fine...

The hassle was worthwhile. Our quartet stood awestruck at the mighty Indian landmark. Towering with an imposing beauty against the blue sky, the Taj Mahal affected us all. It's white dome reflected with a peaceful stillness in the shallow waters of the grounds. Just like the Eiffel Tower, Statue of Liberty and the Sydney opera house, the Taj Mahal is so recognisable; iconic of it's native India.

It was this fact that affected me most of all. I'd walked to the site expecting a bit of an anticlimax. For some reason I assumed it would be over-hyped, just a boring building that for some reason people flocked to visit, a result of it's picture book fame. My cynicism was unfounded. I suddenly understood that it deserved its fame. For some reason it had me hooked. It's difficult to describe how it felt but there was almost a mystical aura, gripping me with it's own tranquility.

More tourists start to appear and before long, a free-for-all photographic brawl broke out. All the tourists, both foreign and Indian, attempt to muscle their way to the front to get the classic photo. Everyone wants to pose in front of the impressive building (including us)!

We wandered along the grounds and I started to take some more alternative photos. The vast crowds and excited tourists made for some great photographic opportunities so I tried to capture the mood. I managed to film a bit too, although the intense sunlight made for harsh contrasts between the light and the shadows. Having no sun-guard for the LCD screen meant that for some of the time I was filming blind as well. Therefore, I found still image a much better way to document the visit.

The Taj Mahal stood tall and proud on an elevated stage. Like bishops on a giant chess board, columns stood at all four corners, guarding the main mausoleum. Waiting in the wings were two symmetrical red stone structures with many pillars. One of which was a mosque . The River Yamuna flows past in the shadow of the dome, making for an impressive backdrop to an altogether breathtaking scene.

Built in 1653, the main mausoleum was built as an elaborate tomb for Mumtaz Mahal by Mughal emporer Shah Jahan. You can go inside. There was an amazing reverberation of sound, as the voices of tourists bounce around within the giant dome; it made for an eerie soundtrack. 

The inside was disappointingly neglected compared to the immaculate exterior. There was even a bit of graffiti in one place. It's surprising how somewhere with such laborious security measures at the gates, fails to guard the actual building itself. I took a soundbite and left.

I made sure I got to sit down and just take in the whole picture. Plugging in my iPod, I sat absorbing the scene, watching all the people pointing their many cameras Mahal-wards. Muse's Exogenesis plays in my ears. Total relaxation.

Ewan　

On The Road Again

Day 18

An early start for all of us today, but Ewan, Dom and I made it to breakfast for some pancakes. After finishing my sugared omelet we thanked the proprietors of the Laxmi Palace for an awesome stay. We had a driver booked for the next few days to drive us to Agra and then on to Delhi.

We set off from the bumpy streets of Jaipur city just waking up. We soon made it to a duel carriageway where finally smooth tarmac and actual road signs were a pleasant change. This was not long lived. Our 240km taxi to Agra posed us with many dangers. Deep holes, excavations really were dotted along the duel carriageway. In some places there were random speed bumps in a 90km per hour designated speed zone with no prior warning. Farms herded their cows and goats alongside the road and more were being transported in trucks.

Motorists didn't seem to abide by the white center line road markings with some even going against the traffic with only a horn to protect them. We followed a truck that struck a wandering cow on the road. It was split from the herd on the central reservation and was still alive but immobile as we swerved to avoid it. Further along there were lanes blocked by truck drivers either swapping spare wheels or stopping to sit in the shade, oblivious to their tying up of one side of the carriageway.

60km outside Agra we stopped to stretch our legs. Keoladeo National Park seemed like a perfect place. Tranquil surrounds of grass and marsh and a place where no motor cars were allowed to enter was a pleasant change from the dusty streets of the days before. We hired old, battered and frankly uncomfortable push bikes to enjoy a sociable ride in the midday sun. We acquired a guide too, a naturalist, very knowledgeable and a very good spotter. Even with the goofy teeth that stuck out further than his chin he spotted some unbelieveable things. We caught a glimpse of an owl sleeping up in a palm tree and submerged turtles with his keen eye to help us.

The park also had many other species in their element. stalks in mating season and nesting in the park. We saw butterflies, dragonflies, kingfishers, pond herons, indian robins, doves and bluejays. Bee eaters were also in abundance with lots of food on offer as many trees had colonising beehives. We stopped at a checkpoint to enjoy another drink, much needed in the burning sun.Campa, another brand of coke, was all that was on sale, so we went with it and carried on through the bush.

Several crashes from George later and our cameras packed with photos of a parakeet porno we headed back for food and finally a comfy seat. Indian roadside meals left a lot to be desired as we found in a dark and dingy indian Little Chef equivalent where we had perhaps the worst meal since the Mumbai train. Cheese on toast really was cheese on toast. Not melted cheese or even warm toast but I needed the calories after our three hour bike ride.

We crossed several toll booths over the state line. The cars now read "UP" on the number plates but the "RJ" of Jaipur's cars were still on the road, in a traffic jam as we were. Luckily I was asleep for this and missed the rest of our trip through the outskirts of the city.

The center of Agra was again different, cleaner again and more westernised. More adverts were on billboards shops and cars and every shop seemed tourist orientated. The signs and road marking still remained right into the city center so at least we could roughly find our bearings.

We arrived at our hotel finally after our driver had asked several bystanders for directions. The wait was not worth it as we arrived into an abysmal hotel, God knows how Hostel World even endorse it let alone give it a good rating. There was a gecko in our air con and millions of flys he could feed on. The reception was dark damp and smelled. We had to remove our shoes, God knows why, maybe so we cleaned up the ants as we walked. We sat in the room and couldn't wait to leave. Ewan was electrocuted in the shower and there was a socket hanging from the wall where there had obviously been an electrical fire.

We decided to take refuge in a Pizza Hut we had passed so we could have a taste of home. Passing low hanging wires, sparking junction boxes and flickering street lamps we made the 15 minute walk unscathed. Several power cuts meant that some of our meal was in the light of the emergency exit glow, but the pizza was eaten never the less.

Reluctantly we made it back to the hotel through the blizzard of flies surrounding the bare lightbulb hanging in the hall. Dom and I opted for a baby wipe rubdown and a jungle spray shower rather than risk death in the only bathroom I've seen with a rusty mirror and a wardrobe next to the toilet. We settled down with our next homestay in Delhi booked hoping it could not be any worse than at the 'Nirvana' hostel. Harry Potter supplied the entertainment as we got into our sleeping bags, hoping to make the Taj Mahal for sunrise.

Tom

Pictures Added and An Apology

New pictures have been added to the gallery. There are simply too many things in Jaipur to write about, so have a look at some images to give you a taste of what life in the city is like!


Apology:

On behalf of all of us I'd like to apologise for the fact that the blog has been running a little behind of late. This has mainly been down to a lack of decent writing time and internet over a very travel intensive week or so. Be sure to check the blog regularly over the next few days as I'll be maintaining it on fast forward to catch up!

Regards

George

The Towers of Jaipur

18 hours on an overnight train can disappear surprisingly quickly when you sleep for 13 of them, but a quick glance behind the velvet red curtain was enough to confirm that the brown grey streets of Mumbai were long behind us. The overcrowded platforms, mounds of rubbish and derelict high rises had been replaced by one woman, a camel, and flat farmland as far as the eye could see. The sudden expanse of green was a pleasant surprise, but it was probably the camel more than anything that made us wonder just how far we'd come.

If our experience in Mumbai had poisoned us against India at all, and it probably had a little, then nothing could have come as more perfect an antidote than Jaipur. Just about everything in the city stood in stark contrast of the overburdened metropolis from which we'd arrived. Gone were the gridlocked tarmaced highways, replaced with wide dusty strips, still half under construction and populated by the widest variety of traffic I have seen anywhere. Our tuk tuk from the station, (a four seater variety large enough for all of us plus bags), weaved it's way past other tuk tuks, cars, busses, trucks, vans, motorcycles, bicycles, rickshaws, horse drawn carts, oxen drawn carts, camel drawn carts, man drawn carts, men pushing barrows of fruit, a herd of cattle followed by a harassed looking man with a stick, and an elephant. It was nice to see that even the Indian drivers had enough sense to avoid cutting up the elephant which was the only form of transport without a horn of any kind, presumably on the basis that tusks are enough.

Despite the huge population of animals in the city, Jaipur still manages to keep its streets, and everything else in fact, remarkably clean. Certainly to the standard of some of the bigger cities in the UK. The hotel we'd booked ourselves into was, to put it mildly, a revelation. The Laxmi Palace was costing us less a night than the small bunk bedded closet we'd had in Mumbai, but instead we had two vast rooms, spotless, both with en-suites, air conditioning, huge double beds, free internet, a rooftop veranda with chairs and a table overlooking the streets below and the most helpful staff I've met in any hotel anywhere. They happily spent a good hour and a half with Dom on one night to help us plan out the next few days in Jaipur, and the following night the chef readily agreed to give him a personal tuition on how to make one of their excellent curries. Nothing was too big a thing to ask, nothing too small, and a nicer bunch you couldn't hope to meet anywhere.

Maybe it was the relief of being out of Mumbai, but everyone in Jaipur appeared a welcome friendly face. Walking down the main market street we found that almost no-one hassled us on our way. The shop/stalls lined up one after another between the sandstone columns of the well covered sidewalks, set back a few feet into the stonework, all selling a familiar brand of happy go lucky tat and questionable pastry snacks. The sweet smell of incense competes with the sizzle of frying onions and both tempt us more than once. Crossing the street is an experience in itself. The traffic doesn't stop and its all traveling at different speeds. If in doubt its best to find a donkey or bicycle to step out in front of, there's less chance of serious injury.

In between the stalls narrow staircases disappear off the street leading to more shops on the rooftops above, mostly jewlry stores sporting some of Jaipur's famous stonework at occasionally ridiculous prices. One of the locals, after a brief conversation about the cricket, directed us to a spiraling iron staircase that led three floors up to a rooftop view of the city. For anyone familiar with the game 'Assassin's Creed', the panorama that greeted us would be astonishingly recognisable, but for anyone not so inclined it's a view I would recommend to anyone.

Jaipur is a city nestled in a funnel shaped, open ended valley. The city is curtailed at one end by steeply climbing scrub forest hills, the first we'd seen for miles. At their top, silhouetted against the deep orange sky are massive sandstone forts with great dry stone battlements that tower above the stunted forests below. Huge adjoining walls drape themselves at impossible angles down the hillside, with imposing circular watch towers dotted along their length, standing like beacons over the city below. In the other direction the city spreads itself to the horizon, a melange of twisting streets and back alleys populated by brightly coloured fruit venders and punctuated by soaring stone towers and palaces that scatter the skyline. In front of us a beautifully carved circular tower rises from the flat rooftops, wooden lattice windows on every side and stone carved facades giving it an almost medieval feel. Pidgeons circle in flocks around its dome, nesting in the rafters, and high above a hawk hovers on the rising warm air.

As the sun sets behind the hills and the shadows lengthen the temperature drops and the markets below come alive. Everything in the city stays open well into the evening and at night the air is filled with the inviting calls from shop owners and the honking of tuk tuk horns. With the sun low in the sky, all of us look out over the darkening rooftops and feel for the first time that India might have more to offer than the crowds of Mumbai. A brighter contrast you couldn't find anywhere, and for that we are extremely thankful.

George

The Drowning of Ganesh

Mumbai, in many ways, is better in the rain. In the sun your senses are drawn to the filth. The piles of rubbish that gather in every gutter, every corner, and stink to high heaven. The rotting fruit and cuts of gone off chicken, the bottles, cans and plastic wrappings to name just a few of the more moderate items. In every pothole an opaque brown sludge lines the tarmac. Every wall is covered in a thick grime that comes off on your hands and clothes. Even the air is thick with pollution so that a white shirt will turn oil brown and greasy to the touch after an hour or two just walking the streets.

The sun also brings out the people. The endless seething crowds of people that push and shove and crowd you everywhere you go. There is no personal space in Mumbai. While queuing you are expected to push up as close as is possible to the person in front of you, squashed into their back. If you don't then someone will push in infront of you without a second thought until you end up squashed anyway. While walking around people will push past you in all directions. No matter where you are or how fast you are walking there is always someone in more of a hurry than you, and you are universally in their way.

The beggars are a constant hassle. They sit on every pavement edge and hassle tourists for money. Some will approach you and grab your arm, even stop your taxi to lean in through the window with grasping hands. They are everywhere and will follow you down the street saying,

"Money. Give me. Give me. You. Give me. Money. Give." until you step off the pavement and into a shop,out of their reach.

So Mumbai, in many ways, is better in the rain. The temperature drops and the air feels cleaner. The crowds dissipate slightly as a few of the many try to find cover. The beggars hide away under bus shelters and canvas sheets and the streets, for a few hours at least become walkable. So when the heavens opened this morning and gave a taste of what monsoon season really means in this part of the world, we weren't at all disappointed.

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Ewan:

For the second time in as many weeks we have completely by chance, arrived in a city on the day of a major annual festival. This is the day that would save the reputation of Mumbai from slipping into the abyss. This is the day that the people of Mumbai, whatever their situation, rise up from the filth of the city streets and show their true colours; and they did.

The view that met us as we arrived at Chowpaty Beach couldn't sum this up any more suitably. Never have I seen such a dirty beach. Miles upon miles of rubbish littered the shoreline and coated the sand. The surf breaks upon the land every time with a new wave of debris; even the water is brown! And yet, even against the sideways monsoon rain, the people of Mumbai decend upon the beach in their thousands.

They sing and they dance. Today is a day of celebration, today is Ganesh's birthday. Among the heaving body of the crowd, smaller groups hold aloft statues of their deity. The graceful elephant-headed gods are laden with candles, smoking incense sticks and petals as they are carried towards the ocean. The men, coated in pink dye from head to toe, march against the waves, Ganesh held high, until they are out of their depth. Ganesh is then submerged into the water, laid to rest beneath the waves.

Two nights prior to this festival, George and I shook hands with Tom and Dom, our lifelong friends from 'back home', at the airport. Tom has been taking advantage of time off from the RAF to grow the most facial hair he has ever had. Dom has deliberately gone the other way and cut back all his hair to comparisonly minute length. Having not seen each other for some time, it was extraordinary to reunite in a place such as Mumbai.

Now however, the four of us stand soaked and mesmirized. The locals seem as fascinated by us as we do by them and many of them pull out mobile phones to record videos and take pictures... In retaliation, we turn our lenses back on them and soon there is a broadside of photography. My Canon fires away.

A group of brightly painted children drag me over to a shrine and demand pictures. I oblige and show them the images on the camera screen. They squeal and run around in amazement at their own cheeky faces staring back at them. I zoom in for more laughter.

The other three are doing exactly the same thing and eventually we all come back together to compare images. Our cameras go away (despite the 7D being 'splashproof'), because the heavy rain had become torrentual. It made for quite an experience and I hope my videos come out.

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Dom:

Colour, drums, flowers, and figures of Ganesh filled the local streets as we walked the short walk along the prominade. People were dancing, cheering, singing and praying as we weaved our way through the festival goers. Hindu's young and old wanted to touch us, get their photo taken with us and to say hello. For a moment I felt a little like a celebrety but then I came back down to Earth, thinking less about how I felt and more about what I had been so lucky to stumble upon. Whether it was luck or good judgement the travelling film makers had managed to decend upon mumbai on the best weekend possible.

It's quite funny, the previous day I gazed into these unknown streets with worry and pity. Today however, all I see is love and a close knit community. The festival starts in each individual community , a single statue is constructed at its heart wherupon local people come to worship Ganesh in the days leading up to the drowning. On the day a flowered truck with masses of spectators tugs Ganesh through the streets. Celebrations carry on throughout the day before eventually making their way to chowpatty beach where high profile citizens carry the shrine into the sea. Bhangra music is blasted through the veins of the locals, acting as their alcohol, fueling them to dance the night away.

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George:

Ganesh's were drowning left right and centre as the horizontal, driving, pitiless rain sent wave after wave of over excited elephants straight into the brown frothing surf. Nobody seemed overly worried about getting wet but the view from the top of the beach was one of a sea of ineffective umbrellas. Families standing and watching for their own statues among the thousands present, all eyes turned seawards.

The rain was a pity for us because it meant that picture taking was rather limited. The cameras only appeared for the short spells where the torential downpour became slightly less torential, a few minutes at most. But when pictures fail, a soaking to the skin can really help to make you feel involved. Especially when people around you are so clearly not bothered as to be periodically flinging themselves into the sea.

Two large statues, several men tall, lumber past us on wheels not meant for sand. Three men stand on each daubed head to toe in red paint, desperately shouting above the wind to part the crowd in front, shouting directions to the men below on where to move the statues. Families stumble out of the way as the giant many handed elephants make their way to the water. Just like real elephants, no-one wants to get in their way but even so it takes a good 20 minutes for the first to reach the waters edge, and another 20 before they start to be submerged. We decide that if we wait any longer we might drown ourselves before Ganesh does and so it might be prudent to beat a retreat to dry land. As we turn to leave I'm struck by an amazing pun involving swimming trunks, but everyone looks a bit too soaked to care right now. Maybe later.

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Tom:

We finally made it back up the beach, having to turn down invitations to start dancing so we could find a place to eat. We found a place in quick time, Cafe Mondegra, a cheap place with western style decor and an old Gerry Rafferty hit playing out on the american style jukebox. The cricket score on the TV. Unfortunately no beer to swill down with our dinner of roast chicken today. Mumbai was a dry city because today was a holy day.

Filled up, and with a newly purchased, and what turned out to be vital, umbrella in hand we made it to the regal cinema to see what the Indian population passed off as entertainment. But as the two main titles were "Little Rascals" (Picture: Two Indian midgets), and "The Dirty Picture", we decided that the foyer of the picture theatre was far enough.

So for the third time in a day we jumped in a taxi to take us back through the crowds of ever massing people and trucks packed with happy worshipers, people even sitting on the rooves in the rain to get the best view of the occasion. By 7:30 the sun was going down and the beautiful Kamara Henru garden was the best place to witness the epic light show over Chowpatty beach.

 

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Ewan:

Expecting baskets and other garden things of the hanging variety, (Kamara Henru litteraly translates as the Hanging Gardens), we were instead greeted by a very picturesque maze of pathways, defined by petit shrubbery and rose arches. By this point it was indeed getting quite dark and several fruit bats had taken to the skies above us, their huge black wings standing out from the grey clouds. They weren't the only things in the sky however. Huge mobs of hawks soared above the gardens in a dazzling aerial melee. The smaller bats made sure to weave out of reach of the hawks... just in case.

If this wasn't spectacular enough, then the view from the hilltop certainly was. I cannot tell you exactly how many people there were, but it must have been well into the hundreds of thousands. We all stared down to the beach where we stood earlier that afternoon, now nightime, onto the bulging swarm of humans below. It was like a helecopter shot of the crowds at Glastonbury Festival, only this streched for the entire length of beach.

Dom: "The night had decended but the party had only just begun. As we gazed through the opening in the trees down onto the beach, millions of people flooded the skyline. A shockwave hit all four of us at once. Utterly amazing."

Tom: "Huge bats darted over the opening onto the scene below. Thousands littered the sea, spotlights sweeping across the crowds. Loud bangs followed as fireworks lit up the sky."

George: "Festival doesn't quite cover it. The sheer number of people down below is unbelieveable. I've seen the crowds that turn out in Vatican City to hear the Pope speak and even they don't compare to this. Everywhere is full. The roads, buildings, beaches; everywhere. Everywhere is absolutely and completely full to bursting and nobody cares. The city is as alive as I imagine it ever could be."

 

We absorbed for a good half hour more before deciding to surrender the fantastic view to the night. We decended back down the hill, dodging the many celebrating locals as we went.

Back on the train, rocking back and forth, we reflected on the sights, sounds and smells of the day. All of us conceded, with big grins on our faces, that Mumbai had just laid down a trump card. Mumbai and it's people had shown their true colours. We all agreed that had it not been for Ganesh's brithday, we'd all leave Mumbai lacking a single good word to say about it. Now, we'll remember it for the rest of our lives, not just for the bad things, but for the amazing people that shine out of the depression.

George:

On Tuk Tuks

Tuk Tuks as a species are common all over South East Asia and the Subcontinent, but the particular breed you encounter seems to vary depending on where you are. Here in Mumbai, the ever present and friendly buzz of the multi-coloured Sri Lankan tuk tuk has been replaced by the deeper, throatier growl of an altogether meaner machine. Black and yellow three wheelers crowd the already overflowing streets, dirty exhausts spewing clouds of brown soot onto the tarmac. The drivers are uniformed, uninformed and unfriendly, constantly on their horns, weaving between lanes, trucks and busses with little to no regard for their passengers comfort or safety. A journey in a Mumbai tuk tuk can be...quite fun actually.

Unlike their Sri Lankan cousins the Mumbai tuk tuks are all of a kind, with the colour scheme covering taxis of all sizes as well as the tuk tuks themselves. There are no personal touches to the cabs, no stickers or slogans. All of them seem to come from the same mould, a world apart from the hundreds of brightly coloured, individualised tuk tuks of Colombo. No matter which cab you flag down every driver will initially charge you about double the price they will eventually settle for. As long as you're willing to walk away you can always find a tuk tuk cheaper, though the sheer amount of people here mean it might be a while before an empty one turns up.

Once on the road the only things available to secure yourself with are your own two hands. The roads in Mumbai are uneven at best, and the drivers don't slow down for the bumps so you need to be careful or you might end up with your head through the canvas roof. Cars cut you up at all angles and from all directions. It's a miricle there aren't more crashes than there are, the roads hold everything from 18 wheelers to ox carts. The varying speeds mean that lanes don't really play a big part. The traffic moves organically, flowing around blockages like a river would. It's a system that works quite well at keeping the traffic moving, but it can be a little terrifying when your tiny three wheeler suddenly veers diagonally across three lines of cars to avoid a rogue cow.

It's easy to see why the Sri Lankan tuk tuks wouldn't work here. There are simply too many people for a friendly aproach. Every walkway is crammed with people wanting a lift. It's impossible to move anywhere in Mumbai, a huge city incidentally, without being jossled and crowded out. All day every day is the equivalent of rush hour in London, so the concept of a relaxed journey anywhere is unrealistic at best. It will be interesting to see how the tuk tuks change as we move through India and into South East Asia, it seems reasonable to assume they'll be different everywhere we go, but different how we will just have to wait and see.

George

Photos Added

Several more photos have been added to the gallery to give a taste of what we saw in Kandy. There will be more to come in the next few days!

From Ewan and George

Sri Lanka in Brief

What was your overall impression?

George: It's a beautiful country in a state of disrepair, but somehow the creeping vegetation and rust seem to add to the environment rather than detract from it. The whole country feels antiquated and that makes it a verry enngaguing place to walk around.

Ewan: An Island with stunning scenery and impressive views. For me one of the most prominent memories I'll have is of the railway and its diversity; alond the shoreline into forest covered mountains.

Best Moment?

G: Walking on a beach in a thunder storm. After a day of overheating the rain was bliss, and the image of the waves smashing into the rows of palm trees was unforgetable.

E: Getting the tour around Kandy with Kapila. We saw more in one day than we did in the rest of the trip put together. It was a purely spontaneous impulse and it paid off. Kandy is a Gem.

Best Dish?

G: A little difficult for me as due to illness I spent most of the week nibbling on chips at infrequent intervals. The best meal was probably the steak and chips I had on the first night, but as it gave me food poisoning the second time around I'm not sure I'd recommend it.

E: After our food poisoning escapade the confidence was struck somewhat. However, I'm glad (with no regrets...yet) that I plucked up the courage to try an extremely hot, yet traditional Sri Lankan curry. There were spices in it I'd never tasted before. It blew my head off!

Favourite form of transport?

G: It has to be the train. Its barely changed since the British introduced it and everything runs cheaply and on time. (Why can't we manage this in our own country?) Its great travelling the same way as the locals, really makes you appreciate the difference that the trainline makes to the country.

E: Although my first experiences of a tuk tuk and their drivers was a hairy and exhilerating one, nothing beats the train for me. I can't believe how scenic some of the routes were! Loved every second of leaning out of the open doorway, with the onrushing air cooling me down as Sri Lanka passed me by.

Top tip?

G: Be careful what you eat! It really can be difficult to tell if a restaurant is safe or not so be as careful as you can. Food poisoning is very possible and can really blow a hole in your trip.

E: Often, journeys took longer than expected. Its easy to assume Sri Lanka is a small island...its not. Leave plenty of time for travel.

Would you go back?


G: Yes, but I'd take a good food guide.

E: Definitely, Sri Lanka and I have unfinished business!

The Kandy Man

Day 8

George:

I am standing in the gangway of the train from Colombo, bag resting precariously at my feet, door wide open, stomach, for once, calm. I'm spending a couple of minutes happily trying to figure out what the difference between 3rd class and 2nd class is on the Sri-Lankan railways. As far as I can see the seats are nicer in 2nd class, plush black leather, but you don't get to sit in one unless you oust a local. And they don't like that.

The railways in Sri-Lanka have been a hugely pleasant surprise. The coast line on which we have spent most of our days so far winds its way along the shoreline, sticking right to the beach so that the spray from the surf mists the line, floats in through the un-latched sliding windows on a slight sea breeze. Only occasionally the line drifts away to make way for leaning palm trees and small picturesque fishing huts with lines of brightly coloured boats pulled up onto the sand. On this line the view is nothing short of spectacular all the way into Colombo. Even the stations are antiquated gems. Overgrown and in a charming state of disrepair they are relics of a bygone era. The platform numbers swing gently on long pieces of string. The corregated iron rooves have clearly weathered many storms, rusted brown showing up clearly against the bright sandy green of the palm fronds that fan out above the station buildings. The only sound is tthe contant wash of the waves on the rocky shore.

The train gives a sudden jolt and I hastily make a grab for my bags as they lurch towards the open door. We're picking up speed now as the line begins to wind further inland. For the first time we're heading to Kandy in the centre of Sri-Lanka, and to get there the train has to leave its flat coastal line behind, and the terrain has started to rise dramatically. Outside the sun is setting over forested hilltops. The skyline is pepered with palm leaves that shoot out of the canopy to be sihouetted against the deep purple sky. As the train climbs higher the forest creeps closer and closer to the track until the palm leaves are slapping against the carrages and the trees close overhead. Ocasionally, when there are breaks in the vegetation, a window is opened onto the valleys beyond. We're high up now and can see for miles. The jungled valley bottoms are already in darkness and all I can see are the occasional dotted yellow lights of houses and farms in the distance. They sit quietly, like private yachts on giant grey green ocean waves.

The train slows as we pull into only the fourth station in 3 hours. Theres no platform here, just a small wooden hut buried in the forest vegetation and a few swaying fairy lights to light a trampled path into the forest. Behind a few palm fronds I can just see the porch light of a larger house a few yards from the track. The glow lights the underside of the roof, the door and two supports for the roof in eerie yellow, and the rest is black. It's a strangely 2d view of what must be a very lonely existence up on the hillside. In the darkness I can just make out the porters carrying sacks of rice out to the house and leaving them on the porch. The train lurches forwards again with a rattle and the lights fade behind us, the jungle returns in force and I'm forced to duck back away from the palms.

----------~----------

Ewan:

The next morning we wake up in our hotel in central Kandy. Kandy is an obviously beautiful place. Right in the middle of the town is a peaceful and tranquil lake. Hotels and trees circumnavigate the water, their reflections shimmer silently. The traffic still isn't gone, and the high pitched revving from tuk tuks fuses with the morning bird song. Surrounded by tree topped mountains it's an unmistakably relaxing setting. A suitable place for the 'Temple of the Tooth' then; a majestic and imposing temple on the lakeside, with the golden-roofed shrine building at the centre.

Overlooking the flurry of life and nature below him is the mighty white Buddha. Sitting on top of his mountain, the 15 year old statue is visable from all of Kandy. He marks an old execution site.

"When the old king still ruled in Kandy, executions would be held on that mountain. From the palace a flag would be raised. Green meaning the accused could walk free. Yellow meaning freedom at the cost of a limb, and red means..." Kapila motions a cutting of the throat with his fingers.

Kapila is our adopted tour guide. In his late twenties and working in Kandy for the last four years, his proper profession is as a chef at our hotel, but on his work break he recognised us and decided to show us around Kandy.

"I noticed you were both British and you helped us during the tsunami". Kapila went on to explain how in 2004, his sister's home was destroyed by the wave. Tragically, her husband was killed during the disaster. British aid money helped his sister rebuild her home and he feels indebted to the UK for their support. His optimism in assiting us for nothing was endearing, and we couldn't help but feel attached to the man.

----------~----------

George:

Kapila has an infectious laugh and both Ewan and myself find ourselves smiling almost constantly while we're with him. The chatter is constant as we huff and puff our way up a steeply winding road to the Kandy viewpoint. From high on the hillside (where the traffic is still heavy) we can see almost the entire city. Kapila looks down with us at the lake and traces the outline with his finger.

"Its not quite," he says, "but you can sort of see Sri Lanka?" Ewan and I lean in and try to follow what he's saying. His English is excellent but sometimes his accent can make the words float away.

"The lake is not natural, you know?" Ewan and I nod. "It was made in the shape of Sri Lanka, but later this road was added and now, well, not so much." He laughs and I feel myself grinning. "The island in the middle is here!" He points to a gardened isle in the direct centre of the lake. "It represents Kandy City. The boat at that end is the fishing in the south and the north is over there." Kapila is a mine of information, full of all the history, the culture and the tricks of the trade.

"Can you get to the island?" Ewan asks.

"No, not any more," Kapila shakes his head, "there used to be houses on it, you can get to it through a tunnel in the temple, it runs under the lake." Ewan and I look at each other, the concept of an underwater tunnel appealing to both of us. Kapila notices and laughs. "You can't go in it though," and he laughs again at our disapointed faces.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Next, we bought tickets to a show later that evening which promised fire eating amongst other things.
The market was to follow, where George and I made a few discounted purchases of quality Sri Lankan spices and tea. Kapila showed us the best places and we tried some tasters. I particularily enjoyed the 'spice tea', which is a sweet and aromatic drink, perfect for winter I thought. Kapila gave us advice on how to get the best prices also, and we excercised our new knowledge. The market made for great photography with its diversity and culture. I got some good shots of the produce on offer with my 7D.

He left us at his favourite restaurant (surprisingly not his own, which he said was not good!) where I'd just ordered a traditional Sri Lankan curry. It came in a small metal dish with rice for company. There wasn't much, which caused me to raise an eyebrow at first, however it didn't take me long to work out I wouldn't have needed extra. Every bite led my mouth closer to the fires of hell, and quite soon I was trying my hardest to hide the agony. The flavour was incredible; a concoction of spices familiar and new, but there was no escaping the ferrocity of the notorious Sri Lankan dish. I'd been looking forward to my encounter with it and I wasn't left disappointed. Thank you Kapila; a fitting parting gift.

Gallery Added

Look! A brand spanking new gallery on your favourite blog! Full of pretty pictures and stuff. We were always going to see more things than we could possibly find time to write about. And pictures are worth 1000 words right? So check out the gallery at the top of the blog to see all the latest snaps of the things we have, and haven't, mentioned. There will be regular picture uploads, but for now here are 10 of the best so far to get you started.

Love Ewan and George

The Zombie in the Wheelchair

Day 3-6

George:

The ceiling fan chops noisily above my head, but i don't notice it because I'm already on my way to the bathroom for the third time in the night, towel hastily wrapped around  me, not covering enough. I don't know if Ewan's awake. I have never felt this ill. Ever. Every drop of fluid has been ripped from my body by half hourly episodes of wretching spasms and vicious diahorrea. Something is dragging my stomach through my mouth and there is nothing i can do to stop it.

The ceiling fan chops noisily above my head, but I don't notice it because I'm already on my way to the bathroom for the seventh time in the night. The sickness is worse. It doesn't stop. I throw up for 20 minutes get 10 in bed and I'm up again. The towel lies abandoned on the bathroom floor. I don't care. I've woken Ewan and told him i need help, and I do. I'm struggling to stand, my vision is blurry and the room is spinning. My stomach no longer exists, I am throwing up from my gut.

The noise of the ceiling fan is nothing compared to me. I'm empty and still it does not stop. Help is slow in arriving in these early hours, or maybe time has stopped to spite me. Ewan is up and about, I've woken him about 11 times too many. There is nothing of me. I curl and cramp, I feel a husk. And still it does not stop.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Not good. George was ruining a decent nights sleep! And what is worse is he'd started wretching without bringing anything up at all. A very noisy process. So at about 5/6am I decided to get him to hospital. I called down a tuk tuk from the main street and we sped away to the second nearest hospital (the 1st one didnt have a doctor in it!).

George was in a pretty bad way by this point. He looked very pale and dark around the eyes. They took him in to see a doctor immediately and they started injecting him with things! He was pretty dopey-looking after that. The nurses trundled him past in a wheelchair, looking like the dribbling undead.

----------~----------

George:

I do not have time for this. They want my passport number in exchange for a bed. I don't have that with me, I left it behind with my dinner. Ewan is trying to sort out a ward for me with the nurses anyway but it's taking time. Time is something that I, and anyone standing infront or behind me, do not have. I'm already cramping in the chair, my ankles knock involuntarilly against the wheels. The nurses still chat amongst themselves and more forms are produced. They probably have about 30 seconds to get me to a toilet. Ewan looks at me worridly. 20 seconds. One of the nurses is checking over the forms while another is saying something about money. My hand slaps the arm of the wheelchair. 10 seconds. I say to them I'm going to be sick and they have just enough time to look confused.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Eventually, after I'd paid his deposit for him, they took him to a room upstairs. I was starting to get diahorrea at this point too and it didn't take me long to join George as a vomit-buddy. Despite this minor setback, I had just about enough energy to tuk tuk my way back to our Mount Lavinia homestay, pick up some clean clothes for George as well as changing my own, spin around in the same green tuk tuk and hit the road again.

By the time I got back to the hospital I was despirately weak and in a bad way. I was anxious that I had the same thing as George. I laid down and tried to get some sleep, only to find myself waking up and being horribly sick. I called a nurse and she sorted out a wheelchair (which took time, maybe there is only one?) to take me down to the doctor and thus get me admitted to the hospital. They asked the same questions and performed the same tests as they did with George. Mercifully they got me to lie down on a proper bed as they attached the drip to my left arm. Back in 'the' wheelchair again and up to the admin desk. The nurses all found me very unusual and were giggling away in Sri Lankan. I suspect they were saying something along the lines of, "these tourists really can't handle our food can they?!".

On a side note, I guess I must seem quite strange to them. I'd been surprised at how few white faces there had been in Colombo and I get a lot of stares from everyone in the hospital when I walk about. Not in a bad way. Everyone's absolutely lovely here and very kind; always willing to help. Even so, I guess a 6"2' white, 23 year old with gingery/blonde stubble and a mohawk is going to turn a few heads; especially when most Sri Lankan men are 5"3' with dark hair...

----------~----------

George:

Ewan has disappeared and I don't know where he's gone. The room I'm left in is comfortable enough, but one doesn't really care about that as long as the medicine works. The traffic noise from outside is constant, horns and dirty engines. But I don't really care about that either as long as the medicine works.

At some point Ewan, saint that he is, managed to get some extra clothes and things for me from the Guest house. It's lucky he's able to do as much as he is otherwise I might not have made it to the bed I'm in now. The last time I saw him he wasn't looking too great though, so I hope he's ok. If he has anything like me then this trip could be over before its really begun.

----------~----------

Ewan:

Back at the reception for the second time today, I'm having to admit myself. Frantically I fill out paperwork and dictate details to the Sri Lankan receptionist for fear of the onrushing and involuntary expulsion of bodily fluids. After persuading numerous staff that my credit card was upstairs and that I'd have to pay a deposit at a 'better' time, they found me a double room on floor 3.

Ten minutes and I'm scrunched up in bed. The squeaky crescendo of 'the' hospital wheelchair filters down the corridoor, announcing the arrival of Mr. George Butcher. He's placed onto the bed next to mine. Both of us look as grim as death, and are feeling worse.

----------~----------

George:

Three days can pass remarkably quickly when you sleep through the vast majority of it. Both Ewan and myself have been put on a variety of drugs (though I seem to have about 3 times as many as Ewan) and finally, finally, they are beginnning to work. The throwing up is less constant. Less draining. Still not pleasant. The diahorrea is now less rain, more sleet, and I'm sorry for that image, but just be glad you don't have it.

Ewan is already feeling much much better. Whatever he had it wasn't quite as severe as it might have been and he looks back on top of the world. He keeps complaining to me about his drip and how he wishes it wasn't there any more. I can only try my best to sympathise, at the moment I'm very glad for my own drip and the drugs that are there attached.

The nurses are in and out constantly. My blood pressure, despite never being an issue, has been checked 20 plus times since admission. Every time a different nurse comes along to say hello and asks the same questions, "How are you? Where are you from? What is your name? How long you in Sri-Lanka?" It's nice small talk but it can get a bit draining. The best way I've found to avoid it is to be asleep. At the moment, thankfully, thats not a problem.

----------~----------

Ewan:

I've been feeling a huge sense of relief for being a free man. No longer imprisoned by illness and the drip, I can now come and go as I please. George got unhooked but not discharged this morning. It shouldn't be long now. We've been talking about salvaging some of our time in Sri Lanka and deciding our next step. Having missed out on all our hotel bookings for midweek, we intend to check in to the massively imposing Mount Lavinia Hotel which should hopefully have some aircon for George. The heat here is constantly around 28 degrees so a little respite is needed. Preliminary discussions of our options will most likely see us choosing the option to jump back on the railway inland to Kandy; the very historic and apparently beautiful ex-capital of the island. George is currently still undecided about what happens from there regarding his health. Last time we spoke he was 50/50 on returning to the UK with the view of rejoining us in Bangkok, or to continue as planned, into the less sanitized depths of India.

I'm hoping he'll fly to Mumbai and assess it from there.

Exploration, Discovery and Something Else

Day 1:

George:

"To exploration, discovery and something else," says Ewan being unintentionally artistic with his words. Glasses clink; burgers eaten; wallets lighter; stomachs full. Terminal 4 of Heathrow feels smaller than you would imagine. No long walks to check in, a two minute walk to the gate. All in all, everything feels rather relaxed. The excitement hasn't kicked in yet, everything feels disapointingly normal. Ewan's taking pictures of evergthing in sight, texting everyone he knows. I'm sitting quietly writing in a notebook. So far the only difference between this and any other holiday is that the side of the plane reads Qatar.


Our Qatar Airways Boeing 777

Ewan's forgotten his hoodie. This is irritating him significantly as he bought it purposefully. So far I haven't forgotten anything, so 1-0 to me. I'm trying to get myself excited but at the moment Sri-Lanka is still to far away, still not real enough, just a collection of jumbled together, photoshoped images off the internet. At the moment the only real thing is the next 13 hours of...well im not sure yet. Probably gripping the armrests and telling myself that turbulence is normal. Ewan informs me thus:
"I had a dream once about a plane crashing. It was spinning toward the ground and I kept shouting 'Don't worry the pilot will pull up!'. Except. Well. Usually you wake up. But I didn't for some reason. It was awful. We hit the ground and that was it. Game over."

---------- ~ ----------

Ewan:

I was delighted to see that 'Super 8' was on the plane movie list. I'd wanted to see it before I left but didn't have the time. Despite this, the first leg of the journey was largely forgettable. No turbulence of any note to speak of, and the food was surprisingly good for an airline meal.

Our Qatar airways flight changed over in Doha, Qatar at midnight local time, where we were met with a suffocating blast of hot air as we departed the plane. Two air-conditioned buses and a quick turnaround at the terminal later, we were off again on our final flight to Sri Lanka.

George and I managed to have a quick doze on the plane and we needed it! We'd been up for hours and we still had a journey in a challenging new country to our home-stay in Mount Lavinia, several miles south of Colombo.

Armed with our heavy packs we set off from the airport and within moments found ourselfs helplessly approached by taxi drivers wanting out trade. After finding an ATM and enquiring about train travel (which was evidently futile), we surrendered to one of the taxi drivers and set off to Colombo's main rail station.

The Colombo Port Station was built in 1858 during British colonial rule and still runs today. After purchasing two 3rd class singles for a mere 15p we settled on platform 5 and waited for our train which we were told was meant to arrive at quarter past the hour. The life in the station was fascinating. We must have been the only pale faces in the whole place so we certainly felt like we stood out. Opposite us in a yard we could see an old steam train. Difficult to say wether it was still in use or just a reminder of days gone by? However, given the smell of old train steam linkering on the breeze I'd suggest the former. I turn up to a tv monitor expecting to see the train times but instead am greeted by live coverage of the Sri Lanka v Australia cricket match. At this moment hundreds of Sri Lankans disembark a train en masse and I'm astounded to see them all walking straight accross the railway lines to the main building, despite there being an overhead walkway.
Health and safety didn't seem to be a prime concern on the train either (which did arrive on time). The carriage was large but filled with people, who leaned out of the open doorways as the train sped past peoples homes. A woman hung out her washing with literally the train line on her doorstep. It was a very refreshing experience, riding in tandem with the coastline and the cool sea breeze providing respite from the humidity.

Local Sri Lankans cross the rails

The journey took longer than expected, yet we shuffled off the train at Mount Lavinia station and watched as the last of the carriages trundled around the bend. Where now!?

---------- ~ ----------

George:

My back creaks and groans under the weight of too much stuff that I didn't forget to bring. My backpack carves into my hips and shoulders. I look at Ewan sweating and think that forgetting the hoodie was the best thing he could have done.

A tuc-tuc driver sees me struggling and waves me over, but I'm starting to get used to the hassle. I don't mind it really, it's not invasive or threatening, everyone is very polite and eager to help. But getting away from it does require you to have a pretty firm dismissive manner. I picked up some experience of turning people away politely while spending a month at the Edinburgh Fringe, but Ewan, unfortunately, appears to have had no such opportunity. I find myself having to drag him away as driver after driver shouts prices at him in desperate attempts to secure a sale.

It seems anyone who isn't a tuc-tuc driver here has a very good friend who is one. Usually their friend is parked just around the next corner. The tuc-tuc driver around the next corner is, universally, a local friend, very cheap, very safe, very reliable, a favourite of locals due to their expertise and, importantly, they personally know the building you are looking for very well indeed, whatever that building may be. Getting decent directions can be near to impossible as anyone you ask will invariably respond, "ah yes, i know this place very well," and then give you very precise directions to just around the next corner.

The ceiling fan chops in noisy circles above my head sending gust after gust of sweatbox air scurrying to the white stone walls. I'm flat on my back, skin sticking to the cotton top sheet, eyes closed, mind aching from what is already too long a day. Ewan is already asleep on the bed next to me, he passed out the moment he laid his head. Lucky for some. I'm finding sleep hard to come by. My body thinks its 4am but my eyelids are backlit by the glare of a midday sun.

We stumbled on our homestay more by luck than jugement in the end. It is almost impossible to find any particular house number in the winding, criss crossing, shanty fenced streets of Mt Lavinia. Numbers seem to jump from 10/3 to 17/7 and back again. On the way here I saw three 14's in a row and all of them had rooms on offer to tourists. Almost every building here offers accomodation it seems. There are more hotels than people.

I shut my eyes tighter and try to listen, focus my mind on an entirely new soundtrack to the world. Inside the room the fan rattles and squeaks, the refrigerator in the corner hums quietly. I stretch out. From outside I can hear the occasional buzz of a tuc-tuc, alien, willowing bird calls that I can't even begin to identify and in the distance the deep breathjing of the sea.

A shallow roll of thunder and the palm fronds snap violently in the rain. I close the door quietly behind me, hear the latch click into place, and stand under the overhanging roof staring out at the street. Water is already streaming out of the drains, turning the road into a tarmac estury. I hold out my hand under the heavy sub-continental raindrops. The rain here is somehow more definate than in the UK, no drizzle here. My brain sifts through idle thoughts but finally settles on the fact that if the latch has clicked into place then the door now wont open without the key that I've left inside. The rain gets heavier. Bother.

The streets do clear under the rain. Tuc-tuc drivers disappear into side streets and sheltered allyways and for the first time since I entered Sri-Lanka I'm walking down a main road without anyone calling after me. Rain here is a westeners paradise, the temperature drops, a breeze picks up and the hassle all but disolves away. For the first time I spot other westeners out in the open as three Germans speed by me on rent-a-bikes, just taking the time to spin round and offer me a heavily accented "Good afternoon," before zipping round a corner and out of sight, leaving nothing but the hiss of tyres through puddles.

I've left all my things in the room with Ewan as guard. Not that it feels like there is any danger here. The owners of the homestay are extremely friendly and the only other guest is a quiet bearded Australian who sits for hours in the foyer engrossed in the cricket on the TV. The match is in Galle, $10 and a 2 hour bus and he could see all the action live.

The wind picks up as I near the coast. I duck through a hotel car park which backs onto the train line, as they all seem to, and, much to the amusement of the car park atendent, jump out of my skin as a cargo train thunders past in front of my nose. Crossing the train tracks here is apparently much like crossing a road in the UK. No rules as such, cross anywhere you like, but do remember to look BOTH ways. Trains don't necessarily stick to a 'drive on the left' policy. My sandles slip slightly on sleepers shiny with rain as I hop across them, but I needent worry. If this line were indeed a road then it would be more of a single track country lane than a bustling dual carrageway.

The beach is a postcard under siege. The wind whips spray off the rolling surf and blasts it inland. Groves of palm trees arc against the sea, trunks bent outwards at improbable angles, and inbetween the trees, set back slightly from the narrow, dipping golden grey beach are tens of hotels, restaurants, bars, wooden shacks and fishing huts all clamering for a place on the shore, deserted and barred against the weather.
I walk along the sand following trails of overlapping pawprints through the wash, eyes burning slightly from the salt. When I look up I can just make out the high rises of Colombo out on a distant peninsula. Tomorrows place to visit I feel. I'm forcibly reminded of all the internet images that I assumed were edited together for tourists when I first started planning this trip. Now, standing here I have one of those images live infront of me, rocking in the force of a storm. It's a little surreal, a lot beautiful, and all I'd hoped for all those hours ago in Heathrow. I don't feel tired any more, but I know I should try and get some sleep. Tomorrow is a brand new day, and for the first time in a while I have no idea what it may bring.