The whole rest of Nepal (for us)

Our day in Jomsom prepared us a bit for what we're likely to expect for the rest of our trek towards Muktinath. Every day the weather seems to turn out the same way; it starts off very calm and sunny, but as the day gets hotter the winds pick up, until in the middle of the afternoon it's a veritable wind- (and hence, dust-) storm. The clouds develop, sometimes there's rain, sometimes there's not. Either way, people go indoors because it's no fun to get pelted with dust outside. In the more bored recesses of my mind, I nickname this effect "the weather machine."

[But first, a note of clarification regarding these notes about our trek in Nepal: I'd mentioned the plight of Gavin and Jade, how Jade had come down with giardiaisis, and how if you didn't bring your own medications with you, you could be in serious trouble. I didn't go on to reassure our mothers that we were carrying a pretty good pharmacy of our own. The point I was making, to myself, it seems, was that we weren't carrying a readily available medicine to treat giardiaisis, as we were hoping to avoid that particular bug - you tend it catch it by drinking local water. We were carrying water purification tablets, which we used liberally.]

After getting the best of a first impression from Jomsom, the next morning we packed up and set off on the road towards Muktinath. We passed by groups of children bound for school, all dressed in the same uniform: grey jumpers and black trousers or skirts, depending on whether you're a boy or girl (just in case that's not clear: the boys wear trousers, the girls wear skirts). They didn't pay us much attention as we go: tourists are common here, especially as many choose to fly into Jomsom and trek back to Pokhara. It's a slightly easier variation of the trek because you've got more downhill than up.

It was a fairly easy stretch towards our destination for the day, Kagbeni. As Jomsom is a very critical location for the area (military, travel, judicial focal points) the road to and from Jomsom was probably one of the first to be completed. Consequently, our travel goes pretty quickly, and we're passed by several motorcycles (with and without extra passengers) as we go. We pass by a very interesting collection of houses, seemingly built out of the rocky crag of a mountain, and all the same colour of yellowish-brown.

The stone-filled basin.

While we could have probably taken the road all the way to Kagbeni, Bhakta preferred the scenic route of the stone-filled basin. Walking over the millions of mandarin-sized rocks filling the chasm floor is only a small challenge on the ankles, but the real challenge is coping with the boredom, as it takes a while for the scenery to change, and the path is invariably straight and flat. Bhakta tells me that if you're lucky, you'll find a fossil among the rocks. Indeed, this route towards Muktinath is regularly scoured by fossil-seekers, as they're particularly precious to Hindus of the brahmin (religious) caste. So, it turns out to be a great way to pass the time, convenient because you're already looking that way to avoid ankle-destroying stones. I don't find any, however, which isn't a surprise as the route to Muktinath is travelled regularly by pilgrims who have much better eyes for this sort of thing than I do.

As we round a gentle bend in the basin, the mountains reveal two settlements in the distance: Ecktabeni, the closer, and Kagbeni, actually set onto a plateau a few hundred metres up from the basin. Ecktabeni, by contrast, is at river-level, and it we would reach it first: we stopped for tea. The sun was high in the sky just before noon, but the weather machine hadn't really picked up yet: it was blazingly hot. Ecktabeni is a collection of lodges, a staging point between Kagbeni and Jomsom, which is a bit odd as Kagbeni is really only another hour away of fairly easy walking. An hour later we were walking into the outskirts of Kagbeni, passing one of the many contrasts you'll note in Nepal: lush, green, grass-filled terraces overlooking the dry rock bed of the empty river basin. As we approach the town, I can't help but note an odd zig-zag pattern scarred into the side of the mountain on the other side of the town; it carves a path from the base all the way to the top.

Kagbeni occupies an interesting position in the Annapurna sanctuary for tourists; it's the farthest north you can go with your ACAP (Annapurna Conservation Area Project) trekking permit. Crossing into the zone north of Kagbeni takes you into the Upper Mustang province, which requires a separate permit worth USD$700. In addition you have to go with a licensed trekking tour operator, and you have to have a completing accounting of the gear you intend to take with you. When you come back, you have to go over the accounting again, and there are serious fines if you don't bring everything back - including your garbage. They take littering very seriously in the Upper Mustang, apparently. But for us, it just meant that our visit to Kagbeni was done with an awareness of which streets we could walk on and which we shouldn't. Even crossing the border by accident can incur a fine of USD$200.

Our stay in Kagbeni would be at the Red Lodge, so named for its choice of exterior colour scheme. Walking through the town to get there, we pass two shops that clearly know their target market: the first, a shop with a hand-painted 7-11 sign hanging proudly over the door; the second, a small restaurant named "Yak Donald's", complete with hand-painted golden arches.

We have to walk up six sets of stairs to get to our lodge, so by the time we get there, we're out of breath. But we're received warmly, shown to a room and told we can order some lunch whenever we like. When I mention that we'll have dal bhat with everyone else, she tells me that they have dal bhat for dinner in Kagbeni, not for lunch. It's just one of those things. The place has a very Tibetan influence in its furnishings and general decor (there are several pictures of the Dalai Lama): as you go further north, the proportion of residents of Tibetan heritage increases.

In one of those coincidences that can only happen when you travel in a small country, we run into Beranice and Monica in the Red Lodge (we met these two in Tatopani at our lodge there) and share some stories while waiting for lunch upstairs on the rooftop solarium (the Red Lodge was a bit fancier than some lodges). They tell us about their trek up the nearby mountain with the scar on it in the early hours of the morning to catch the sunrise. The scar, as it turns out, is a newly constructed walking path carved out by the hotel's owner and a friend of his. It's a long, and slightly dangerous ascent, given that the wind picks up dramatically as you climb and the path isn't really finished yet. But when you finally reach the top - 4,800 metres, by the end - you have an unparalleled view into the Upper Mustang. As they talk, I find myself wanting to scrub our plans to go to Muktinath and climb this mountain instead, but I also want to get to the end of our road in Muktinath as well.

Dust storms in Kagbeni.

The rest of our day is spent wandering around Kagbeni, doing some laundry, and marvelling at the approaching dust storms as the wind starts to pick up in the middle of the afternoon. We find a device that looks like a cross between a satellite dish and a mirror, aimed at the sun with a pot of water at its focal point: yes, it was heating the water, and the water was plenty hot. I asked Bhakta at one point why there wasn't more use of wind power in this area, given the extraordinary wind activity that occurs almost every afternoon. Apparently there are some issues with the "feast or famine" level of wind in the area when it comes to wind as a power source, but the real issue he decided, was that the people of Nepal aren't the greatest when it comes to technical maintenance. He cited a few examples of infrastructure investment in Nepal which had run down to ruin, owing to the lack of technical training to keep them running.

At dinnertime the guests of the lodge congregate in a hitherto-unseen dining room, complete with under-table heating, for piles of dal bhat. Amy and I are joined by Beranice and Monica, a french couple named George and Marie, and another Parisian named Julian. After dinner George and Marie retire for bed, but the younger set stick around. It's only a little while before some decks of cards are assembled and the rules for Racing Demon are passed on to some new players. In the end there were five players - our largest number yet: myself, Bhakta, Padam (playing with a helper), Tanzig (the hotel's owner) and Julien (who alternated with Beranice). It was fast and furious, as it usually is with larger groups, but great fun.

The next day we rise and head out for Muktinath, taking Beranice with us. Monica only has a few days to get back to Pokhara, so she figures she's got some long trekking days ahead of her on her way back down towards Jomsom. Before we leave Kagbeni we take a tour of a Buddhist temple, but no one can really translate for us, so much of the details of the place, while being clearly made with high quality craftsmanship, are lost on me.

Otherworldly blue.

We begin our ascent towards Muktinath. The trail is carved into the side of a mountain range, for the most part, so we get fabulous views over our left shoulders. I'm stopping every couple of moments to take pictures, it seems: but the sky is just so blue, and every look brings a different composition of mountain and sky. The mountains themselves are radically different than what we've seen so far: bulbous areas on top leading towards flat plateaus, and as they stretch downwards into a long valley, their walls have eroded into complex cave patterns. And the coffee brown against the royal blue of the sky is a colour combination you'd have to work pretty hard to replicate. My theory on the intensity of the blue colour of the sky is that normally, if you look straight up pretty much anywhere in the world, you see the same colour of blue, but it thins and lightens as your eyes drift to the horizon. So it doesn't look as impressive. But here in the mountains of Nepal, the horizon is masked by mountain ranges, so all you can really see is the deep blue.

Hard to describe, but it's quite something.

The trek upwards is more difficult than anything we've yet done, owing to the altitude: crossing the threshold of four thousand metres seems to be like adding a stack of bricks to my pack. It's a lot of vertical movement and it's extremely aerobic. Fortunately, Bhakta has been expecting this, and we take many breaks. As we get closer to Muktinath, we see something we haven't seen since the beginning of our trek into Annapurna: sales tables, replete with the same selection of Tibetan-style jewellery, scarves and paraphernalia. I would have died laughing if I saw a "I trekked all the way to Muktinath and all I got was this stupid T-shirt," but alas, none is to be found. We also encounter something we haven't really seen yet in rural Nepal: the hard sell. The sales pitch is the same: there are no tourists, we're hungry, there is no business, please buy something.

We stopped in Jokpath for lunch, which was surprisingly hard to find: the cooks had gone down to Jomsom for the afternoon. Eventually, Bhakta finds a lodge with someone willing to rustle up some dal bhat. Beranice, being on a much more open schedule than us, decides she's going to hang out in Jokpath for a few days. We say our goodbyes and head onwards to Muktinath.

A sadhu on the road to Muktinath.

The last bit of the trek from Jokpath to Muktinath wasn't so long, but it was a grind; it's a fairly steep trekking path, and what would normally be a slight bit of work is intensified by the altitude. But finally we were there, walking through a large arch welcoming one and all to Muktinath. We found a hotel, the Bob Marley Inn, a room and crashed. A bit later a stroll through the village: this wasn't going to be the place to buy souvenirs, as everything is a bit poorly made and too expensive. There's also a lot of hassle to buy, including being taken by the arm and having scarves thrown around your neck. These folks don't take "just looking" for an answer, and they've heard it all before. If you say you'll be back later, they try to extort a promise out of you to return. But despite it, it still wasn't as aggressive as some parts of Delhi.

Muktinath wasn't much of a stop, for us at least - for someone to whom Buddhism or Hinduism was important, this is a very significant place, with dozens of temples in the area, and two of the biggest in Nepal. But for me, the trek was more about the journey rather than the destination, and we were certainly afforded some pretty amazing views.

The Bob Marley Inn seemed to be pretty inactive in the low season, but it was fairly well populated. It must be a welcome sight for people arriving from the Throng La pass: lodges on the eastern side of the circuit are less cushy than the western side, and the BMI was certainly cush. A bit cold, owing to the season, but cushy. The under-table heating was welcome, and it was entertaining for a while to play racing demon in the dark (or near-dark) until the solar-powered fluorescent lights came on. With everyone staying at the hotel huddled into the two under-heated tables, it was quite cozy and familiar, and our game kept people entertained at our table.

We didn't visit the temples in Muktinath. We'd seen enough of the temples, and Amy had a headache that could have been aggravated by a further trip upwards. So we made our way back down, encountering many of the same vendors that we met on the way up. As we wound our way down, we barely had time to react to the voice of someone saying "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" before a mountain bike careened past us. We scattered to the side of the path to see a rider and a very expensive mountain bike blaze down the trekking path, the first of about six on a Himalayan circuit that actually took them over the Throng La pass. At that altitude it's got to be hell. I managed one acceptable photograph as we had precious little warning before they skidded past us, probably set off in intervals.

The rest of the walk back to Jomsom was windy and other-worldly: while we had timed our travel towards Kagbeni to take advantage of the still morning, we wouldn't be so fortunate on our return, as we decided to take a short cut and go directly from Muktinath to Jomsom with a short break at Ecktabeni. When the wind picked up in the early afternoon, we put scarves over our faces and hoods over our heads: I felt like an astronaut walking on the moon. It was especially comical to take photographs. It was a long haul but we finally arrived at Jomsom, trudged through the village and returned to the Anka Marco Polo.

There were lots of little things to while away the day. A brief walk through town, a hot shower. Beer and lovingly hand-made apple fritters. Eventually we reconvened with Bhakta and Padam and started a game of Dal Mara (so we would remember the rules) - and then the biggest Racing Demon game we'd played, with six in total. Utter chaos, but good fun chaos.

A chaotic morning followed: we awoke on schedule with lots of time to prepare for our 7:45 arrival at the airport (across the street), but Bhakta was at our door at 7 AM to alert us that the "airlines-man" had advised him that the plane was coming early and that we needed to be ready much sooner. It all happened very quickly - we had to hurry, but Bhakta seemed certain we still had time for breakfast. Our Tibetan bread had barely arrived when we heard the drone of an airplane and Bhakta said we had to go, now. Tibetan bread hanging from my mouth, we slapped some money in Bhakta's hands to pay the bill, lumbered across the street with our bags and sped to the departures lounge. It was then a matter of hurry-up-and-wait as we watched people get on board "our" plane, while we waited at the check-in desk. It turned out we were still scheduled for the second flight, that 7:45 would have been well sufficient, and we would never have made the first plane anyway as we still had to go through security.

Armed with this extra time, we got a chance to say some decent goodbyes and went back to wait for our plane. I'd love to tell you the full story of "going through security" but, the internet being the funny thing it is, it has some details that could get people in trouble. So I'll tell anyone who asks, the story, in person. Suffice it to say it left me shaking my head in wonder, and happily, no invasive body-cavity searches were required.

Our plane touched down. It was a small, twin-propeller job that held eighteen passengers and their luggage, and (as Ghorka airlines' literature glibly promised), "every seat is a window seat." Our flight back to Pokhara was an eyes-glued-to-the-window affair, with views of the whole Annapurna range from an unrivalled aerial perspective. It was amazing to think that the journey we had made on foot in seventeen days took us a mere thirty minutes by airplane.

Without much fanfare, we arrived in Pokhara. Pokhara is lovely and laid back, a small city with excellent weather, a launching point for excursions north into the Annapurna Sanctuary or south into Chitwan National park. Unfortunately there's a power cut between six and nine at night which puts a dent in nightlife, but there are a lot of generators in town to prevent too many tourist dollars from staying in tourist pockets.

We had a great, relaxed time in Pokhara: the city tends well to people who are looking to relax and spend a few dollars. It tends ever better to those who realize that the exchange rate between pretty much any major currency and the Nepalese rupee and the local prices make almost everything really cheap. So without too much of a dent in our wallet, we lived pretty well. I think for many people this is a major attraction to many countries in this area of the world.

We met many interesting people in Pokhara, and had a few fun days trotting around, but to give all the details would probably become pretty boring. So I'll choose one highlight: our hike to see Mount Sagarkot. On a clear day, Sagarkot is one of the closest peaks you can see from Pokhara, but you have to leave early because as the day heats up, a light haze fills the air, and visibility is dramatically reduced. We had some fuzzy directions from our guidebook, and armed with our intuitions, we set off out of the main road south of the city.

We made decent progress up the back hills of Pokhara, past people's houses and gardens, climbing ever upwards to get to a precipice from which we could see our last panoramic mountain vista. As we got further up though, we quickly lost our bearings as to which path would continue taking us up. We encountered several young children, each one offering to be our guide, for ridiculously low sums of money. We didn't want a guide: we wanted to do this on our own. For each we graciously thanked them, but said we wanted to go on our own.

We arrived at a point where the paths really didn't make any sense: they went directly into people's back yards, which we thought probably wasn't a good idea. Just milling around drew attention, and soon a child of around six years of age was asking us if we knew where we were going. We gave him the usual, but we didn't even get through our gracious denial before he shouted out something in Nepali, to his friend Basanta. I didn't need to know the level of Nepali required to know it translated as "Basanta! Tourists who want to see Sagarkot!"

This is how we met Basanta, a Nepali pre-teen who, along with his extended family, all live in the surrounding area. He was a really nice guy, and offered to take us to see Sagarkot: by this point I was willing to pay for a guide, but when I asked him how much he'd like to show us for, he replied, "some things you do because you feel proud of where you live, not everything is about money," which made me feel very small.

He then took us up a hitherto unseen path, which scaled the side of the mountain; he was wearing flip-flops and negotiated the track with no trouble, while us, with hiking shoes, were taking extra time. Walking these trails is something you clearly grow up with around here (the routes some of these mountain kids take to school will turn anyone into an athlete), and Basanta was no exception. The only time he paused to consider whether a particular path would be the next leg of the journey was to leap across a five-foot wide chasm on the side of the mountain: he looked at us and said, "I think this is too far for you, yes?"

We climbed further and further up his family's back forty, passing terrace after terrace: many had been planted with mustard, which had bloomed into a bright yellow carpet of flowers, some were left fallow with grass. He showed us a terrace that he and his youth group were expanding so that they could use it as a cricket pitch. He was very proud of the accomplishments made by his youth group: they had built a shrine, installed a water system and a welcome sign for their village, and their next focus was this pitch. Clearly, these kids aren't hanging out at the convenience store for fun.

As I began to wonder if we would ever get to a point where we could see anything but mustard, we arrived at the top of the mountain, which opened up to show us not only Sagarkot and its neighbours, but also all of Pokhara, spreading out before us. It was about eight in the morning and the activity in the city was clearly underway, with smoke rising from dozens of houses, and a light smog filling the air. Sagarkot was a more fulfilling view, interesting in that the haze had already begun, but from the ground up: the mountain appeared out of a misty base, along with the peaks beside it. We took pictures, promised to send copies to Basanta (we did), gave him a donation towards his youth group, and descended back to Pokhara

After our stay in Pokhara, it was back to Kathmandu by tourist bus. Our bus was set to depart at seven-thirty in the morning, so we woke early and paid our bill, and proceeded to the bus depot in the early, misty morning. The only reason Western tourists walk around in the early, misty morning in Pokhara is to catch a bus or a plane, so every taxi who passes slows down to see if you'd like to fork over some cash for a ride. We knew it wasn't far. We were walking.

We'd already figured on an empty stomach for the bus: we'd even bought a few small things to take with us for the ride. We knew there wasn't going to be time for breakfast. At least, this was what we'd planned on, but when the guy on his bike stopped beside us, with a platter of freshly-baked goods balanced on his shoulder, one look at what he had to offer told us we were in for a treat. Croissants, fresh from the oven; jelly rolls; cinnamon buns; you name it. All of them still steaming, and the price he commanded was a pittance, especially if you consider the mode of delivery. We bought a few and ate them as we walked.

And then realized that he wasn't alone, that other guys on bikes were making big dollars ferrying freshly-baked goods to the bus depot for the consumption of passengers. Ingenious. We were hailed by a guy as we arrived, who seemed eager to help us out and direct us to the right bus. He looked at our tickets and pointed us to a certain bus, which we boarded and waited. More guys came by with freshly-baked goods. The bus departed.

It must be a common theme among buses in India and Nepal: big, old, clunky, slightly uncomfortable, but workable. We settled in for a long, bumpy ride. We read, we lounged, I remarked how we must be taking a different route because I didn't recognize any of the scenery. We stopped at a roadside restaurant for a break. While there, I chanced to chat with a girl from Denmark, there to study for a semester at a university in Kathmandu (Denmark apparently has big ties to Nepal). It was only by turn of chance during our conversation that she let us know that the bus we were on was not going to Kathmandu; it was going to Chitwan national park, some four hours south of Kathmandu. As we headed back to the bus, we confronted the driver about this, who confirmed that we were indeed going to Chitwan.

Here is a lesson to be learned by one and all when travelling in countries where transportation systems are more "thrown together" than carefully regulated. Make sure you know where your bus, train or rickshaw is going before you get in. And in a case such as ours, rather than having someone tell you that this is the bus you want, ask them where the bus is going and then confirm that it's the bus you want. Because here's how the money flows in the bus system in Nepal: you buy a ticket from an agent, and then give your ticket to the owner of the bus. The bus takes you to its destination, and then the bus driver takes the ticket to the agent, who redeems it for a certain amount.

However, there's no incentive for a bus driver to be honest: all he wants is butts in the seats, and preferably, a completely filled (or over-filled as the case may be) bus. If we hadn't asked, he would happily have driven us to Chitwan and left us at the side of the road with no options. Informed of our problem, there wasn't much discussion, but a wavery committal that at the next stop - a larger town - he would find us a connecting bus towards Kathmandu.

And he did - a minivan, packed full of people - but staunchly refused to pay for our transport to Kathmandu. Not his problem. Legally, he's probably right - it's probably our responsibility to know where the bus is going. But that didn't help us from feeling pretty resentful towards the guy. The minivan was packed with fourteen people. There wasn't much room for anything but to enjoy the scenery. Conversation was slight. There was the fun game of waiting for the subject of payment to come up, and not wanting to give in too early. But we did.

When we finally arrived in the outskirts of Kathmandu, it occurred to us that in the smaller vehicle, we actually made better time than in the bus. However all of this was for naught, as we got caught in a nasty snarl of a traffic jam. Vehicles vied for position, but eventually, everything ground to a halt and we sat there for a half an hour, weighing our options. We could wait it out; we could get out and walk. Waiting was easier, however, we don't wait easily. Walking would have been more attractive, except we had only a sketchy idea of where we were. No one in the van could speak English, and even when we produced a map, it didn't really register to the kid who had taken our money for the tickets. Armed with a compass and a feeling, we got our bags and marched.

We marched for a while, but eventually, found some landmarks that inspired us with the confidence that we were marching in the right direction. However, we marched for an hour and realized that we were only a third of the way to our destination: Jonnche (a.k.a. "Freak street," so named for its hazy, hippy-era past). Feet started to complain, and we found a waiting taxi who agreed to take us to Jonnche for a very reasonable price.

We walked around the Freak street area for a while, until we saw a hotel that Beranice had recommended to us: the Annapurna Lodge. Four stories, reasonable rates, a decent restaurant and an attached bathroom: we were sold, and stayed there for the four nights prior to our departure from Nepal.

The next few days in Freak street were fun - even more fun than in Thamel, probably because there are fewer tourists in Freak street. We found a restaurant a mere block away from our restaurant - it had no name - simply because our guidebook had pointed us to a place that no longer existed. But this place served up the tastiest, cheapest Indian food we'd ever had, so we went back several times. I'm not kidding: we stuffed ourselves for the sum total of about seventy-five cents each. The best part was paying: we had to point out the items we had on the menu. This place doesn't deal in receipts. And then there was the place next door for dessert: a cake and pie place with drawings and paintings on the wall, preserved from the seventies. Cakes and pies to die for.

We hooked up with Bhakta again and he took us around Kathmandu. We did some more shopping, we had some tea, we said a proper goodbye. We shopped for gifts, we ate well for little, we saw some sights. We whiled away the rest of our time in Kathmandu. We decided to send a whole bunch of things home. This proved to be more complicated than we anticipated - isn't it always?

Our first stop was at TNT, an international courier akin to FedEx. They answered all our questions about international shipments and cheerfully told us it would cost us about two hundred dollars to ship our box - the cheapest option for them. Obviously reading the colour our faces had turned, he suggested that the post office might be a bit cheaper. He did help us out enormously, not just by filling in the blanks on many of our questions: but he also gave us a big box we could use.

Walking back along the crowded thoroughfares of Kathmandu to Freak street, with a five-foot by four-foot folded up box, was surprisingly fun. Not only do people look at you because you're from the west, but they look at you extra-long because you're carrying something weird.

We weighed the pros and cons of making two boxes or one box for shipment; Nepali post is supposed to be only partially reliable. We settled on one large box for everything and a roll of the dice. We packed everything in; we added stuff to protect our goods; we wrote out a list of everything. We taped it up. We went out to dinner, confident in tomorrow's postal task.

The next day we lugged our parcel down to the post office; it had rained, so we had swaddled our package in our pack covers. We were practically the first in line. The bureaucracy of the post office suggests why companies like TNT exist, to deprive the consumer of the giddy processes required to send a package from Nepal. The steps involved aren't indicated anywhere; it's learn as you go.

The first step was to tell the guys in the processing office what you wanted to ship, how big it was, and where you wanted it to go. We looked at our options: air, air express, or sea. I don't know the difference between the first two, only that it was actually cheaper to go air express, and no one could satisfactorily answer why you would ever choose the other. And while sea was less expensive, it would take four to six months. We chose air express. The guy I was speaking to gave an encouraging nod, and then directed us to take ourselves and our parcel to customs clearance, the second step.

At customs clearance, we were given a form to fill out. The form was, of course, in Nepali; helpfully, they supplied us with an English version of the form, laminated, with which we could divine the meaning of the boxes, and helpfully, which ones we actually had to fill out. We filled out the form, asked for some clarifications. Then the customs guy asked us to open up our box and show them everything. With internal reluctance, we cut through the four layers of tape, and showed him everything, item by item. They don't leave much to chance. But he was convinced that we were shipping what we said we were shipping, and then we were allowed to repack it and tape it all up again. He prepared a bill for "customs services rendered." But the best bit, worth absolutely every penny of the customs clearance experience, was watching an old lady sew up our package in canvas, and seal up the seams with wax. You don't get this kind of service with Canada Post.

We then took our package back to the processing office with the appropriate forms, to pay the bill and send our package on its long journey back to Canada. It was less than TNT charged, but ten times as entertaining.

The rest of our time was pretty much a blur. We cabbed it to the airport, where we waited in line for no reason at all until it was our turn to go; I made no less than three trips around the airport in order to do some last minute stuff like changing money; we met a really nice Aussie named Rosemary; we dined on dried fruit. We waited for our plane to arrive, and when it did, we got on and took a long flight to Thailand.

The Rajasthan Road trip (part 3)

Leaving Jodhpur and its powder-blue cubic maze of houses in the rear-view mirror, we picked up our journey northwards toward one of the best reasons to visit Rajasthan: the Thar desert. Rajasthan, in general, is a very dry and arid place, and the people that live in the state see a constant reminder that they live in a desert from the gradual and daily accumulation of dust. It gets on everything, and in particularly windy weather, dust storms can be particularly hazardous.

The road toward Jaisalmer, the largest desert city, was surprisingly good. Mr. Bhandari told us that Delhi is going to be hosting the Asian games in 2010, and in preparation therefor a lot of work is being done on the surrounding infrastructure. Roads are being built, repaired, or widened, and it was rare that we didn't go a few miles without seeing some trucks or tractors, diggers or teams of workmen doing some sort of work on the road.

Our original plan was to head to Jaisalmer and stay at a hotel where we could arrange a short camel trek into the desert, complete with sleeping overnight in the sand dunes. But as we tried to explain what we wanted to do, it just wouldn't translate. Saying "sand dunes," Mr. Bhandari heard us say that we wanted to visit Sam, a small desert village outside of Jaisalmer, to which he counselled us against it. We had no intention of visiting Sam - apparently, it used to be a quaint little place to take camels and tourists around, but as more and more tourists started coming, so did restaurants and hotels. But we couldn't say "sand dunes" without him hearing "Sam" and when you're trying to explain that you want to sleep overnight in some, it's kind of important. We did, however, reach a compromise: Bhandari told us about a small place thirty-eight kilometres away from Jaisalmer called Khuri, where one can stay in authentic Rajasthani huts, see an authentic Rajasthani music and dance show, and eat a traditional authentic Rajasthani meal. You get the idea. We went for it.

Bypassing Jaisalmer completely, a single-lane, completely untrafficked road brought us to Khuri, which seems to have lost its reason for existence: every house is now a guest house, and each offers a package deal of camel trek into the desert, music and dance show, and buffet meal. As much as we try to eschew the "package deal" it seemed to work in this case and we rolled into the Khuri Guest House under a blistering sun at around two o'clock.

A boy in his late teens came out to greet us, flanked by two or three others. He greeted us warmly, and offered that we could put our bags into a hut, and refresh ourselves. Bhandari wasn't having any of it - they immediately launched into a spicy conversation in Hindi about where we would be staying and what would be included. He carefully avoided the subject of price: however, he had mentioned to me what I should pay, so when the teen and I got to the subject of price, I did a respectable job of bargaining. Bargaining is such a part of buying things in India that in some cases, you know what you're supposed to pay, the seller knows what you're supposed to pay, but you go through the motions in case one of the two slips up and someone can get a deal out of it.

To visualize the guest house, imagine a large building at the front of the compound, providing interference from the road and clearly used for overflow in case there are more guests than huts. For that's what you find behind the main building: two poured concrete circles, perhaps forty feet in diameter, to which five huts flank a central area in both. In the centre, a fire pit, and the whole thing is encircled by a hip-high wall. The huts are circular, about twelve feet in diameter, with a roof made of thatched grass, supported by wooden poles: the walls are perhaps a white-painted clay. The door was green-painted metal of the clangy-creaky variety, with a lock and chain to keep you dubiously secure at night. The centerpiece of the hut, a metal-frame bed straight from an institution: or rather, two of them, pushed together, as we have come to expect as the low-budget version of a double. Two blankets, provide your own sheets or sleeping bags, as most of the time, it's so hot you probably don't need them. In ages past there would be sconces for your candles and small mirrors affixed to the walls to reflect the light in marvellous patterns: unfortunately the mirrors had been painted over and a single light bulb had been wired into the roof.

We refreshed ourselves, had some tea with Bhandari, and waited for our camels to be assembled for our "camel trek." In fact, this was to be a two-hour ride through the dunes to watch the sun set, and then come back. From what we'd heard about riding on a camel and what it can do to your backside, that was just fine with us.

Our camel drivers were Cellu and Maihpal, two pre-teens who had obviously been riding camels from a very early age. Cellu was tall and lanky, entering his growth spurt earlier than Maihpal; his peach fuzz moustache accompanied a voice that cracked as he sang camel-riding songs when we ran out of things to talk about. But both of them were friendly and knowledgeable about the Khuri area.

Our camels were of the single-humped variety: I gather these are known as dromedaries. It's convenient for two people as I imagine the saddle lets one person sit in front of the hump, and another person sits behind. We sat in front and were just along for the ride as Cellu and Maihpal did the driving. It's a lot like a horse, as you basically pull the camel's head in the direction you want it to go, and they're encouraged to turn by the rope attached to their nostrils.

For those of you who haven't ridden on a camel, it's a lot like riding on an elephant. There's a lot of side-to-side motion as various legs are moved into position, and when the thing really gets moving, you get into a pattern of being bounced into the air from the saddle and slapping back down at an impressive rate. If you were doing this for any length of time, you can imagine the workout your leg muscles would have. As for the getting on part, it's fun: the camel sits down and you get on, and it gets up with the rear legs first, making you lean forward at a forty-five degree angle as it settles itself to unstretching its front legs and getting everything straightened out. If you're not expecting it, as I wasn't, it's an experience that will definitely wake you up.

We wandered out through Khuri village, following a well-worn trail in between village houses as we slowly made our way toward the desert. This wasn't before we had been shown two opportunities to buy things: the first from a local potter, who made his creations from a setup involving a car wheel and tire being fixed on its side and spun with a stick. The prices of the things we so low we had to buy something, so we bought a nice little bell: it's hard to just sit and look at an impoverished village and refuse to buy something that costs, literally, pennies.

The second buying opportunity was a local co-op where textiles of all makes and sizes were on offer: of course, it's nothing we can take with us, as our trip doesn't take us directly back home. However the quality was amazing, and I imagine the prices are better than what you would get in Delhi, as you're dealing more directly with the manufacturers and not with a middleman. We got back on the camels and went into the desert.

When I think of a desert, I think of a big sand pile, carved into static tidal waves by the wind. While I'm sure this image exists in the Thar desert, it was clearly going to be further away than we were going to go on our camels. There was plenty of life in the desert we saw, albeit it was in the form of scrubby, needly bushes and weeds. As well, it was in the form of two pre-teen boys who walked alongside our camels as we trod into the desert, their bags of potato chips and bottles of Pepsi on offer to us thirsty travellers. These kids are savvy business men who have heard every excuse in the book and work more on the principle of wearing you down than of convincing you that you deserve a nice sugary drink. No matter how much we told them we weren't interested, wouldn't drink soft drinks, wouldn't eat salty potato chips, they just trudged alongside us as we carved our path into the desert dunes. I don't think they had much better to do, and it was clear that they knew Cellu and Maihpal.

We got off the camels on a series of particularly picturesque dunes about an hour before sunset: we clearly hadn't spent enough time buying things, or at least, being offered the opportunity to buy things. So we had some fun walking up and down the dunes, taking pictures of dunes, marvelling at dunes. There were some interesting snake tracks leading to holes in the dunes: surprisingly large tracks. And then the sun started to descend over the horizon.

I'm sure there are days when the sunset in the desert is awe-inspiring. Perhaps it was the humidity; perhaps it was the light cloud cover. But for me, perhaps it was having been spoiled with sunsets in Portugal and Italy, and finally getting to the point where my criteria for a truly moving, open-the-champagne-bottle of a sunset have been really raised up. We took pictures, we had a nice time, but by the time the sun was down, it was enough and we trudged our way back toward the camp.

By the time we got back the light had drained away, but more importantly, we weren't going to be alone for the cultural exposition: my biggest fear for the event of the evening was that it was going to be just Amy and me clapping away to the singing and dancing. Not really a fear, I suppose, but as someone who's been onstage, it's always nice to have more people in the audience than in the production. We were in the company of many other tourists, but we were the only ones from outside of India: people from Mumbai had come in by the busload, so it was nicely packed for the evening's performance.

Six musicians with a variety of different instruments, and two dancing girls, were going to provide the entertainment for the evening. Of course we couldn't understand a word of what they sang, but as the only caucasians in the crowd, other people in the audience took great pride in coming over to us and explaining to us in sometimes exhaustive detail what a particular song was about. The dancers were quite magnificent, performing with a well-practised skill that involved not only dancing but also some dancing-related tricks, such as balancing a twelve-foot tall pillar on the head and dancing around the compound, or balancing a brazier of fire on the head and dancing around the compound.

One of my favourite moments was when one of our interpreters, an Indian living in Dallas named Ashok, took the dancing girls and one of the musicians aside after one of their early numbers for an impromptu photo session by one of the huts. I can imagine Ashok standing up during a performance of Hamlet and asking the Dane if he wouldn't mind posing with Ophelia over by the risers for a few snaps at the end of act two. But I guess this is all perfectly normal in India, as they were all too happy to be lead into position and photographed, and the performance resumed; in Shakespeare's time I gather if you paid enough for your ticket, you got to sit onstage and bother the actors.

After the singing and dancing (at the end of their performance, we all got up and danced: all inhibitions are released when you have forty Indians of all ages up and dancing around a fire pit) the food was wheeled out, and we ate extremely well. As people piled out to more comfortable accommodations, we closed the metal door on our cell, and waited for the last bottles to be consumed so we could enjoy the blissful silence of the desert.

We rode out for Jaisalmer the following morning, hitting two monuments on our way into the city: a man-made lake that stands in direct contrast to the dusty, arid city: and the old city of Jaisalmer itself. The lake was a bit scary: there's some glorious greenish algae floating just under the surface of the water, and the telltale rainbow patterns of pollution floating throughout. This isn't water you'd want to willingly fall into, also because of what Amy and I assume to be the vast presence of eels, for whom people buy packets of food in order to feed. The thrashing of eels on the water is just something I can't see myself getting used to.

The Jaisalmer city fort stands like a monolith in the centre of the city, at least a kilometre long, rising up to dominate the horizon. Most forts are impressive: this one was pretty astounding. Looking at it from our hotel, I was struck with the thought: "If I had an invading army, how on earth would I attack this thing?" The ground rises at an angle of at least sixty degrees, and you'd have to climb up about forty feet before reaching the base of the fort. The walls are probably sixty feet high, so forget about placing a ladder and climbing up. Meanwhile, there's the trifling matter of defending soldiers firing on you as you advance. I think the direct approach would have been decidedly out.

Nowadays, the answer to taking over the fort would just be to wait until it falls apart. The interior of the fort is in quite poor condition: much of it is crumbling away, and litter is strewn everywhere. There's the usual matter of wandering cows and careening motorcycles, but in India, it's commonplace. The streetie vendors are good in Jaisalmer, a bit more aggressive than in Pushkar, but less so than in Delhi. Our defences were down, so walking around the streets, we had to remember to stop returning greetings to people and keeping the eyes forwards, if we wanted to get anywhere without being overly delayed by offers to buy.

Our arrival in Jaisalmer coincided with the opening of the Jaisalmer desert festival, for which we were told we were very lucky to have timed our visit so. We strolled over after dinner with Bhandari, toward an outdoor stadium (Indira Ghandi stadium) with a stage set up in the middle. People were wandering around the periphery, taking camel rides, buying things to eat, but mostly just standing around and chatting. The event seemed to be organized by multiple branches of India's armed forces, and men in uniform were absolutely everywhere. The bleachers overlooking the stadium grounds were divided up into different sections: various sections of the armed forces, "foreign tourist," "VIP" and interestingly, "VVIP." The grounds between the bleachers and the stage were segmented into sitting areas, the entry for which had a sign labelled "Indian tourist."

When we arrived in the stadium, Bhandari marched us straight toward the VVIP section, pausing only to ask for directions. To his credit, I don't think he saw or knew there was a "foreign tourist" section: we were stopped by soldiers who politely moved us on toward it. While we thought Bhandari was going to stay with us to watch the show, he stayed a moment to make sure we were all right, and then left.

It was fascinating to watch the forthrightness with which the soldiers who had been assigned to crowd control did their job. Especially, as one would imagine, those assigned to ensuring that only very very important people sat down in the VVIP section. As people filed in, they made a first attempt at sitting in whatever good seats were available, only to be shooed on by soldiers with bamboo prods - the level of politeness scaled exactly with how foreign (or how rich, perhaps) you appeared to be.

And after a long delay, the show began.

Of course, we couldn't understand a word. It seemed to be a mix of various Rajasthani / desert culture acts: three guys with clarinet-sounding horns sat and belted out a number, the speakers cranked up to eleven; four dancing women performed seemingly incongruous styles, reminding me of the clichéd scene in the movies where the protagonists have to dress up in drag and do a ridiculous dance number in front of an audience; and finally, a very long, drawn out ceremony in which dozens of commanding officers in the armed forces received special turbans.

When there appeared to be a pause in the show for the next event, we decided that perhaps we would make an early exit: inspired by the other hordes of foreign tourists who figured that you really had to understand what was going on to truly appreciate the festival.

The next day we hit the road for Bikaner, now on the return trip to Delhi. Bikaner is another city on the edge of the Thar desert, perhaps smaller and less developed than Jaisalmer, but no less dusty. We had a hotel recommendation from the fellow who had arranged our trip with the government office, and rolling into the Harasar Havelli, it seemed to be right on the money.

I'll be honest with you: we probably did some sight seeing in Bikaner, but I can't remember any of it. With the pace we were setting, the details have started to melt together near the end. I'm sure it has a fort on a hill, and a whole lot of street vendors looking to separate you from your cash.

We did spend a fair amount of time on the hotel roof, enjoying a beer and a sunset over the city (no more inspiring than over the dunes, unfortunately), and talking to some Britains we met, Nicole and Laurence, who were just on the beginning of their trek around the world. As relatively experienced world travellers, it was interesting to be able to share what little advice we could, especially as it came to the Rajasthan trip, which they were doing in the other direction.

One thing I do remember about Bikaner was a short trip I made with Bhandari to get some more cash from a machine. Usually banks post a guard outside their ATM to make sure that people don't crowd in and make people feel uneasy about typing in their private passwords and taking out wads of money, but for the one we went to (the only one working, out of four in the city) there was no guard. Consequently, people were budding into line, jamming themselves into the booth, all curious about how much money people were taking out of the machine. Having a problem at one of these machines doesn't seem to generate much sympathy, either: when we ran into Nicola and Laurence again, it was at this machine: they had travelled to the other three with no success, and were having a problem with this one, too. However we figured out that they were trying to withdraw too much cash at once (I prospect that most travellers probably consider, given the relative frustration in going to cash machines, paying international fees and so forth) and the solution was to just withdraw a lesser amount.

My own experience in the cash machine booth wasn't atypical from what I've just described: in the eight-by-eight foot booth, there were six of us crammed in with the door hanging open. When it was my turn at the machine (which involved some serious "wide elbows" and standing of ground), all eyes were fixated on my machine. That's security for you. Faced with the prospect of five strangers knowing my PIN, I pulled an old classic: I pretended to hear something, turned around, looked at the road running parallel to us and said "what the hell is that?" To their credit, not all of them turned around, but the ones directly behind me did, and in that spare two seconds I tapped in my numbers.

On our way back Bhandari asked me if there was anything we needed to do while we were out: I hadn't been planning it, but I mentioned that I was curious to know if there was a place we could look at local musical instruments. A couple of the performers at the Khuri guest house used instruments which I think are called taktal, which are little more than small pieces of wood (teak) about the size of a candy bar. You slap them together with one hand and have one in each hand. These guys were tapping them with incredible speed and rhythm, which immediately made me think that of course, anyone could do it.

When I asked Bhandari about these, he frowned, shook his head, and said that you probably couldn't get them here. Why didn't I look around in Jaisalmer? Because I didn't know I wanted them then, I conveyed. But he wasn't to be deterred, and thought that perhaps there was a store we could check. So we drove to the local handicrafts and textiles store, where two guys stood up from the newspapers they were reading to greet the car.

Even as local-handicraft-seller number one was warming up his tourist salesman routine, Bhandari was out of the car and walking over to him, telling him what we wanted. They had a conversation that lasted no more than six seconds in which the following information was conveyed: no, they didn't have any, and perhaps you should check over in Jaisalmer; we've just been in Jaisalmer and we're not headed back; why didn't you get them in Jaisalmer; he didn't tell me he wanted them. Then the guy tried to give up talking to Bhandari and do some work on me: would I like to come into the shop for some tea? But hanging around with Bhandari has made me a better buyer, even if a tourist buyer: especially as I already knew I wasn't going to buy anything else, and that he didn't have what I wanted. I held my ground and conveyed as much to him.

More people came over. There was more conversation in Hindi. Seven local businessmen, myself and Bhandari, stood on the stoop outside of the store. The same conversation was repeated a number of times: did they have the taktal? You can only get them in Jaisalmer, maybe in Delhi. We've just left Jaisalmer. Why didn't you get them in Jaisalmer? And the part, I'm sure Bhandari was delicate about: my tourist only decided he wanted them now that we've left Jaisalmer. My favourite part about it all was that no one really knew what the things were called, so when the time came to describe what was being sought, there was a small explanation-slash-demonstration complete with "tak-tak" sound effects. Eventually everyone was calling them tak-taks. Even I, when the salesman continued to get me to go into his shop, was reduced to saying, "Look man, if you don't have the tak-taks, I'm not going into your store."

We headed back to the hotel. To make the evening even more surreal, there was a television in our room, which we decided to watch, and saw a Hollywood movie. The imposition of western culture into our dusty, broken-down Indian town felt decidedly bizarre. I'm not sure if I've made much comment on the state of most cities and towns in India, but while I'm thinking of it, I should mention that they are definitely eyebrow-raising in contrast to almost any city in Europe or Canada. To begin with, trash is everywhere: there's simply no dedicated place to drop it, so it ends up in great piles at the side of the road. Next add a smattering of cow manure, dropped from the wandering, free-spirit cows that are illegal to kill (and bad luck to herd out of town). Finally, visualize that things don't seem to get repaired much, so you have broken sidewalks, broken roads, broken buildings, broken everything. So much emphasis is placed on living in the present, mostly because there's no public money for investing in the future.

The next morning we headed off in the direction of Delhi, deciding to stop in Mandawa, a sort of halfway town that's a little more than a blip on the tourist circuit owing to its high number of historic havellis (merchant mansions). Unfortunately the town has fallen on hard times, as really what happens is the tourists march in, they are deposited in a hotel, they tour the havellis with a guide, and they return to the hotel to eat and depart the next day. The same was true of us, but we decided we really weren't interested in seeing the havellis, but rather, wanted to get a sense of the town itself. So we just walked in no particular direction, until we were very much off the map, onto unpaved dirt roads with streams of people's waste water running down the middle. The standard of living may have been meagre, but there were still smiles, still laughter, and people still seemed to get by with a semblance of order.

As we started getting more and more looks of amazement from people that usually don't see tourists outside of the havellis, we decided to make our way back. Following the compass and some landmarks (note: for any trip of significant duration, bring a compass; they are really, really useful) we were on the way when we passed by a group of kids flying a kite. When they saw us they went slightly mad, tearing over to us to get a good look and practice their English. Seeing my camera they realized it was an opportunity to make some money. I bargained the lead kid down to five rupees (from twenty) and took a picture of them all; but kids being kids, they wouldn't stop mooning and posing until I'd taken at least a dozen. We then tried to leave them and go on our way, but they decided we were more interesting than a kite. We got several offers for guides - so much so that I considered paying one of them to just walk beside us and look guide-like, while staying quiet. They were more than a bit annoying as they did things like throwing rocks at the smaller kids (and encouraging us to do so as well).

Back in the city, I decided to try another tactic to retrieve some personal space: I sat down beside three old guys sitting on a stoop outside a tailor's shop. There was very little conversation other than broken Hindi (mine), but they were very generous with their time, offering me a drink and a smoke (of what, I'm not sure), both of which I refused. But their presence seemed to keep the kids at bay, which was exactly what I was after. When we picked back up to return to the hotel, their number had dwindled.

When we returned to the hotel, we settled in for a good dinner, chatting most of the night with some Dutch guys, Alain and Sander, about India and Rishikesh; Sander had just been, and offered us a bunch of great information, as it was where we were intending on going next. Our conversation was only marred by the entertainment, which shuffled in in the form of a five-member family: Dad on the stringed instrument, Son on the drum, Mom (with baby) singing and little Daughter doing a dance. It was authentic; it was heartfelt; it was amateur. But after having seen the city, we had to tip them for their performance.

We headed back to Delhi the next day, taking no more than four hours to get to the city limits and two more in traffic. Much of the traffic was caused by the construction of the Delhi Metro, which will link the outlying areas of the city with light rail that will soar ten metres above street level. Bhandari commented that he didn't think the metro would substantially alleviate Delhi's traffic problems, but it would probably get better once the construction was over. When we finally did get to our area of the city, we parked so awkwardly that we had a few scant seconds to make our goodbyes. It felt so odd, after having spent twelve days with Mr. Bhandari, that he was just suddenly gone: I don't think I even have a proper photograph of him.

To end on a moralistic note, I guess the message is, don't put off today what might not be possible tomorrow.

The Rajasthan Road trip (part 2)

We set out the next morning at a luxurious ten o'clock in the morning for Ranthambore National Park - luxurious because we'd been getting up at the crack of dawn for the past two days. Luxurious however was not the word to describe the road to Ranthambore; Bhandari wanted to try a new road he thought would save us some time, to go directly to Ranthambore, rather than going through Jaipur as we had previously thought would be the case. If the hairs on the back of your next just stood up, rest assured that ours did too, and didn't un-frazzle until we arrived more than five hours later.

Because, after leaving the comparatively safe single-lane highway, we turned onto the road to Ranthambore - a crumbling, single track of asphalt meant for truly local traffic. This didn't stop other jeeps, taxis and carrier trucks from using it either, and it was truly tense when our vehicle drove straight towards another - consequent games of chicken - and both vehicles tried to give the least amount of road to the either in order to pass.

Five bumpy hours later, we were in Ranthambore - that's not actually the name of the settlement that's sprung up to provide services to park-goers, but it's the easiest point of reference. Our hotel, the Tiger Safari, was clearly marked on the map, but as always, Mr. Bhandari paid it little mind, preferring to stop several times and ask locals which way he should go.

The hotel was actually pretty nice, fitting the mould of many hotels in India - relatively clean rooms, two single beds pressed together to form a double, a pair of blankets but no sheets, and a bathroom - this one in pretty good shape. Hot water on demand, as opposed to other hotels where you have to call and ask for it, or have it delivered to your room in a bucket. And, a western-style toilet complete with a roll of twenty-five pieces of toilet paper.

Oh yes - for those who don't know, toilet paper is a luxury in India, if not most parts of Asia; and when you think about it, it probably should be. To explain without becoming to graphic, let's just say that local customs dictate if you shake hands with someone or eat with your hands, you should do so with your right hand - the left is used for something else.

A check-in conversation with the manager of the hotel, Rahoul, was quite informative and interesting. He used to be the manager of a factory, but the factory closed down; a family friend suggested he could take over as the manager of the hotel in Ranthambore. He remarked that the management styles were different, but in the case of hotels, you can't employ the same standard of discipline when people get out of line, which mystified us until we figured out that he was actually talking about the guests, not the staff. And on the subject of guests, he was very open about his opinions of guests of different nationalities - I never did get to ask him what he thought of Canadians. "They ask to many questions," he probably would have said.

The hotel staff was made up completely of young men in the mid- to late-teens: Rahoul explained that they come from very poor villages, and are given the opportunity to make comparitively large sums of money that can support their families. "They daren't fail," remarked Rahoul ominously; "they are boys, and I have to keep them in line, but for the most part they do very well." The boys did snap to attention whenever Rahoul entered the room, but in our presence he was never abusive. I couldn't help but wonder however, the price of failure.

The boys themselves were talkative and curious, asking us the standard routine of questions - where we came from, our jobs, our age, and so forth - and in a shy, forbidden kind of way, whether Amy was my "girlfriend". I'm not sure if he was disappointed when I told him that no, we were in fact married. He went on to tell us all about his village, how he was taking the train there in a few days, how his cousin was going to get married. We found him charming enough that we gave him a tip directly, despite the "tip box" placed in plain view in the hotel lobby, which I imagine is intended to give the impression that the tips are shared among all. Whether this is true or not, we couldn't guarantee, so we decided to ignore it.

So the whole point of coming to Ranthambore is to visit the park in order to see one of the many tigers that live there. Park-goers have two options for transportation, as you can't walk or take your own wheels into the park: a lumbering, loud twenty-seat vehicle called a "canter", or a quieter four-seater jeep called a "gypsy". The gypsy is much more expensive than the canter, the price driven up by the comparative scarcity; boys from the hotels must run out at four o'clock in the morning to attempt to secure any seats that haven't been booked days in advance. We chose a canter.

We were awoken by a knock at the door at five o'clock in the morning (on schedule) in order that we could rise for a five-thirty breakfast and six o'clock departure. The best times to see tigers, apparently, are dawn and dusk; they find secluded places during the heat of the day to take a nap. Our canter arrived fifteen minutes late. There was some discussion between the driver (actually, the driver's assistant) and Rahoul about who among the assembled fifteen of us were to go, and in the end, only four of us went. In the darkness we found seats in the open-top vehicle, and with the sound of a tank engine, we rumbled off down the road to two more hotels to collect the remaining sixteen people. When we finally got the park, the sky was turning a royal blue and we were starting to wake up (thanks, in part, to the cool air blasting at us as we went).

While we were just waking up, souvenier salesmen had clearly been up for hours waiting for us and the other dozen canters and jeeps that had lined up waiting to get into the park. We were offered t-shirts, hats, canteens, disposable cameras, batteries, film, food, you name it - over and over again. I note with interest that the obvious foreigners refused the offers or ignored the hawkers completely - but the Indian and Nepalese family with us in our canter happily forked over rupees for some of the stuff. I'm guessing it's because the foreign tourists haven't got the rooms in their bags - or at least don't think they do. We certainly didn't.

The canter grumbled its way into launch position, behind two others, and then came to a halt for another twenty minutes. Apparently the park gives each vehicle a number and an entry time, in order to stagger the vehicles so they're not falling over each other. When we did go, our driver took no prisoners - speeding past brightly-plumed peacocks, monkeys, and deer - our quarry was a tiger, and we had already lost time. Eventually he and the assistant, who turned out to be experienced enough to act as a wilderness guide, did slow the pace to take some time looking at non-tiger animals. To cut to the chase, we didn't see a tiger - the closest we got was a paw-print - but we saw some magnificent creatures including a colourful kingfisher, a crocodile, and a pack of wild boar. We stopped in the middle of a pack of deers, so close you could reach out and touch them, but no tigers.

I can't say I'm surprised there weren't any tigers putting themselves on display - the canters make a hell of a noise, and eventually, they started to form up in packs of two or three as the drivers share information about where the tigers might be. Meanwhile, the quiet gypsy jeeps are followed by the noisy canters, making me very glad we didn't spend the extra money.

There's not much more to tell about Ranthambore - we had lunch and packed up to go to Jaipur. It wasn't until we were a couple of hours away, and on a much better road, that we realized we'd forgotten to hand in our room key. This prompted a discussion of what we should do - and we figured that it would probably be okay just to mail it. We certainly didn't feel like turning around and hitting the nasty road again.

We arrived at Jaipur in the afternoon. Jaipur is the capital of Rajasthan, so it's essentially another big city filled with rickshaws, horrible traffic, and air pollution. We'd figured this would be the case so we'd only scheduled one night there, and were pleased enough with that. Jaipur's claim to fame is its colour - a light terracotta red - which has given it the nickname of "the pink city". Every building in the old quarter is painted this colour, which makes me think, if you don't like pink, you don't live in Jaipur's old quarter.

It was easy enough to let Bhandari organize our tourist schedule for us, and given that we didn't really have anything else planned, we just settled into his itinerary. As we'd arrived late in the day, we had a little time to find our hotel (we were lucky, our hotel was pretty easy to find and it only required about three roadside requests for directions) and then a trip downtown to see the Hawa Mahal, or as Mr. Bhandari called it, "five-hundred window house", an immense building that looks out onto a main street with hundreds of finely screened windows. Our guidebook tells us that it was built to allow the women of the court to view street processions without being seen (part of an ancient code called "purdah", which proscribes that royal women can't be seen, period). This visit was truly short - a few minutes, the car's engine idling, while we were meant to take pictures, and leave. We took pictures, and left.

We moved on, towards something else, that turned out to be closed: Bhandari then suggested the Rajasthan Government Handicraft office, which sold high-quality textiles and other Rajasthani items. Sure, why not: despite much looking around, Amy didn't find anything she liked, but I emerged with a blue long-sleeve shirt that will remind me of India, but will probably announce to any Indian that I'm a Westerner trying to fit in.

We then went to a second handicraft place - a bit seedier, but cheaper - where Bhandari announced that if we bought anything, no pressure, he would get a commission. To his credit, he's been very good about this, and since Amy was actually in the market to buy some pashminas, it worked out just fine. She emerged with two. It's interesting that despite repeated declarations that this was a no-haggle, no-pressure environment (not like other places, we were assured), we found that there was plenty of pressure to "just come in and look" and deals were to be had if we looked like we weren't interested in buying. In fact the whole layout of the place was designed to feed you from one sales room to another (shawls to bedspreads, to shoes, to brasswork, to paintings, to jewellery, etc.) until you finally sprawled out onto the street, your wallet empty.

We went back to the hotel, ate out at a nearby restaurant, and got up early the next day so we could begin the day's itinerary of sightseeing:

1. Amber Fort
2. Water Palace (stop for pictures)
3. Jantar Mantar
4. City Palace

...and then onto Pushkar in the early afternoon.

Apparently it's best to get to Amber fort early, as busloads of tourists arrive and clog up the place pretty quickly, especially if you want to take an elephant to climb the twenty-minute uphill walk. It's a big business, with dozens of brightly-painted elephants on hand to ferry tourists up the cobblestone switchbacks, designed to slow down enemy invaders while they're harrassed by defenders. In the modern version, invading tourists are harrassed by salesmen of different sorts: I couldn't help but laugh as a guy chased after our elephant with some of the ugliest puppets I've ever seen, to see if we would encourage our mahout to stop so we could buy one.

The other thriving business is photography, and a brilliant setup it is: six or seven guys with cameras stand on an embankment of the castle, taking pictures of elephant-bourne tourists, while one guy calls out to get the tourists' attention (so they'll look at the camera). Presto, instant memories: the photographers then rush their film to be developed, the tourists take an hour-long walk through Amber fort, and then on their way out, the photo salesmen just match pictures to faces and see what they can get for the photos. In typical fashion, it starts at five hundred rupees, but by the time we were walking away (they were pretty bad photos) he was down to fifty - in fact, he was down to "what will you give me for them?"

Here's the problem with this style of tourism: it doesn't agree with us because there's no time for memories of the places you've visited to settle into a permanent fixture. I don't really have any clear memories of Amber fort that I might not be confusing with the six other forts we visited, other than there were ramparts, large impressive buildings, and (probably) impressive carving and inlay work. We wandered around on our own, latching on to a few tours for snatches of explanation, but on the whole, were pretty happy not having a directed tour. When a security guard pointed out a set of steps that would should go on, we balked, thinking that maybe we would be going on a guided tour after all; he insisted, and before we knew it, we were heading through some of the less-visited areas of the fort. He did show us some interesting areas, including a balcony used by the emperor to view elephant fights, and decorated with frescos depicting said activities. At the end of our tour, he waited for a bit, I took his photograph and we said our goodbyes - when it was clear we weren't getting it, he suggested, "Now you may offer me some money." We gave him some rupees.

I do remember more clearly the hordes of people trying to sell me things, so much that I actually turned to one particularly persistant boy, took both of his shoulders in my hands and said to him in my slowest, most commanding English, "I'm not going to buy anything from you - not now, not ever," which seemed to be enough to set him on his way. We packed into the truck and plowed on towards the next item on our itinerary, a roadside stop of the Water Palace.

The palace earns its name from its location - it's a palace in the middle of a small lake. However, until there's actual water for the Water Palace to be in the middle of, it probably shouldn't be on anyone's itinerary. For right now, a better name might be the mud palace. But hey, Bhandari figures this is memorable, so we stopped to get some pictures.

The car hadn't even slowed down when we were approached by a little girl dressed up in a vibrant purple sari, asking me to take her picture. I've seen this before: you take the picture, they tell you that will cost a hundred rupees, and it's hard to bargain down because you've already taken the picture. Hard feelings for everyone. No, I explained, I'm just here to take a picture of the palace, and trudged over to the side of the boulevard to get an unobstructed view of mud palace.

All the while, she was following me, asking me to take her picture. I wasn't going to get out of this one too easily. She kept on striking poses, smiling - take my picture, take my picture. So I figured, can I at least be a different tourist, someone that isn't just a walking wallet? I asked her name: she told me, Puja. The Hindi word for worship. I told her mine, what country I was from. All of this was digested. Then, would I take her picture. No, but how about she take my picture? Thinking a little reversal might change gears here. I showed her how the camera worked: I aimed it and put her finger in the right position: she took a picture of me. I showed her how my face would show up on the screen. I'm not sure whether she was impressed or not: if so, it didn't last, as she asked me to take her picture.

I was through with the Water Palace, and I have to admit, I was through with this transaction that wasn't going to happen. It didn't help that by this point her little brother, brightly dressed up, had come over with a violin-like musical instrument and had started to play. At first ostensibly for some money, but then it appeared to be an audition for whether or not I'd like to buy his instrument.

It must have been clear that these carefully orchestrated attempts for me to shell over some cash weren't going to work, so as I started to walk back to the car, they switched gears of their own, resorted to unhappy pleas for money. At the car, it was for anything: bananas, chocolate. Something. Hands tapping on the windows as we drove off, eyes larger than saucers piercing at us, awaiting something that would never come. There was silence in the car all the way to our next monument.

Several things went through my mind as we drove. I wondered what Mr. Bhandari was thinking: was he ashamed of these kids, that they resorted to begging for money? Was he ashamed of me for not sharing even the tiniest bit of my relatively massive wealth? Or did he just accept that this was the way things were, and some people were kind, and others were not?

I wondered why I held so closely my reluctance to give. Was it because I wasn't sure any of this money would benefit Puja and her brother at all, or rather, might it go straight to the pocket of her father? Or maybe I just didn't like the idea of being manipulated, attacked on an emotional level - the one that is described by the fact that you have so much, why not share the tiniest fraction with me, because you can, and you won't even notice? Part of me thinks that it is a conservative reflex that I developed in Toronto - there is a fair amount of homelessness there, and I think along the same lines when it comes to individual giving. What will this guy use the money for, I'll just have to give again tomorrow, that sort of thing.

But whatever dark place I'd sunk into during our drive to the next monument to be seen, it was still relatively high compared to Puja's problems - I'm the one with the high-class problem. It was only later that I decided that if I was in that situation again, I wouldn't hesitate to take the picture, buy the trinket, do something small. For the paltry some that passes hands, it keeps both sides feeling happy, and there's some dignity to it. There's no resorting to begging.

I worked through my funk at our next destination, the Jantar Mantar - the astronomical garden. Designed and erected in the eighteen century, the array of scultpure-like constructions were used to calculate the position of various celestial bodies, the time, and even to predict the intensity of monsoons. Our guidebook mentions that the time calculated by the giant sundial is unique to Jaipur (between ten and forty-one minutes behind Indian standard time, but it's used to calculate the Hindu calendar.

We decided to take charge of our own schedule and decided not to visit the City palace. Given that the two monuments were right next to each other, it was a simple matter of just hanging out for longer at the Jantar Mantar and showing up at the parking lot when we were done.

Our drive to Pushkar was uneventful, and on a nice road. Pushkar is a very small town with a very important lake in its centre: it attracts pilgrims of all stripes to bathe in its waters, and apparently, one day of the year, a bath will wash away all of your sins. It's surrounded by no less than five hundred temples, and the only temple in India devoted to Brahma, surprising as Brahma is one of the more important figures in Hindu mythology.

We only spent a single night in Pushkar: for its size, it has been converted by the influence of tourism. There are many, many western tourists looking for enlightenment or just a quiet time away from it all, and as such, there are now as many internet cafes as there are Hindu temples. Our hotel was nice, the food was nice, the surroundings were nice. We definitely didn't do much sightseeing.

Our wandering through Pushkar was greeted by a much-reduced version of Delhi's aggressive salesmen: you want to look in my shop? No? Okay, no problem. They may have figured out that sometimes you get better results by letting a customer come to you, rather than trying to trick them or badger them into buying something. One area that has not escaped the hard sell in Pushkar is, surprisingly enough, religion.

The story of the Pushkar passport

We didn't get thirty feet into Pushkar's bazaar when we were approached by a guy in his early twenties, who greeted us heartily and thrust some flower petals into our respective right hands. This unanticipated move had a bunch of interesting side effects: now I can't shake anyone's hand, or use my right hand for anything, really - as I have this guy's sacred offering in it. I can't even switch it to my left hand, as that would probably be pretty disrespectful. Although in retrospect I should have done it just to see the look in his face.

For, you see, Amy and I were to be inaugurated with the so-called "Pushkar passport," a scheme designed to part tourists from some money in return for what so many would like: the ability to be left alone. As our guidebook described, in return for a donation, you receive a blessing and a bracelet of colourful string, designed to act as a beacon to other donation-seekers that you've already given something.

Here's what actually happened.

We, having informed ourselves to the passport scheme, already figured that we would participate at some point, and figured out an amount that we would donate in return for our passports. Our guide, whose name I have now forgotten, happily took us through the main street of Pushkar towards the lake which is encircled by the temples and ghats (stone steps) that make up the core of Pushkar. As we walked, he enthusiastically described how a brahmin priest would perform the ritual that would give us a powerful blessing, and how our donation would go towards supporting the five hundred temples and countless sadhus (wandering holy men) that pass through. As if to underscore the point and make sure that we knew what was happening, he mentioned on at least two occasions that we would receive a band that we could wear, called "the Pushkar passport" that our guidebook might have mentioned.

When we (finally) reached the ghat, our guide skipped ahead of us to give word of his two suckers charges to the Brahmin priests who would be administering our sacred blessings. They were reclining on wooden benches outside of a store, dressed in Indian summer business casual - slacks, button-up top and a vest. They approached us, greeted us heartily, bade us take off our shoes and took us down to the ghat. They split us up, on the odd logic that even though we were married, we didn't have children. In the hands of each, a metal plate with red and yellow powders, rice, and a coconut.

My brahmin priest, Sethi, went on to explain everything that our guide had, in painstaking detail. We then went down to the side of the ghat, my flower petals having grown quite stale in my hand, and he began the ritual. He asked me to repeat after him, one word at a time, a chant in Hindi. Getting into character, I intoned each word with a dutiful solemnity. I can't remember the actual chant, but after we recited it, he explained that the chant was a prayer to the gods to bring happiness, prosperity and good health to myself and all the members of my family. At the end, I cast the flacid flower petals into the water.

So while we had been set up with the "divide and conquer" strategy, he now proceeded with the hard sell. For he explained how a donation would go to the maintenance and upkeep of five hundred temples, as well as the day-to-day needs of the wandering sadhus that call Pushkar their home at one point or another. He didn't proceed to closing the deal just yet, he had a bit more ritual to perform.

We went through the chant again, word after word, and as we did so, he dumped some of the red powder into my hands, and bade me to cast it into the water as well. Again he explained that it was a blessing on me and all the members of my family. He then added something new to the chant: I would, at the proper time, announce the amount of money that I would be donating. I knew that Amy wouldn't budge from our agreed-upon amount: I figured that the performance was worth enough to warrant some extra rupees.

Sethi: And now a blessing to be given to your family: to you father...
Andrew: Peter.
Sethi: To you mother...
Andrew: Virginia.
Sethi: To you brother...
Andrew: Rob.
Sethi: To you sister...
Andrew: (no sister, sorry)
Sethi: For this blessing, for the good deeds you support with you donation of...
Andrew: One hundred rupees.

Sethi didn't take this one gracefully. He went on to explain in great detail how some people come and donate five hundred, one thousand, even a million rupees, for the blessing that they receive from Pushkar. That there are five hundred temples around here that only continue from donations. My problem was my scam radar was on full alert: this felt much more like a Delhi salesmen trying to convince me that I should go to a tourist office than a holy blessing. He must have sensed some doubt in me, as we went through the chant again. This time, he rubbed some red powder mixed with water into a dot on my forehead, and then stuck some grains of rice on it. He stuck the coconut in my hands and bade me wave it around the pool as I incanted the words.

Sethi: And now a blessing to be given to your family: to you father...
Andrew: Peter.
Sethi: To you mother...
Andrew: Virginia.
Sethi: To you brother...
Andrew: Rob.
Sethi: For this blessing, for the good deeds you support with you donation of...
Andrew: One hundred rupees.
Sethi: One hundred each for father, mother, brother, three hundred rupees.
Andrew: No, one hundred rupees.

Sethi then went on to explain how it was necessary for me to make donations for each of the members of my family, as they might not have the opportunity to visit Pushkar. He started in on the chant again. I stopped him, eventually having to put my hands on his shoulders and turn him to me, and said, "Sethi, I'm donating a hundred rupees, okay?" To which he smiled, and said, "okay," and finished the ritual by tying a red and yellow string around my wrist.

We moved back up to the steps and he set me in the care of a pair of boys, a teen and a kid, while we waited for Amy's priest to finish the mojo on her. She came back, and it was time to pony up: they presented a plate with the coconut on it, which we figured meant that none of the money we were donating was ever going to see a temple, much less a sadhu. Amy suggested that the money could go into the donations box, which they suggested was absolutely not necessary: quite vigorously, actually.

So that's the Pushkar passport story.

We left the money, walked around the ghats for a while until the sunset, and then left for some food. A pretty good meal: only two power cuts, and really friendly service that didn't blink an eye when they had to pull out the generator to bring back the lights and music.

We left for Jodhpur at a reasonable hour the next day: four hours passed quicker than usual, given a well-maintained road, and we actually arrived earlier than we'd suggested to our next hotel. Taken advantage of the remaining daylight hours we elected to do some sightseeing before going to the hotel, in this case a homestay. The fort in Jodhpur has a very long name that begins with an "M", and is actually above and beyond the "usual" of fortresses in Rajasthan: meticulously preserved, and the first in India to give the visitor a complimentary audio tour, so you can visit the fort at your own pace. The fort boasts a great collection of armnaments from the period, as well as a vast array of other relics. But by far for me, the most awe-inspiring attraction of the fort is its view over Jodhpur city, where each of the houses is a two- or three-story cubic home painted in either white or blue, showing a veritable sea of typical Indian housing.

It was while we were admiring the view, and I was taking pictures, that we drew some attention from other tourists: this time, the domestic kind. In the first case it was two men, that we chatted very briefly with in broken English, and finished it off with a few pictures. It was the picture-taking that drew the attention of a group of kids, ranging in ages between probably five and fourteen: at first they were shy, but after a family portrait, I showed them the result on the screen and they went absolutely wild. Then it was a mob to become the next one to get their picture taken and see the results on the screen... this was a real day's entertainment. But the rawness of their emotions, the honesty behind the smiles, it more than made up for previous experiences where I have been wary to bring out the camera. They didn't speak any English, I didn't speak enough Hindi, but it seemed that none of that hardly mattered and their father had to peel them away or else we might have been there all night.

This time finding our hotel was more difficult than usual, owing to the fact that it was situated in the Jodhpur suburbs, and the owners don't like putting signs out. There were many fruitless roadside hails for directions, until I remembered that Bhavna, the wife of the couple that owned the homestay, had given us some directions to help us find them.

The homestay was among the pricier of the places that we stayed in Rajasthan, but certainly among the best. Meticulously maintained, with only eight rooms and a delightful central courtyard, it had a relaxed, laid-back feel that was very welcoming. After dropping our stuff and "refreshing" ourselves we sat with Bhavna and her mother for a good half an hour in the living room and chatted. As well as running the homestay, Bhavna organizes all the meals for guests who choose to dine with her, and offers to teach what she knows of Indian cooking: Amy was immediately interested when we read that in the guidebook.

Also staying at the homestay were a pair of Austrians, a quartet of Germans, and two Britains who arrived after us, unhappy with the choice of hotel given to them by their tour operator. We were quite the international bunch, dining on fantastic Indian fare in the courtyard on a warm winter evening.

We did some more sightseeing, we bought some spices from Jodhpur's famed spice market, and we had a generally lovely time hanging out at the homestay and enjoying Amy's cooking. This dispatch has run rather long so I'm just going to finish here with a brief telling of my day of running around with Mr. Bhandari while Amy took her first cooking lesson.

Bhandari and I had two items to take care of: the first one was sending back the room key to the Tiger Safari by mail and second, getting ourselves a train ticket from Delhi to Rishikesh, our next destination in India.

Seeing how people send mail (or indeed, do anything that involves lining up in a queue) in India really is a treat compared to how it's done in any western country. People line up shoulder to shoulder, completely invading each other's space, and it's a microcosm of driving: if there's an opening to the front of the queue, and you haven't protected your turf, it's open season for someone to butt in front of you. But Bhandari is an absolute champion: we walked in there with the room key, tightly packed in a folded-over and taped-up envelope, and he went straight to the front of the "information" lineup and poked his head right into the office, butting in front of everyone. My guess is he wanted to just make sure it was acceptable for post: the short story for their long conversation was, it wasn't.

Our next task involved repacking. We went outside to a shop where they will pack stuff for you, and Bhandari, not finding anyone around, presented the problem to the guy at the cigarette shop next door. When I say shop, these are really kiosks, or better yet, a box on cinder blocks made out of sheet metal and/or plywood, probably about six feet tall by three feet wide and three feet deep. Bhandari figured that you could take a cigarette box, dump out the contents, wrap the envelope around it, and that would make it look more like a package. As we did this, completely discarding the cigarettes without paying for them, a few more people arrived to see what we were doing and add their advice. There must have been four people involved in this problem by the time we were done, and marching back to the post office.

Again, straight to the front of the line with our newly-wrapped package. The guy at the queue looked at it and shook his head: it didn't pass muster. Bhandari didn't blow his top like I expected him to, but we did change gears and go to the train station to deal with that task instead. Same thing, but change mail for trains: queues and forms. I had filled out a form in Delhi, expecting that I could hand it in here in Jodhpur. No dice, they use a different form here, and I had to fill that one out. Of course, I didn't bring a pen with me, and we had to ask around to borrow one from someone else standing in line. As I filled out the form, about five guys who probably had nothing better to do decided to come over and watch what I was doing: normally, this would really bug me, but the absurdity of the last hour had completely warmed me up to it. I involved them as much as I could in writing every detail of the form.

As much as I could, that is, for I had no real sense of the train number I needed or wanted, the class, or even the time that was available. Bhandari did, thankfully, and after spending much fewer rupees than I had expected, we exited with a ticket good for an overnight train from Delhi to Haridwar. As a note of foreboding, I should note that I had intended to pay more, but I expect that Mr. Bhandari thought he was doing me a favour by saving me some rupees by taking a lower class of train. Either that or he thought the trip we were doing through Rajasthan was too cushy.

So, time to finish off the mail. By this time the packaging guy had returned to his cubby hole, so we stopped in to see how much he would charge to wrap the thing up in a post office-approved format. Eighty rupees: about two dollars and change. Bhandari was convinced this was highway robbery, especially given the miniscule size of our package, but I convinced him that our time was worth money, too, and that by the time we found a guy who would do it for sixty rupees we'd have spent the whole day running around. I shelled out the eighty rupees. So in the end, the key was: wrapped in a thick plastic sheet, pushed into a cigarette package, covered in an envelope, taped up with lots of green tape, enveloped in two pieces of A4-sized cardboard, tied up with string, and then placed in a large manilla envelope. I had to write the address of the Tiger Safari again on the manilla envelope, and luckily, I had the card for the Tiger Safari, else we would have had to take the whole thing apart again.

It was with great trepidation that we returned to the post office: if the guy didn't take it this time, I envisioned Bhandari pulling him through the bars that separated the queue from the post office agents. But indeed it got the nod of approval, and we went to another line to wait. And wait we did: a beefy Italian guy was shipping two great packages of ... something, and we all watched as he counted out the hundred-rupee notes to get it back to Italy. Packaging for shipment is clearly an art in India: there are no standard containers, so what ends up happening for larger items is that they are wrapped and padded, and then sewn into their final packet form in canvas, and sealed up with wax.

When I got to the front of the queue, the postage was less than the cost of packaging. Didn't matter: the key was on its way, and I said we should have some chai (tea) to celebrate. We drove around for a while before we found a truly local tea house - a cubby-hole with a single burner and some pots - but it served the purpose. I chatted with a civil servant on his break from the office across the road, the "Narcotics Control Bureau, Jodhpur zone". We chatted about basic things, and he answered different questions than I asked, leading me to believe his grasp on English wasn't as good as he or I thought it was. When Bhandari and I had finished our tea, I looked around for where I should put my wafer-thin plastic cup: Bhandari and the other assembled tea-drinkers laughed politely at my dilemma, and solving it, Bhandari took my cup, crushed it with his and tossed it on the ground to end up with one of hundreds of others. "Don't worry about it," said my civil servant companion, "this is my India."

The Rajasthan Road trip (part 1)

We reconvened at the DTTDC on Monday, trudging our bags down the main bazaar, ignoring the continued offers for rickshaw rides and beautiful shawls. It's not a far walk, and you can never be sure if you'll end up exactly where you want to go when you get into a rickshaw or taxi, so most of the time I think it's best to just get there under your own power.

Mukur greeted us when we arrived, and introduced us to our driver, Mr. Bhandari. Mr. Bhandari is a very pleasant guy in his mid-forties, with short-cropped black hair and a thin, lithe frame. As Mukur had promised, Mr. Bhandari's command of English was limited, so for the next twelve days our conversations would prove to be interesting. But he has a nice sense of humour, an amazing skill at driving, and looked after us very well.

We packed our stuff into the rear of the car - as I've previously described, a jeep-like Toyota Qualis emblazoned with Tourist colours - and had the first of a few misgivings by the fact that there were no seatbelts in the backseat where we would be riding. Mukur had a moment's hesitation and we both must have wondered independently if this was going to be enough to blow the deal, but he calmly explained that legally only the driver was required to wear seatbelts - completely missing our imagined fears of flying through the windshield in a head-on collision. India does have an appallingly high rate of traffic accidents, and the most Mukur could do to assuage this fear was to assure us that it would be all right, that Mr. Bhandari was an excellent driver. This seemed to be enough to work, it seemed - we got in. Mukur said jokingly to Bhandari, "you make sure to get those fixed when you come back, okay?"

We left Delhi, charging through the streets on our way to the main highway towards Agra.

Driving in India

If you haven't gotten a clear enough picture from my dispatches about driving in India, it's utter chaos compared to anything you've ever seen in the West or in Europe. There are rules: they were handed down from the British when they paved the first roads. The only thing that all the drivers generally agree on is that you drive on the left-hand side of the road, a rule that's only really enforced when there's a median in the middle of the road. And only then, most of the time. After that, anything goes. The common feeling among most Indian drivers is that traffic lights actually cause more traffic problems than they solve. The best way to approach driving on Indian roads is to imagine you're driving in a road rally, and everything on the road is an obstacle. Couple this with a healthy paranoia that if you stop or even slow down, someone may try to get into or on top of your car, as well as a legion of drivers behind you honking for you to get going, and you are forced to make sometimes daring choices.

Also factor into the driving equation the varying degrees of road quality. Most of the major highways are actually pretty good, with two lanes on either side of a painted median. But as you get further away from the more built-up settlements, the roads aren't as maintained, and you find yourself sometimes driving on a single road, cracked and crumbling on the sides, such that when two vehicles come towards each other you play a repeating game of chicken to see who will have to put two of their wheels onto the shoulder in order to let the other one pass.

Fortunately, it seems that Bhandari has seen it all, and the only time he made any noise of discomfort was when we approached speed breakers (paved humps on the road that will cripple a car's suspension if you don't inch over them at a slow speed) too quickly. Most of the time he'd see them coming and slow the car down comfortably, but sometimes the sign has disappeared, leaving only a second to notice something odd about the road, and then Amy and I would be hurled a foot into the air as the Qualis made a mighty lurch. Never so hard as to bruise, but enough to make us all giggle. It appeared the Qualis was built to take it.

Some more road hazards: the roads were built overtop of routes used by people to get from one village to another, without making a separate path for non-automobile traffic, so everything ends up on the roads: here's a partial list.

• Cars
• Cargo trucks
• Motorcycles, carrying 3-4 people
• Auto-rickshaws, overloaded with people and putting along at 5km/h
• Camels pulling house-sized loads of hay
• Bicycles (carrying 1-3 people)
• Cycle rickshaws, carrying people or cargo
• Cows, donkeys, yaks, dogs, peacocks
• People, walking from place to place

In short, there's a lot to avoid on the roads, and the best way is to usually plow on through and make the car you're driving as dangerous as possible, forcing people to notice you and get the heck out of the way: if you don't, they won't move. So there's an unwritten rule that might is right, and if you don't bully your way around, you'll never get anywhere. And Bhandari exercised this rule every chance he could, overtaking around curves, blaring his horn at every person or vehicle, rarely slowing down. There were more than a few hair-raising moments. But in the end, it was probably the most efficient way and we were in the most capable hands.

To Agra

We realized we'd left Delhi ill-prepared for long-term road tripping: no water and no road food. So we asked Bhandari if we could stop somewhere to pick up both. Here's the other advantage of having a driver: if I asked to buy oranges, I'd pay the happily-inflated tourist price, whereas Bhandari can negotiate a better price. It's still probably not what he'd pay, but it's definitely better than what I'd negotiate. So we stopped at a roadside stand - parked at the side of the busy roadway, facing oncoming traffic - and hopped out to pick up some oranges, bananas and water. It's really interesting to see the completely different interactions that Indian men have with each other, compared to the interaction they have with non-Indians; Bhandari selected some oranges, set some aside as unworthy, and asked me how many I wanted. To me, courtesy, but when it came to negotiating with the seller, a kind of direct disinterest. No formalities. Our transaction completed, I asked Bhandari how to say "thank you" in Hindi, a question which brought complete confusion and I had to repeat my question a few times as he thought perhaps I wasn't happy with how much I paid. When he finally got it, he seemed to be amused that I'd actually want to thank the seller. Turns out there really isn't much call for the word "please" in Hindi, and you reserve "thank you" for over-and-above service, or when someone of a higher caste does you a good turn.

Ah, the caste system. More on that later.

The first thing we noticed driving to Agra were trees. Trees! We hadn't seen any in Delhi (later, we found out they do exist, just not in the highly built-up area of Paharganj, where we were staying), so seeing them on the side of the road (sometimes through our clenched fingers) was a refreshing change of scenery.

The bulk of our trip was spent getting to know Mr. Bhandari: married, two kids (boy and girl), his daughter married with two kids of her own. It sometimes was a difficulty asking a complicated question, often getting an answer to a question you hadn't asked. When it got too difficult, it was just sometimes easier to continue along rather than try to ask the question again in a different way.

We pulled into Agra after sunset. Task number one for Bhandari was to get us to our hotel: even though we had a map, with directions and everything, his method was to stop every once and a while (or, just slow down) and holler out to someone if they knew where such-and-such a hotel was. Again, the difference between how an Indian man might ask for directions from another, versus how the same transaction might be conducted in Britain. An example:

One British person asking another for directions to the hotel

Mr. Anglethorp, driving and looking for his hotel, spies Mr. Bustle-Thiston taking a promenade along the boulevard. Anglethorp carefully checks his mirrors, and when the way is clear, parks the car a short ways beyond where Mr. Bustle-Thiston is walking. He stops the car, gets out with his map, puts on his cap and walks over to meet Mr. Bustle-Thiston. A: Good day to you sir, fine day for a walk, isn't it? B: Good day to you, sir, indeed, very pleasant, though perhaps a trifle windy for my taste. A: Indeed it is. I'm just down from Northwich town, me and the missus, and we seem to have taken a wrong turn. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a spot of help in finding our way? B: No trouble at all, old boy, no trouble at all. Let's see that map of yours. A: Heading back over to the car, spreading the map out. We thought we were headed the right way a few miles back, but I can't find Hotel Kneedlethist anywhere. B: Hotel Kneedlethist? Ah, that's on the other side of town. You probably came in from the Exeter bypass, yes? A: Indeed we did... B: Well, there you go. The signs have been removed temporarily, and you probably missed Foxborough street, back (pointing at the map) here. If my recollection serves me correctly I believe the Kneedlethist is right on this corner. A: Jolly good, that's a great help. B: It's my pleasure, mister...? A: Goodness me, I forgot my manners. Morton Anglethorp is my name. And you sir? B: John Bustle-Thiston, how do you do. Anglethorp; do you have a cousin named David? A: Why yes I do! Talk continues for a good ten minutes. A: Well thanks again John, it was a pleasure. We'd be best pushing off. B: The pleasure was all mine old chap, look me up the next time you're in town. Anglethorp gets back in the car, turns it back on, checks his mirrors and when the way is clear (and then some), reverses back into the lane, and with a wave to Mr. Bustle-Thiston, heads back on his way.

One Indian person asking another for directions to the hotel

Mr. Singh, driving and looking for his hotel, spies Mr. Khanna walking alongside the road. To the honking protest of other drivers, Singh edges his car through traffic until he is driving closely to Khanna, rolling down his window and slowing the car down slightly. (translated from Hindi) S: Hotel Rajasthan, you know it? K: What? S: (stopping the car) Hotel Rajasthan, do you know where it is? K: (putting his elbow on Singh's window) What's the name of the hotel? S: Hotel Rajasthan. K: (thinking) No, I don't think so, but my friend over there has a nice hotel... (cut off, as Singh has already driven away) S: (spying another walker on the other side of the road, Mr. Raju; as he's driving, he leans over and rolls down the passenger-side window, weaving the car slightly: horns of disapproval as he slows to do so) Hotel Rajasthan, do you know it? R: What? S: (slowing the car and edging over: horns from behind; a motorbike weaves between them, sensing a gap that may disappear) Hotel Rajasthan, you know it? R: Down that street, take your first left... S: (already driving off) Okay.

The British version may be an exaggeration: the Indian version happened on more than one occasion with Mr. Bhandari. We even offered our map, suggestions... nope, getting the local knowledge is much more Bhandari's style.

We did find our hotel, Hotel Sheela, within the pollution-free zone that surrounds the Taj Mahal. Some explanation: the Taj, and many monuments within India, are facing slow destruction with the increase in industrial and car-related smog. Accordingly, the government has taken certain measures to combat the problem, the most aggressive of which seems to be the imposition of a 500-metre perimeter around the Taj through which automobiles are not permitted to drive. It's laxly enforced however, insofar as after the guards go home at night, cars drive through as much as they like, and any time of the day you'll see scooters and motorbikes happily ride through. All this meant for us was that Mr. Bhandari had to drop us off a few hundred metres from our hotel, and waited with our luggage while we made sure our reservation had been honoured. At least two cycle-rickshaws accompanied us practically the entire walk to the hotel, lowering their prices as they went.

There's not much to tell about the hotel, other than we'd had better, but you can't beat the proximity to the Taj: two hundred metres to the gate. And given that every guidebook suggests getting there for the sunrise, it made it just that little bit easier.

Getting into the Taj is as much of a hassle as airport security, but more fun on the inside. The admission is 750 rupees for non-Indians (about twenty dollars Canadian) but with that you do get shoe covers instead of having to remove your shoes, and a free bottle of water (with a Taj Mahal logo on it). There are two guards and a metal detector, there to ensure you only bring in what you're allowed: water, a camera, and a passport. In reality you can get other things in if you're creative, but we decided to play ball. The one thing they are very sticky about is food: none allowed. I'm sure this is in part to encourage a flow of people in and out of the Taj, as it probably gets quite congested and if you stayed all day it would be havoc. In the end, people's stomachs have to be satisfied and remarkable view or not, they'll leave in search of food. People's bladders are easily accommodated: the Taj offers some of the most lush public washrooms I've ever seen (for a small fee, of course).

But the thing that truly made us push on was neither of the above: it was the smog. Pollution zone or not, the smell got to be truly awful. I don't think this is car exhaust we're talking about, it smelled - and tasted, after a while - sulphuric, and as if to underline the point, a digital display has been mounted in one of the less popular corners of the Taj to indicate exactly what the current levels of Sulphur Dioxide and Nitrogen Dioxide currently are. And, as an afterthought, that they are actually within some measure of public safety.

That's all the negative stuff. The Taj is as remarkable as anyone who's been there may have remarked. In its essence, it's a mausoleum, housing the last remains of a former Shah and his wife: when she died before him, he spent a massive fortune on the construction of the Taj, but never saw its completion; his son took the throne and put the old man in jail for his folly, complete with a window where he could see the Taj continue to be built. I gather he died before it was completed.

The work is incredible, and with every different view, the thought comes back: how much time, money and effort must have gone into the making of this thing? And then the next thought: would something like this ever be built today? Would the level of quality, the attention to detail ever be as precise? Every bit of flowery inlay, every sculpted curl, done by hand. Screens for six-foot windows, made out of a single piece of stone, perforated in a repeating hexagon pattern, carved by hand. And that's just the outside: the interior of the mausoleum is even more detailed, but the constant crush of people makes it hard to appreciate for long stretches of time.

And getting there at sunrise was worth it: less people, and the marble of the main Taj buildings goes from an ivory white to a rosy pink as it's hit by the beams of the rising sun. After a while though the smell starts to get to you, the buses start arriving and disgorging groups of fifty, and it just becomes less comfortable. Satisfied, we made our way out. As we left, a gardener nodded back to my nod, and motioned me over. I guess he saw my camera as he took me to one spot after another and bade me take a picture of the Taj. This happened five times (I soon realized these were well-used picture-taking spots, owing to the ground being worn through the grass) and then he offered that I could pay him something for his efforts. When I gave him a five-rupee coin (the biggest tip I had on me) he responded with "paper money, paper money", but ultimately gave up when I walked away. Between the guides offering to interpret the various points of the Taj, the people "helping" you to find the best pictures of the Taj, and guys offering you extra film and batteries for your camera, the Taj is a big source of revenue for the people who live in Agra.

The rest of our time in Agra was spent visiting two other monuments, the Red Fort and the Itmad-ud-Daulah, otherwise known as the "Baby Taj". After a while it felt like we were on a bit of a schedule, so it was hard to fully appreciate the Fort, much of which is actually off-limits to non-military personnel. But the Itmad-ud-Daulah was refreshingly peaceful, another mausoleum, and seemed to be the hot spot for young couples looking for a place to be alone together. It was also the place we first saw some monkeys. Monkey! Or probably more accurately, lemurs.

We came to trust Mr. Bhandari's idea for how long it would take for us to visit a particular monument, as much as on the inside, we rebelled at the idea of being "standard" tourists: ie., visit a monument, take pictures of the monument, take a tour of the monument, leave the monument (and possibly, check it off a list of "monuments to see in India"). In the end, it was easier just to agree that it would probably take a certain amount of time, and just show up when we were done, on our schedule. It wasn't like he was going to drive off without us.

On our way to a restaurant for something to eat, Mr. Bhandari suggested that the place we had selected from our guidebook wasn't going to be good. It was south Indian food, he advised, too spicy for us and we'd be feeling it for days. To this day I'm not sure whether he was steering us to a particular place because he'd be getting a commission from the restaurant for dropping off two paying customers, or because he thought we'd really have trouble with the south Indian place. In the end, we just went for the place he suggested, but only because of my new wallet.

Here's the story of my new wallet.

My old wallet had been getting pretty ratty even before we left Canada, but replacing it was the last thing on my mind. So when we stopped to get some cash from a machine, and kid of about twelve years of age hollered at me to visit his store, it occurred to me for once that his leather goods shop might actually have something I could be interested in buying. So I went in, looked at the wallets, and found one I actually quite liked. After some fun bartering ("look guys, I really like you, but two hundred is as much as I want to pay...") I got it for what I consider to be a decent price. On the way to the restaurant I started moving over cards and money from one wallet to the other, only to find that my credit cards don't fit in the new wallet: the pockets are too small. So it was back to the store to replace it. Bhandari went with me. I didn't get four words into my greeting when Bhandari said something in Hindi, which I'm sure translates to "hey, his cards don't fit into the pockets of this thing." Again, no greeting, just straight to business. So we looked around, tested a few wallets, and found one that worked. Off to the restaurant, but we didn't get fifty metres before I realized I'd left my driver's licence in the wallet I'd just replaced. So it was back to the store again (Bhandari offered to come with me again, but this time I said, no, really, I'll be fine) and luckily found my card in the newly abandoned wallet.

After all that wallet business, I was happy enough not to be picky about restaurants, and it turned out to be a pretty nice place, even after the power cut out, twice.

Next day: on to Bharatpur

We started off the next day relatively early, heading west and a little south to enter the state of Rajasthan: Agra is actually in the state of Uttar Pradesh. Before we left, however, we stopped in at Fatepur Sikri, a town whose claim to fame is the preserved ruins of small hamlet of buildings that constituted the royal court at one point. It turns out that the Emperor was having trouble in the having-kids-with-one-of-his-wives department, and visited a holy man in the area: a few words and a blessing later, and out pop some heirs. In thanks, the Emperor decided to move his whole court to the area surrounding the holy man. Life is pretty good until they realize there's not really enough fresh water to go around and so they pack it in and head back to Agra. But they left behind these really nifty ruins.

Our guidebook makes Fatepur Sikri sound like a really neat place to visit: and it would be, if not for all the hawkers and tour guides. When you're telling the same nine-year-old over and over that no, you do not want an ornamental lacquered gift box thank you very much, the place very much starts to lose its charm. We did take a guided tour with the very insightful Mr. Name (really, that was what he said his name was, it's not just a blank I was going to fill in later), which consisted of taking us to interesting parts of the site and explaining a few details, and then bringing us by various handicraft sellers in case we were interested in perhaps buying things. No pressure.

So it was only when we thanked Mr. Name for his insightful tour and started wandering around on our own that I actually started to feel some of the exotic charm of the place: for example, meandering past the servants quarters, imaging how they would have lived in a stone cubicle with enough space for a small hamper to sleep in, and a curtain for privacy. Even looking at the walls and wondering what would have been original and what could have been added later was interesting. But most good things don't last: eventually we were approached by a guy in his late teens who wanted to chat, and impress on us how he was a student (he showed us his student card as if to prove to us that he wasn't just talking to us to offer his services as a guide - unfortunately, only the touts actually do this) and would we like to walk around with him. We decided it was time to be on our way, and he wondered if he could have a one-euro coin for his collection. Pretty good scam, if you consider how far a euro goes in India (about fifty rupees: ten bottles of Pepsi, a decent lunch, or a litre of petrol).

We hit the road and entered Rajasthan, the occasion marked only by stopping to pay a road toll, and then a state road tax. After a few hours of lighter-than-average traffic, we arrived in Bharatpur, a small, one-road town that seems to have only one draw for tourists: the Keoladeo Bird Sanctuary. At least, this is what drew us.

We stayed at the Jungle Lodge, a guest house a scant kilometre from the sanctuary, perfect for an early-morning stroll to the gate. The Lodge was beautifully renovated, excellent value for the money, and run by the cheerful Indu and Ashok. Ashok is a former tour guide who still runs the odd tour through Rajasthan and beyond, but running the guest house is his primary occupation. However, the weather has not been kind to Rajasthan, and Bharatpur in particular, such that the region suffers from ongoing drought conditions. The fallout from this is that the wetlands of the sanctuary are dramatically low, and the majority of the birds have not been returning. This is disastrous for the livelihood of the sanctuary, dependent on dedicated birdwatchers, and in turn a real hardship for the guesthouses and restaurants which cater to the tourists.

But Ashok has a plan: a year ago he bought a piece of land some 50 kilometres away, near the hydroelectric dam. He's going where the birds are, and has already set up a small lodge there. Next year he plans to build a restaurant and few more rooms, and if Keoladeo doesn't recover, he'll pick up sticks and make it work over there. With all this talk of Keoladeo suffering, I wish I had the presence of mind to change our plans, but we had essentially committed to visiting Keoladeo, at least in our hearts: it was still early days in the trip, and I didn't really get that we could change things pretty much any way we wanted, at any time. We stuck to the plan.

Keoladeo was fun for a few small things: we got to ride some really dodgy Indian bicycles on varying qualities of road, we saw a few interesting birds, and lots of cows. But in the end for me it was a bit demoralizing, especially to see the lengths to which the park's stewards have had to go to keep things going as best they can. Noisy, smoky gas-powered water pumps have been installed to bring water up from the water table into the wetlands, but even so, the park looks pathetically dry. Certainly the lack of the swarms of flamingos promised by the guidebook is the real evidence that, save a change in environmental conditions, Keoladeo's days may really be numbered. As Ashok put it, the birders won't come if the birds don't, and that will be the real stake in the heart of Bharatpur.

But Bharatpur had something else to offer me: I got my hair cut at a small roadside stand next door to our hotel. My hair had been getting pretty shaggy and it was well past time to get it trimmed. I asked Ashok how much I should pay, and he responded very informatively: "A local would pay twenty or thirty rupees, and he'll ask you for a hundred, but you shouldn't pay more than fifty." In the end, that's exactly how much I paid after a short bargaining session conducted by a middleman who could speak more English than the fourteen-year-old barber. It was a pretty rough haircut, but only in the sense that when he needed to have access to a different part of my head, he didn't fool around: there was no asking. He just pushed my head where it needed to go. He was clearly quite practised with the scissors, and I emerged unscathed with as much hair as I wanted to have (I showed him my passport photo to use as a guide for what I wanted), and as an added bonus, he styled it in a very seventies-era Indian comb-over that took me a few hours to undo.