Well, we got our tickets for the train, after much tsk tsking from the guy at the station that tells you the train numbers (you know, that performance of fill in a form, go to a desk, get a number, go to a desk, wait, etc). We wanted the train that went to Pathankot, with upper berths and it was leaving in four hours! He was quite a humorous guy and we enjoyed our chat with him, which is why we don’t do all this stuff online. You don’t get to laugh so much with a computer, and we do want to keep these people employed.

We thought we’d have a good lunch before going, as you can spend hours on trains and buses going without food – that is if you’re paranoid like me and imagine hopping off to get a stack then turning around to find your ride has left without you. A regular nightmare of mine.

So we popped into what we though was a tidy – even posh looking – cafe and sat down at a table making comments about how flash it looked. Then a little mouse ran along the floor. Of course there was an ensuing discussion with a guy across the way about how they would taste as pakora, what they would charge us for this and how it probably wasn’t worth it as there was such little meat on them. As it turned out, looks are deceiving. The food we did receive was luke warm, looked totally unlike what it was supposed to look like and tasted indifferent. Perhaps they should go into the Mouse Pakora business instead…

I dropped in to say goodbye to Mr Om and he gave me a couple of gifts and some emotional hugs and kisses on the cheek goodbye. Gosh, this was most unexpected. Bless him.

Our train was leaving from the Old Delhi railway station, so we did a Metro hop. So much easier than battling traffic in an auto rickshaw at this time of the night. Then into the railway station. Ah yes, familiar mayhem. Paul lined up at the office window to find out what platform we were supposed to be on and the window slammed shut just as he got there. Of course. What did we expect, a straight forward situation? Let us not be silly here. Surprisingly, however, we only went to two wrong platforms this time. I think that’s beating all records so far. We met up with an Austrian woman working over here and she gave us a lesson on how to eat a mango. Well, more to the point, how to eat a mango without getting it all over your body. All rather clever actually. Although I have to try this out for myself yet, to ensure the genuineness of her claim.

We actually got onto the train in record time and got a window seat! Cool stuff. Then a family of eight came along and we played squish. There is only sleeping for six in this type of carriage, so the logistics of sleeping 10 people in such a space is quite fascinating.

They were a very nice family. Three of them had been living in America, including a young boy who was very shy and a younger girl who wasn’t. She gave me the lowdown on Cinderella and what happened to her, with big intense eyes and great seriousness. We both decided that we were glad there was a happy ending to this otherwise very serious tale. Another young lady sat beside me for a while, aged about ten I think. She was very sweet and spoke beautiful English in a lovely gentle voice. She asked me why I had golden hair and she had black hair. We had a bit of a discussion about environmental factors, etc, and I was just delighted that there was still such lovely innocence left in the world.

We got to sleep about midnight sometime, having been informed by the T.C. that we would arrive at Pathankot at approximately 3am. So I set my alarm for this, woke up at the appropriate hour and it turned out that we didn’t arrive until 6.45am! I could’ve wrung the guy’s neck! That’s 3 hours and 45 minutes of waking up every time we stopped somewhere. Grrrrrr.

At Pathankot it turned out that the monsoon had arrived. I guess I should’ve bought that umbrella in Delhi after all. Oh well. Then a guy on a cycle rickshaw won the price war for taking us to the train station, so we jumped on there as it had safely stopped raining. So Paul said. Well, none of us is right all the time and subsequently we got soaking wet, or at least I did on my right hand side, as the law of umbrella’s says it will only protect 1.5 persons at any one time. The rickshaw driver then stops in town, nowhere near the bus station and wants his money now. Ensuing lively discussion between him and Paul about the fact that saying he will take us to the bus station means he will take us to the bus station, and the driver protests that it is 21 km’s further. ‘Well, let’s get going then’ says Paul. One very slow trip with one very disgruntled rickshaw driver later…..

The bus station was largely submerged in water, or a ‘disgusting quagmire’ as Paul put it. But we did have some nice food and chai before getting on with playing “How Many People Can We Squeeze Into a Vehicle”. I thought our seat was quite comfortable until Paul pointed out that it was in fact a three person seat, not a two person one. I am guessing that the designers of these seats used very small persons to take their measurements from.

We stopped and started, stopped and started, people squeezed in and out and it was generally hot, sweaty and squashed all the way up the mountains – ten hours worth! Paul pointed out later that it wasn’t really that squashed, in fact it was quite reasonable compared to normal, and I couldn’t help reflecting that he neglects to fill me in on such little details on rather a regular basis. Is it that he is just used to all this stuff after so much travelling here and no longer sees it, or is it that he doesn’t want to scare me off and thus we never indeed go on any trips anywhere? It’s just a bit peculiar that he tosses off these facts in such a casual manner in hindsight. Or am I merely being overly suspicious? Hmmmm…Oh well, at least it took my mind off the enormous drops down into huge gorges that we saw out the windows most the time.

More on that later. Have to go and find out timings for tonight’s train. Yep – off to Madya Pradesh this time. We just got into Delhi this morning after travelling back from Bharmour. Approximately a 22 hour journey in 24 hours. Whew! We are obviously stark raving bonkers!

Yesterday, whilst wandering down the street with no particular mission, I bumped into a Rajasthani Puppeteer. He happened to also be talking to a Kiwi at the time and commented that the world suddenly seemed to be full of New Zealanders. We got chatting, the chai came out – wonderful habit, that one – and it turns out that he is well-travelled himself. He’s been to Germany several times, Norway, Sweden, Spain and one or two other places I can’t remember. He carves all the puppet faces himself and makes the costumes. Very clever guy. He was organising with the other Kiwi to do a show that afternoon for some kids at a leper colony/orphanage. I’d love to see these kids faces during the show – everyone loves a story and I’m sure these kids could do with all the cheering up they can get.

Back to R-Expo again, to deal with Mr Om some more. While Paul was dealing with him, I got chatting with one of the other staff and he ended up showing me three other floors they had that I didn’t know was there. Oh my, what a terribly dangerous shop! Rajasthani painted furniture, chunky wooden furniture, jewellery boxes of every description, brass ware to die for, musical instruments, cushion covers, etc etc etc. It was like being in Aladdin’s cave. I’m going to have to work on becoming a millionaire just so I can have a home like this. I must have been drooling for a good hour – had to wipe my chin several times….

Also, for a little while, I sat outside the shop and watched the street, camera in hand. I got one or two shots of the metal cages on wheels that the children go to and from school in. They’re only small, with bars on the windows, but I guess it’s a good idea for keeping them safe from the various dangers on the street – cow horns, rickshaw handlebars, etc.

Yesterday was also remarkable in that it was the most disgustingly hot and humid day yet. Imagine combining that with many power cuts, the heat and smell of half a million generators, several million other sweating bodies, the smell of urine and dung of course and you start to get an idea of this less than romantic situation. Especially when, stupidly, I popped into a clothing shop – I never learn do I? I’m still looking for something ever-cooler to wear – and their dressing room was a small enclosed oven at the back of the shop. You don’t take the clothing back off, you peel it off and wring it out. Oh dear. When will I learn?

I did, however, have some wonderful chats with several different wallahs, got to try out my tiny Hindi abilities and drink much chai, and all in all it was a peaceful and sociable day.

Last night we were just leaving our guesthouse to go for some aloo fry (potato chunks with spices and lemon on) and a wedding procession was coming up the road. It’s hard not to notice these, as they are proceeded by a band banging drums and playing assorted loud instruments. Then the Bride and Groom (or is it just the groom? Not sure…) come along on dressed up horses, followed by a rickshaw with a generator on it which is powering the guys behind them carrying elaborate electric lights above their heads. These lights are connected to each other with power cords – pretty innovative really. Although apparently a little awkward if the generator breaks down – each guys gets jerked to a stop by the next one, connections come undone, etc. And of course, meanwhile, the normal city traffic is still trying to flow around this whole situation, which is bad enough at the best of times. So inevitably, Pahar Ganj was complete and utter chaos for the duration of the parade, power cuts and madding crowds and the whole thing was wildly humorous and entertaining. Well, for those of us on holiday anyway. I imagine for a businessman or someone in a hurry the amusement level would have been a tad lower on the scale.

Finally, back to the rooftop. There’s a bunch of French circus types up there at the moment, so they kept us entertained by juggling with glowing juggling balls. One of the balls changed colour constantly and the effect was quite mesmerizing. So naturally we hauled our cameras out and had a bit of fun taking groovy psychedelic photos.

They were up there this morning also with balancing plates and all sorts of things. One of the waiters was having a go at juggling and lost one of the balls over the side of the building. I’m not sure what was more entertaining – the juggling, etc, or the locals trying to put together all sorts of pipes and bits and pieces to try and get this ball back. It must have been stuck in a pretty awkward place by the looks of these goings on.

Well, today we go to the railways station to buy tickets to Pathenkot (spelling?) as we’re finally going up to the hills. That means tonight we tackle the train station again. Cringe. I am practising calmness and breathing as I speak of this, keeping in mind the last lot of experiences in this wonderful, crazy world of Indian Railway travelling. But on the cheerful side, that might be eclipsed by the mountain bus ride experience. Time will tell.

Well, I have dealt with a Delhi tailor by myself and lived to tell the tale. Rather than go back to Karol Bagh to find some velvet for a jacket I am getting made, I shopped here in Pahar Ganj. I found a wonderful shop, which is in conjunction with the wonderful shop Paul has used previously, to buy curtain material, and they took me down an alleyway (of course) to their dress material shop. After many tales of ‘My wonderful country I am coming from’, photos of children, and all else that dealing with a wallah involves, I came out with three times more material than I intended to buy. Nice stuff though. They even wanted me to take their photo. Of course, at first I was only dealing with two men, but as soon as the camera came out, magically they had turned into about eight men. I guess their cousin, their uncle, their brother’s brother, the chai boy, the measuring boy, the fetching more material boy, etc made up the numbers. It was good fun though, and they were very pleasant guys. Only gently pushy as opposed to intensely so as one will get from most of the shops here.

I asked them to recommend to me a women’s tailor, as I can’t stand dealing with Paul’s one without the strong desire to strangle him coming over me, and they took me – yes folks, down an alleyway – to a Sikh one. Actually, he was really fabulous. He really knows his stuff, was able to get three outfits made in three days as opposed to twelve like another guy down the road I had checked out, and is also cheaper than the other two put together. We took a wander over the road to see a guy that sells piping, buttons and various and assorted shiny lovely things – a woman’s nirvana – and I came out with a couple of really awesome peacocks that will be sewn onto the jacket. This is going to be one unique piece of work! The fact remains, however, that I am now a much poorer woman than I was when I first walked into the material shop. Albeit it, soon to be a well-dressed one. I just hope that when the time comes to collect my garments, that I can find my way back through this myriad of alleyways to claim them.

By the way Jude, in answer to your questions, chai is a milky spicy tea that they drink here a lot. I had some from a restaurant the other night, but it was nowhere near as nice as the stuff you get when you go shopping. This is the stuff that the locals drink and it is far nicer.

Also, I have been able to do long raving emails because there are many cyber cafe’s here and they have air-conditioning. So I do this to cool down as well as communicate with y’all back home. It costs about 40 rupee per hour – around about 1 dollar. Well worth it for the chilled air. It’s often as crowded in these places as the local buses though. They squish as many people, computers and chairs as they can into (sometimes) a space the size of a large wardrobe. And I am now in the habit of regularly copying my writing on the clipboard, as one must expect at least one to two power cuts per hourly session.

I went to a cafe – actually called a German Bakery, although there hasn’t been a German in sight as far as I know – with the intention of having coffee and some of their delicious apple and honey cake, and wound up chatting with a Baba. A very nattily dressed one actually. We spoke of the world, people’s attachment to materialism, India, Ayurvedic medicine (did you know that some people here actually drink cow’s urine? Not sure what it does, but each to his own). Eventually he gets around to telling me that he reads palms. Naturally he offered to do mine, and since I had very little else to do I let him. Apparently my lucky number is 8, my lucky colour is turquoise (at least it wasn’t muddy brown or baby poo yellow), and I am going to be around to annoy my children for 84 – 86 years. Sorry kids – heh heh. Afterwards, having tied the obligatory good luck and prosperity piece of red string around my wrist, he asked me for one hundred rupees. Not for him, of course, because he is not attached to materialism, even if he is the best-dressed Baba in the neighbourhood, but for his Ashram which is supported many kids, cows and assorted other beings. So I met him half way and gave him 50 rupees, as he had only read one of my hands. Fair’s fair, I thought. Then he asked for one more rupee, because 51 is much more auspicious than fifty. So I handed this over and walked away feeling like I had definitely had my money’s worth of entertainment. So today has been rather a success I think. And at least my money belt won’t be so heavy to carry now. One has to look at the bright side of these things…..

Yesterday afternoon, after several showers to reduce our skins to simmering point, we went for a ride on the Metro to Karol Bagh. The Metro has only just opened here, so it is all still brand new and shiny looking. There aren’t even any rats hanging around the track yet!

So you go in and buy a token – a little round plastic one – to your chosen destination. And then you walk through a metal detector and past a couple of guards. They had to laugh at the clowns from New Zealand both trying to get through the metal detector at the same time. We were like a couple of kids because it is all so new and exciting – we were all grinning like idiots over this. They waved us through without searching our bags. Maybe they think such fools cannot possibly plot a bombing or whatever when they can’t even coordinate walking through a simple gateway.

The trains come every few minutes, and they’re so nice and clean and air-conditioned, so we were tempted to just stay there and keep on riding….

Karol Bagh is a fair bit cleaner that Pahar Ganj, the streets are wider, etc, but the touts are just so pushy. It makes you wish you had a machine gun! There is some nice stuff here and there, but when you even swing a glance in the direction of something from four hundred paces, the touts jump on you and try to almost stuff their gear down your throat. I guess they just don’t grasp the concept that it totally puts you off and makes you want to walk away – it was actually tempting to stop and buy an umbrella as a tout-beating device.

Going into the department stores was almost the opposite problem. I wanted to find a Salwar Kameez (traditional long top and trousers worn here) and of course Murphy’s Law came into play and put the Ladies department on the top floor. They did have a lift, but I’m reluctant to jump in one of those, knowing how frequently power cuts happen in Delhi. Imagine being stuck in one of those for a while and becoming a tender, succulent roast. No thanks.

So, three flights of stairs later, I came across the less than enthusiastic shop floor staff. Young ladies that were distantly polite, and helpful when you really pushed it, but kept glancing elsewhere and otherwise doing a rotten job in looking interested in what they were doing. I guess when you know you will get paid at the end of the day regardless, it changes your whole view on giving service. Maybe they should spend a day touting out on the street, and then see how they feel about the whole idea.

I ended up with a Kurta (long top) and some Salwar Kameez material and dupatta (wide scarf) which I will take to a tailor to get made up. Even though it’s more expensive to buy in a department store, rather than out on the street, I wanted somewhere with a fitting room so I could try stuff on. This is not happening out on the street! In Pahar Ganj, if you are lucky, someone will stand in front of you holding out a piece of material and you get changed behind that. That’s if the shop is big enough to actually turn around in. And then, of course, there is the audience. For some reason, watching white people dealing with the shop keeper is a common pastime around these parts. Well that’s just fine if you’re the audience, but being the star of the show can stretch one’s comfort zone a little.

Back outside on the street, Paul bought a Kurta and trousers, with a scarf. The guy that served him moved at the speed of lightning. Because we had merely glanced in his general direction, he had 10 different outfits out on the table before we could blink and the corrrrrect one was packaged and ready to go before you could say ‘um…’!

“Yes sir, this is the one for you. Oh you do not like the colour. Then you are having this colour or this colour or this colour…You are not liking the buttons? Okay, then this is the one for you sir. And you will be having these trousers (whips them out, holds them against Paul’s body). Yes sir, these are the trousers for you. And how many of these will you be having sir? Only one??!! If you will be buying several sir, then I am having evening price for you…..Okay, I do special prrrrice for you. ” Etc.

Quite remarkable. These Kurta’s do look good on a guy though. Much stylier than a t-shirt and jeans. And I must say, this guy was good at what he did. It was quite impressive to watch. And at least he didn’t try to actually stuff the Kurta up Paul’s nose, unlike some of his cohorts on the street….

Well, that’s it for now. We’re going back out into the heat to deal with tailors (Lord preserve us and give us patience) and other business people.

Last night was pretty interesting and sociable in a variety of ways. We were wandering around poking our noses into various shops of interest, then we went down an alleyway to the local chai wallah for a cup of his wonderful chai. Pretty interesting to check out the alleyway life. There were people sitting around passing time – as there seems to be everywhere in Delhi – national pastime? While waiting for our chai we took a photo or two of our surroundings, including the amazing tumbledown second story just above the chai wallah. Incredible that the place actually stays up there! It appeared to be made of bits of spare wood and tarpaulin held together by spit. Some kid was wandering up and down a ladder from there, trying his best to kick a calf that came wandering up the alley. The things you do when you don’t have a t.v.

We sat on a bench amongst some of the locals and one very uptight dog, and eventually one of the woman asked if I would take their photo. This I was most happy to do, because due to the wonders of digital technology, I can show them the photo straight away. I love to see the looks on their faces when they see themselves on the screen. There was a little boy of about three years, whose mother was a bit rough on him – it was pretty tempting to pick him up and give him a cuddle – and you could see he had no concept at all of what he looked like. He was also pretty bewildered by this woman with a white face making flashing lights at him. His older brother was very chatty though. Very smiley guy who practiced his english on us and I practiced my very small Hindi with him. That only took a second or two.
After a cup of most wonderful chai, we were invited in to see a tabla maker. He was making the most wonderful noises on his tabla, so we took a bit of movie footage of him playing and casually chatting at the same time. It was a neat experience – the tabla is a most beautiful sound when played so well. And the chai wallah would not take any money for our chai. He is a lovely man and I highly recommend his chai to anyone. Just take the first alleyway on the left after the internet cafe with the pothole outside it up Main Bazaar, Pahar Ganj.

Later – back on the Hare Krishna guesthouse rooftop complete with nightly rations of gin – we had a chat with a guy from Nagar, called Pappu. He is involved with an eco-friendly type institution somewhere up there and obviously gets around a bit doing business. He reckons he doesn’t have to travel to see the world, and much of it comes to his place. Fair enough.

Over yonder were a few young guys – from Israel maybe – with some instruments. I wandered over and wangled my way into having a play on one of the guitars. That felt great – it was something I missed a lot last year. Sitting round under the night sky, relaxing and socialising – a guitar was one seriously missing necessary item. I realised that I actually had withdrawal symptoms from this. One of these guys was actually hauling two guitars and a violin around with him. You gotta take your hat off to that. I thought a backpack and a bag was a pain!

There is a large group here made up of French people – adults and young kids of varying ages. When I asked them this morning, they said they were four families who had all come over to do a trek in the mountains. Many of the kids with them had actually been born in India. No wonder they look so at home. What a wonderful thing, travelling to such interesting places as a kid.

It’s another scorcher today. After breakfast, our feet nearly got scorched just walking across the roof and down the stairs. And this is on marble!

We’re going down to check out the train station situation. We might take a couple of days in Rishikesh. We are of course waiting for business to be completed here – the ability to wait being a prerequisite in India. Tomorrow can actually contain many tomorrows. A whole different slant on time from the Western world.

Once we arrived at our Guesthouse, we went up onto the roof for a relaxing gin or two. The same cats as last year are here, plus a grown up kitten or two. They’re funny looking things – thin with short tails and short rough coats. It’s nice to have them here though, they kind of make it homely.

Yesterday we did the street wander and said hello to several street wallahs that we know. They are very hospitable. After Namaste’s, asking after ourselves, our children, the weather in our country, etc, they ordered chai, turned on fans and got chairs for us to sit in while we chatted. Even they are saying it is hot. The monsoon is late again.

I popped in and said hello to Mr Om at R-Expo. He is saying that he cannot believe I am a mother of five children. It’s easier to tell him this than try and sort through the reality of my family situation with him……my family members will particularly understand this, as there are many of us and it all gets a little complex. Bless him. I made a beeline for my favourite brand of vanilla bean soap – which this time I will not dispose of down the squat toilet. That happened last time I was here. The shower just drains into the toilet, which of course is a tiled hole in the floor, my soap became slippery and dived into said hole. Like heck was I going to dive in there and rescue it! I imagined there would have been vanilla-smelling bubbles in the sewerage system for several days after that.

So much for buying one item from him though. I came out with sandalwood face pack stuff, vanilla bean moisturizer and a few new clothes. Again, the never ending and unsuccessful search for something cooler to wear. Nigh on impossible. I guess I’ll just have to resign myself to cooking in my own wardrobe.

I went to bed pretty early last night, as my body was screaming ‘It’s 4am in New Zealand you fool!!! And of course, the curse of waking every two hours was still firmly in place. This morning (and those who know me will gasp at this), I was up on the roof for breakfast at 7am. Disgusting I know. I’m going to have to get therapy for this. But I got to see the monkeys of the city raiding the water tanks on the rooftops. Actually, when you sit still for long enough, you realise that Delhi is teeming with animal life. Squirrels, monkeys, lizards, a little mouse I nearly stepped on, crows, pigeons, cows, dogs, etc. Who would’ve thought you could come right into the city and do a wildlife program? I should send a note to David Attenborough.

We were sitting at a street cafe yesterday, and I was getting a few local shots with my camera. Then I thought I’d use the movie mode that it has. So I was panning around recording a bit of the human life when a guy wearing khaki clothing and carrying a big stick started laying into one of the cycle rickshaw wallahs. It sounded really painful. I got the whole lot on the movie. I was a little worried he’d notice me and come over to discuss this, complete with big stick, but he was too busy being important with the other guy. It all only lasted less than a minute, but wow. Funny such a thing should happen right in front of my camera!

It sounds like the monsoon has started in the lower states of India, so there’s a large possibility that we might be heading for the Himalayas (lower) instead of down Madya Pradesh, as was the original plan. I told Paul that if he finds me some Valium to enable me to cope with the mountain bus rides, he’s on. He showed me some photos of where he has been up there and it looks absolutely gorgeous. And then he used a really rotten technique and mentioned the word ‘cooler’. Unfair!!! she cried. So there we go – plans changed. We will still go down to Orchha first, which is in Madya, but not too badly affected by monsoon. (This is where we slept in the Palace last year.) I’m looking forward to blowing bubbles at the monkeys and seeing what they make of that! Should make for some good photos. And I have knuckle bones, yo yo, coloured pencils, etc for the kids there.

After almost missing my plane at Auckland (the guy in Duty Free was a terribly chatty sort who just didn’t stop!), I’ve made it as far as Kuala Lumpur. By joves it’s warm here. And I’ve realised that it smells like Bangkok. I was trying to define the smell last night – a mixture of steam, incense and something else….? Can’t quite put my finger on it. But it’s nice to smell it again.

The plane ride was loooong. And squishy. Has anyone else noticed a jet of something sprays back over the wing, from the direction of the engine, on take-off? It’s a little bit alarming to watch. I have to presume it’s all part of a cunning plan so I don’t panic about it – nobody else seems to.

I sat next to a nice Swiss woman. Fortunately we’re both small. Unlike the (presumably Dutch guy) across the aisle from us. Great big long legs with REAL yellow clogs on the end of them. I was quite fascinated. I’ve never seen anyone where clogs before. They’ve always been sitting on a shelf or hanging on a wall. I wonder how comfortable they are. Anyway, he had to sort of wrap his knees around the sides of the seat in front of him. There are virtues to being one of the little people sometimes.

Got to KL Airport, and it was deathly silent. There were no people around. It was like the scene of a creepy movie………..

By now it was about 1am New Zealand time and the old brain was at half mast. I finally got on the right train thing that takes you to a different part of the airport, found my luggage and then followed Paul’s instructions to the desk where I came unstuck when I got into the elevator. Which is made of glass, and has doors opening on BOTH sides. Naturally I got out on the wrong side, which made all of Paul’s directions make no sense whatsoever. Finally I got to the right place and then had to wait an hour for the ride into KL. Another hour goes by to actually get into town, got to my room and found I couldn’t sleep. By this time it is 2am NZ time. I naturally fell back onto backup emergency reserve plan B and opened the bottle of Southern Comfort I had bought – that did the trick. However, I was cursed with the sudden ability to wake up every 2 hours on the dot. And being in a hotel placed between 2 highways didn’t help. It wasn’t the traffic noise that bothered me, it was the lack of beeping and honking. It just seems so unnatural somehow in an asian country. This place is just too sane!

I finally abandoned my bed at 8am and went down for breakfast. Curses – I forgot my Vegemite! Never mind, the fresh croissants with apricot jam got me through. I ended up sitting with a very nice Australian woman who is an ESOL teacher and was returning to Oz from Latvia. We went shopping – as is a pair of women’s wont. There are many muslim women here, and they seem to be quite solemn. We both realised that we hate shopping in the heat, so we got it over with as quickly as it is possible to be quick in sickening steamy heat and then headed for a food shop. There I was accosted by my first beggar of the trip. But since he already had a fist full of money I didn’t overwhelm him with my concern and humanity and he dipped out.

Back to the hotel, running round like an idiot repacking, downstairs to catch my lift to the airport – which naturally was running late – and back onto the plane. The flight was full of Indians, complete with large amounts of children – screaming, cheeky children – but while sitting in the waiting lounge, I got to know a few of them, and naturally swapped photos of children, got heaps of heavily accented advice of where to go and how to get there, so it was all okay. There were times, mind you, when I was tempted to suggest to the hostesses that the two children sitting across from me who were taking turns to ensure the air was full of screams at all times, that they might like a brandy or two. However, I held back and drank them myself. I’m generous like that. Also, a bit of a shock when a guy walked up to me on the plane and handed my ticket back, which I had dropped in the airport somewhere. Someone was looking after me there…… Prayers of thanks.

Well, the flight was long, and then when we got there we circled the air a lot because the airport was full and we were number 12 in line, but finally we landed. I was ready to make the dash – made it to customs just before an enormous team of American schoolkids. Heh heh – no flies on this cookie. However, the universe paid me back for being a smartypants by delaying my luggage by quite a lot. Finally through the official bits and out into the crowd and saw Paul. Oh yay – he made it through the landslides in the mountains after all. Apparently only just getting back to Delhi in time, mind you.

Crazy, crazy traffic to Pahar Ganj and then finally at our guesthouse.

We spent a relatively pleasant night in our room – particularly pleasant for me because I had a full-on, raging bout of Delhi Belly by now and having our own bathroom was vastly preferable alternative to the public toilets I have seen in India so far! Well, when I say pleasant, it’s all a matter of perspective really, isn’t it.

We had breakfast (plain rice for me) in the lovely little garden outside our room and chatted with Ragoun and met his gorgeous little nephew, Kush. Kush is about 18 months old or so, with big brown eyes, curly hair and a lovely toothy grin. I never laid eyes on his mother all the time we were there, but we did see a lot of Kush with his uncles. They obviously adored him and carried him around so much his feet hardly ever touched the ground.

We then went for a wander out into the streets and alleyways of Bundi, which is a very old town, part of which is surrounded by an enormous ‘city wall’. Right up behind our guesthouse is a fort (Taragarh) and Bundi palace, perched on the side of the hill – a past Maharaja of this reputedly having been friends with Rudyard Kipling.

Of course there are cows all over the place here, but we also noticed that there is no shortage of street pigs either. We even saw a doorway in the side of a house, and upon perusal discovered that the pigs had a room of their own! They looked pretty happy about it too. There was initially cause for alarm when we had to squeeze past some of these creatures in very narrow alleyways, but they took no notice of us, so in the end we all got on just fine together. Paul even took a photo of me chatting to some kids while a pig walked between me and an awning post, an inch or so from my legs. I’m quite glad I didn’t know about it at the time. Who knows what sort of effect jumping out of my skin might have had on my Delhi Belly situation….I’ll leave it to you to fill in that particular picture.

Some of the kids – generally the ones in school uniforms – were very nice and we had great chats with them. Then there were the other ones. ‘One photo, one photo!!’ ‘One pen, one pen!!’ Paul soon had that sorted though. When they did their ‘one pen’ bit, he’d put his hand out and say ‘Yes please’. Or if they asked ‘What is your name?’ he’d answer ‘One Pen’. They’d look at him for a moment then crack up laughing. And after tiring of their smartarse antics (which didn’t take long) I said to a bunch of them ‘Tum bahut sherati ho!’ (spelling?). This means ‘you are very naughty’ in Hindi. Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads – they didn’t expect to hear that from a white woman! It was well worth the days it took me to learn that sentence to see the looks on their faces. Funny the little things that amuse us, isn’t it?

We wandered down the road and through the town and watched a man making the lovely round metal pots they carry milk and stuff in. How amazing – they use only the most basic of equipment and tools and do an absolutely lovely job of these round, shiny pots. I could have watched this artistry for hours! We stopped and visited with a jeweller in his ‘shop’ – again more of a hole in the wall than the kind of shop we know. And amazingly, we saw some guys sitting across the road listening to New Zealand play Pakistan on a radio! How about that – we never watch the cricket (or any other game) in New Zealand, and then we go to the other side of the world, travel to a little town out in the wop-wops of Rajasthan and hear our own country playing on a radio a few feet away! We yelled out to them that NZ was where we are from and I stood up and did a bit of a victory dance, because our country was winning. All of us were grinning our heads off with delight. One of those fun moments that life gifts you with every now and again.

Now apparently in Bundi, if you keep still for 5 minutes or so, somebody will paint you. There are paintings everywhere around here – around the doors, up the alleyways, on the sides or houses, etc. We stopped to take (yet another) photo of a painting on the side of a house when a young woman leaned over the balcony above and yelled out to us to come up and see her house. At first we were a little hesitant at invading her privacy, so she came downstairs and almost pulled us in physically. Up some narrow steep steps (naturally!) we went and were introduced to her sister, her sister’s baby, her brother, her other brother and his friend, her mother and her grandmother. We were then treated to a look at her wedding album – a very colourful affair indeed. She was a very proud young bride and was particularly chuffed with herself because downstairs she even had a laundry room! She decided that she was going to gift me with some of her art, and proceeded to colour in the embroidery on my shirt with gold paint. I thought that was rather sweet and giving of her, then she held her hand out and said ‘Now you give me gift”. They’re not backward in coming forward, these people, as I was rapidly gathering. All I had to give her was a postcard of our ‘village’ Waihi, back in New Zealand. I’m not sure if she was very impressed with that – perhaps she expected a gold-plated pen and a few hundred rupees, but she was just plain out of luck. Nevertheless, she still seemed to enjoy our company and wanted us to stay for chai. But we wanted to go, as we didn’t have a lot of time on our hands and this was all getting a little overwhelming, so we took photos of them, them with us, etc, showed them the photos and made our way back outside. Having first been given a grand tour of the laundry room.

We wandered through the sabzi bazaar – the vegetable market – and then over to a local ‘baori’ which is a step-well, about 46 metres deep. Apparently built in 1699, it has beautifully ornate columns, carvings on the walls of god scenes and many many steps down to where the water is. Well, more like green slime actually with objects of dubious origin floating in it, but I don’t think they really use it any more.

Wandering back through the bazaar, a woman came up to me and pointed at my anklet with great concern. She didn’t speak english and I didn’t speak her language, but it was obvious she was greatly concerned that I only had one anklet. I had actually tried to find another to wear, but there were none that appealed to me at any of the shops, so I just had the one. I think she was convinced that I had lost the other one. We gesticulated at each other for a while about this and then she wandered off with a frown on her face. I was quite touched though at her concern and her efforts to let me know.

We wandered back to our Haveli, hot, tired and dusty, and on my part a little concerned at the increasingly urgent need to visit a clean toilet. A nice luke warm shower and a bit of a rest later, and I wandered up to the rooftop to take photos of the sunset and the Palace. I was cruising along quite nicely, getting some good shots and leisurely watching the monkeys on the roof next door, when I heard a shout. “Get down, get down!! Monkeys!!!” It was Ragoun’s father-in-law, and he looked so upset that I looked back at the monkeys to see what he was on about. There were a couple of big males that had been bossing the females around rather nastily, and in the few seconds I had been looking away had started to edge towards me with their mouths open and their fangs showing. Well, I think I broke a world record for climbing down that ladder. I did 2 stories in about 4 seconds flat! Ragoun then came up to me and explained that the monkeys around here had no problem with mugging human beings and I was wise to use more caution than I had been. No need to tell me twice!

After my heart rate recovered we sat down in the courtyard and had dinner. We chatted with Ragoun again and the subject got onto snakes. He said how he and many Indians were very scared of them and was telling me a story of how there was one in his room one time, when I saw a movement on the ground by my feet. Once I was safely standing on my chair (again, another speed record), I looked down and saw that was just a toad hopping by. It did, however, spur me on to go and get my jandals (flip flops). As though that was going to be protection from snakes! But it gave me the illusion of being safer and I guess that was the main thing.

Something I dislike about train journeys in India is that Paul is able to sleep like a baby while I get on with the panicking about which is the right stop to get out on. When you’re jammed up against the ceiling looking directly at a set of 3 dubiously hung – and at best, dangerous looking – fans, and the train keeps stopping and letting people on and off at seemingly random intervals, you give rather a lot of thought to getting off at the right place yourself. Over and over your mind plays recordings of horror stories that others have told of missing their stop and ending up in goodness-knows-what sorts of situations. So each time the train stops, you crane your neck trying to look down through the window and up again at the (hopefully) signs at the stations, and goodness knows why because many of them are written in Hindi and it’s dark anyway.

It’s downright disgusting how relaxed that man looks when my nerves are in tatters and I’m freaking out about where we’re supposed to get off on this enormous sub-continent.

Well, this time I’m taking my cellphone so I can use it as an alarm clock. I too will sleep like a baby and he can do the panicking, if necessary.

So off we trundled on our adventure to Bundi, Rajasthan after a few days back in Delhi.

We got to Kota (not the most attractive looking city in the world – apologies to the locals, but really it isn’t, is it?!) and took a tempo to the bus station to get to Bundi. A tempo is kind of a large auto rickshaw. There’s a sort of box thingy on the back that fits about six to eight people. Or in India, as many as you can get in there and still breathe. The driver insisted on putting us in the front with him, which felt a little elitist at first, but then it might have been uncomfortable for the locals to be jammed in with us in the back. I dunno. I just went where I was told. Which turned out to be squished in between the driver and Paul. Now, I don’t know if it was just my imagination, but it seemed to me that the driver really used his elbow a lot when changing gear. And guess who wore it in one of the softer and more feminine parts of her body every minute or so. However, I decided that just in case it wasn’t my imagination, that I would make myself a little bit wider to combat this. Gradually and subtly I edged my elbow and upper arm towards him until that was what his elbow pushed against instead. Funny thing, it stopped happening after a while.

The bus ride to Bundi was interesting – stimulating even. It takes about an hour and there seem to be a lot of trucks coming the other way. And the loads on them are about half as wide as the truck again hanging over each side. Essentially the road rules are this: If he’s bigger than you are, it’s probably best to give way and let him have the road. However, do not embark upon your pulling over procedure until a maximum of 3 seconds before you collide. This way he will know that you are a man and not the whelp of an insignificant street-dog nephew.

We got there alive – and on my part significantly surprised about it – and took chai in a roadside cafe. That is to say, a roof with a gas cooker under it, a bit of a kitchen, a few tables and three or four Indian men sitting round looking at you.

We took chai, perused our copy of Lonely Planet – India, and decided that the Haveli Katkoun sounded like an alright place to stay. As it turned out, it was a good decision. It’s run by a pleasant young man called Ragoun (light skin and green eyes – quite a cutey actually) and it’s tidy, pleasant and has a little courtyard with a palm tree and a bit of garden and quite nice food. Our room was lovely. A big beautiful bed with lots of wood inlay, a lounge bit with coloured glass windows everywhere and a generous-sized bathroom. Between us all we deduced that 300 IR (about $11.00NZ) per night was acceptable. Bearing in mind that this was off-season.

Before I get onto Rajasthan, I’d like to extrapolate on our experience while trying to return to Delhi from Orchha. At the Jhansi Railway Station Paul had a bit of a struggle finding someone who spoke English. In fact he downright couldn’t. So he took his best shot at reading the info board, which was written in Hindi, and decided that our train was probably leaving from Platform 1. So we hauled our now very heavy luggage down to where we figured our carriage would probably line up (and these trains can be VERY long!), and sat down to wait. We had a little bit of time to spare, so he decided to go and check around with a few people and see if we were on the right platform. So I was sitting there with my scarf pulled up over my glaringly obvious blonde hair, feeling pretty pleased with myself for wearing pants that weren’t laughing at the crotch this time, when I saw Paul racing towards me with an urgent look on his face. “Get your stuff” he cried. “We have to go to Platform 3!” We hauled anchor and lugged our bags back along the platform, up the stairs, along the walkway, down the stairs and along Platform 3. Whew! Thank goodness we got that sorted.

Not so. During a genial conversation with a chap sitting near us, we discovered that we should’ve actually been on Platform 5. Pulling our anchor in again, we raced back along the platform, up the stairs, along the walkway, down the stairs and along Platform 5. Paul, wanting to make sure we had it right this time, decided to consult with some likely looking men a few feet away from us. And they all decided that we should indeed be on Platform 3. They were dead certain about this. So, well, you know the routine. Upstairs, downstairs, onto Platform 3. Okay, by this time our luggage had done it’s usual trick and gained another 80 pounds. We’re hot, sweating, exhausted and getting pretty stressed.

We sat on our luggage trying to pull ourselves back from the very edge of panic and then a trumpet blast came over the intercom. “Tadaaaaaahhhhhhh!!! Your attention please. Blip blop bluuuur, blop blip blop bluuur bluuuur blop. Thank you. Have a nice day.” That’s EXACTLY what it sounded like – I kid you not! Paul and I looked at each other with horror – that could have been a really important message. And I think that’s what pushed us over the edge. I am now intimately able to understand the term “hysterical laughter”. I started off, Paul saw it, he got started and before we knew it we were rolling around laughing our silly heads off with tears rolling down our faces. The announcement came on a couple more times with no improvement to the quality whatsoever, and rather than having split pants I nearly had wet ones. I was actually in pain from laughing.

However, this did not sort out the situation we were in, so Paul got up and went to the office window again, while I tried to pull myself together. And when he came back, guess what? Our bluddy train was actually leaving from Platform 1. And it was due in about 2 minutes! How I managed to haul that luggage onto my back one more time and get up those stairs I’ll never know. But I tell you what, I couldn’t have cared less if the train we got on was going to Timbuctoo – I was just gonna be on one. As it turned it, the darned thing was about twenty five minutes late and hoved into view just as we began thinking there was no such train at all. I can’t say I’ve ever wanted to hug a train before, but as it pulled in I looked at it with such love in my eyes………….

I have since learned that Indian people have this thing about not wanting to disappoint you. They don’t like saying no and they don’t like not being able to help you. So if they don’t know the answer to your question, they’ll say whatever they think you want to hear, even if it’s completely untrue. Bless them.

Now I do have to wonder to myself how many people have actually killed someone in this sort of situation.