The Adventures of Travellin' Uncle Matt

PHNOM PENH - CAMBODIA

2012-03-02T21:41:00.000-08:00

24th Feb - 1st Mar 2012

Welcoming sign to Phnom Penh

The 5 hour mini-bus trip from Siem Reap to Phnom Penh ( PP ) was down what is now a good road through the flat rice growing countryside to the east of the vast Tonle Sap lake. It would have taken a whole day along potholed tarmac and dirt track in 1993. It was a Russian helicopter trip in those days. It is indeed very flat and nowt much to see. We stopped in the unremarkable town of Kampong Thom for a coffee break and arrived in PP at 1400hrs. By gosh the place has changed! Just about the only motor vehicles in 1993 were the white painted UN jeeps and Toyota Land-Cruisers, the streets and boulevards were cracked and potholed with weeds growing in and around them and were fairly deserted apart from pedal powered trishaws and motorbike taxis, the buildings were mostly mildewed and often damaged and electricity and gunfire was sporadic. I remember having some amusing races on the trishaws. Much betting was involved and a good prize ( bribe ) was offered to the driver if we won. It produced some exciting races between about 5 'runners' ( trishaws ) down deserted boulevards where bumping, boring and foul play were the norm. Its amazing the dramatic effect that a stout stick thrust through the spokes of a wheel has on a speeding trishaw.

Now the place is full of cars, mostly enormous gas-guzzling 4X4s plus normal taxis and thousands of motorised 'tuk-tuks' ( same as Siem Reap ) as well as motor-bike taxis, buses and big wagons. The streets are immaculately re-surfaced and clean. There are even modern traffic lights at junctions with sensible count-down cocks, and pedestrian lights which feature lit up animated walking green or static red figures on them ( not that many people pay much attention to them I hasten to add ). All very upmarket street furniture. Left: The Independence Monument on Sihanouk Boulevard. As with all my photos, even though I noticed busy traffic, the place mysteriously clears of cars and pedestrians when I get my camera out!

Right: There are still a few remaining trishaws left from the old days. I didn't see many people using them. The motorised variety hang about in large numbers and drivers have an irritating habit of persistently yelling 'uwantuk-tuk' at every passing tourist and ex-pat ( of which there are many ) even when you have loudly said "no thanks" ( politely initially ) to several others next door, and they persist with "uwan tuk-tuk tomorrow, uwan go see killing fields, uwanmassar......etc. etc. I saw a couple of westerners ( probably working here ) wearing 'T'-shirts with the logo 'I don't want tuk-tuk!' written on the front and "I don't want tuk-tuk tomorrow" on the back. It must have got to them too.

Left: This innocuous looking place hasn't changed too much, except that the grass has been cut, it has been tidied up a bit and old bloodstained clothes and Khmer Rouge uniforms ( Mao style hats and black pyjamas ) which littered the buildings have been removed. It is an old elementary school, Toul Sleng, in the southern part of the city. This was code-named S61 in the Khmer Rouge days and was a secret prison where suspected 'dissenters and spies' were imprisoned, tortured until they confessed and then, inevitably, killed. It is now 'sort of' maintained as a museum, or more accurately a horror show to remind everyone of the Khmer Rouge atrocities.

Right: The school buildings were converted into cells and torture chambers. Even the playground equipment was used to string prisoners up from and they were either dunked in water barrels, beaten or otherwise mutilated. That beam ( right ) was where prisoners were strung up by their ankles and repeatedly dunked into the barrels full of stinking water below, or by their hands tied behind their backs until they passed out. To the right are the graves of the last remaining 14 mutilated corpses, decomposed and tied to bed frames in the attics, found by the Vietnamese when they liberated the place in 1979.

Left: A part of many boards with ID photos of prisoners on arrival at Toul Sleng. There were between 17,000 and 22,000 prisoners held here between 1975 and 1979. These included a few westerners inadvertently caught up in the nightmare. I remember ( and their photos are displayed on another board ) a couple of Australian yachtsmen who ventured too near the coast, were captured, imprisoned and tortured here, accused of being CIA spies. They were forced to sign confessions and were then executed. The camp authorities, under the command of the notorious 'brother Duch', meticulously photographed the prisoners on their arrival and most of these photo IDs ( a few thousand are missing ) were recovered by the Vietnamese. They are on display in seemingly endless frames in many rooms around the camp.

Right: They were even photographed, can't think why, when dead after succumbing to torture. The majority were taken out of the camp, often under the pretext that they were being given some cushy work in the fields, and then herded, roped together around their necks, into an orchard at Choeung Ek 15 kms south of the city where they were bludgeoned to death ( men, women and even their children and babies ). It saved valuable bullets. Their corpses were then dumped into waterlogged pits. This place became known as 'the killing fields' and is now another site open for visitors. Some of the pits have been emptied with bones and more than 8000 skulls on display. Other pits, 43 of the 129, are left undisturbed. Some gruesome tourist attractions here!
As an aside, the Cambodian government has, apparently, and much to the disgust of many Cambodians, sold the commercial rights of this tourist attraction to either a Japanese or Korean commercial concern.

Left: Hundreds of skulls and bones are also on display here in Toul Sleng. There are several glass fronted cabinets like this one ( left ) and also about 15 separate glass cases below containing individual skulls of victims who had been shot, with labels attached giving their sex, approximate age, and a description of where the bullet entered and exited. Most of the bullets, it seems, entered through, or near, the top of the head. At busy periods up to 100 prisoners died of torture or were executed in a day.

Right: The individual cells which were constructed inside the buildings were not exactly commodious. The prisoners were also shackled and chained to a wall or floor ring inside these. There was a barbed wire grill surrounding all the buildings. They were not taking too many chances of letting a prisoner escape. There were also some larger multi-occupancy dormitory style rooms into which shackled prisoners were packed, tied together, lying side by side and head to tail like tinned sardines. In comparison, the individual cells must have been de-luxe accommodation. Room service not so good, I fear.

Left: Some of the instruments of torture. The sloping table on the left is for 'water-boarding' victims whose ankles were tied to the upper end. On the right is the tank inside which they were tied up and nearly drowned, again and again. There were many other ghastly 'persuasive' instruments of the electrical and mechanical variety on display elsewhere.

Right: I met up with an old French friend, Florent, who is now working here ( I mean Phnom Penh, not Toul Sleng ). Here he is, pointing out with the aid of my trusty Burmese walking stick, one of the Camp Rules. These rules were quite strict, I feel. You may need to click on to enlarge in order to read. For example, Rule No 6, 'While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all', seems a bit unnecessary.
Of the 17 to 22,000 prisoners held here between 1975 and 1979 only seven are known to have survived imprisonment i.e. not tortured, shot, bludgeoned, hanged or otherwise put to death. Those seven were kept alive because they had skills like photography and drawing which the authorities needed within the camp. Of the seven survivors two or three are alive today. One works inside the camp and holds forth to anyone wishing to hear about his harrowing experience.
Even many of the guards and torturers were killed because they might have become a 'security risk'. They were easily replaced by others, who had no choice but to do as they were told.

Left: Florent, looking suitably cowed, trying out one of the cells for size.

Right: For those who were around at the time this photo might bring back memories; the old UNTAC headquarters neat the Wat Phnom. It looks exactly the same now as when staffed by the multi-national and highly paid UN staff.

Left: Even from the outside it looks unchanged with the walls and wire anti-rocket mesh still the same colour. The only differences now being the well surfaced road and a lack of waiting trishaws. These pics will be of limited interest to all but a tiny few. The building is now the home of a government development ministry.

Right: This ordinary looking boulevard is the one which runs from the Hotel le Royale where we used to stay while in PP down to the Phnom Wat and UNTAC HQ, behind camera. It was down this 'track' that we held the notorious trishaw races. It used to be weed strewn and potholed. It is now very normal. The US Embassy is on the left side and the hotel at the far end on the right.
The Hotel Le Royale had obviously been an elegant and luxurious place in French colonial days. In 1992 it was a bit of a wreck. I remember having dragged my cases up an old creaking wooden staircase and walking into my room for the first time in those days and seeing a monkey on the bed. Having chased that out of the room, I opened an ancient wardrobe to find two more cuddling inside. The room also hosted frogs, lizards, geckos and a large variety of spiders and other insects. Each room was a veritable wildlife conservation area. The electricity was off more than on, and even when on the pathetic naked lightbulbs only served to darken the rooms, the plumbing made alarming noises and produced little in the way of water. The swimming pool at the back contained a few inches of stagnant black fluid and many dead frogs and other things. In short it was a quaint and interesting hostelry in a state of elegant and total dilapidation.

Left: Imagine my surprise when I saw it recently! It is now owned by the Raffles Group and is an immaculate 5 star luxury hotel again, and well beyond my means ever to stay there. Smart uniformed doormen, tasteful decoration and haute cuisine par excellence.

Right: The swimming pool has been somewhat revamped and I didn't spot even a live frog, let alone a dead one. Just lots of affluent looking guests sipping drinks and lounging on deckchairs.

Left: But they have shown remarkable taste and style by keeping the ancient wooden staircase which still creaks when you walk up it. It brought back memories. They now have lifts as well of course.

Right: ...and those long marble chequerboard landings which looked remarkably familiar if much shinier and with no monkeys in sight. In those days you passed more monkeys in the passageways than guests or staff.

At the bottom of the road, near the wat, was a line of the old trishaws ( left ). They too brought back memories. Perhaps some of the drivers were involved in the races 20 years ago having recovered from their injuries. They looked about the right age and still willing and able although probably not so fit and speedy nowadays.

Right: Anyway there were no other riders, but I had to have a ride, even at a very sedate pace.

Other smart luxury hotels have sprung up. Left: This one is the Cambodiana on the riverside where an old ship/restauarant used to be moored. The city is benefitting from a lot of investment in hotels it appears.

Right: The Tonle Sap river is host to many river 'booze' cruise boats.

Left: They queue up for willing takers along the banks and touts patrol the nearby streets looking for customers. They reminded me of the old Royal Navy press gangs ( not that I ever met a Royal Navy press gang ). I thought there were many more boats than there could possibly be passengers to fill them.

Right: Down the riverside promenade, Sisowath Quay, were lines of 'get yourself fit' machines which were in constant use. The lady here was hard at it having hung her handbags on the front. They take their exercise quite seriously.

Left: Of course, in amongst hundreds of well populated bars and restaurants along the riverside is the inevitable Oirish bear. I stopped at this one for supper but they produced a deafening ( Irish ) live group which made your ears ache and conversation impossible. In fact self and Florent ( who is a keen rugby man; he plays for a French ex-pat team in PP and even knows all the modern rules ) found a bar in which we watched live ( 7 hrs ahead of GMT ) both the Ireland/Italy and France/Scotland 6 nations matches. The England/Wales match was way after my bedtime.

Right: The Wat Phnom which is a popular meeting place with a floral clock which actually told the correct time, and another welcome sign, in French.

Left: In the middle of the bar/restaurant riverside street is this shop, selling coffins. I thought it rather an incongruous location; or perhaps they get a lot of trade after chucking out time.

Right: The French built main Post Office which, along with its counterpart in Saigon, is a beautiful spacious building. It does not have endless queues and the service is efficient and polite.

Left: The Throne Room inside the Royal Palace. The palace area is a large walled compound consisting of some formal buildings, shrines and temples open to the general public and other restricted areas for official buildings and the private residence of King Sihamoni. No photos allowed, for whatever reason, inside the Throne Room.

Right: Or, for that matter, inside the Silver Pagoda which is the other main building of interest. It is so called because the floor is covered by solid silver tiles. Most of these are covered, for protection, by a carpet and those few that you can see are tarnished nearly black. Lots of bejewelled Buddhas and gold objects abound. Another shoes-off experience.

Left: This is inside the Pavilion containing what is advertised as Buddha's footprint. All I can say is that he must have had bloody big feet!
To be honest, I found the Royal Palace visit a bit boring.

Right: A bevy of monks. Anyone know the collective noun for a group of Buddhist monks?

Left: On the way out they had a model of a large white elephant and lots of howdahs on display. Not as impressive as the ones I saw in Inja.

Right: On the final night I spent in PP I was joined by Florent and an amusing Irish girl, Lauren, who is a journalist with the English language daily, the Cambodian News. We took part in a pub quiz at the Willow Hotel, not far from mine. We came a respectable 5th out of about 12 teams, some of which had seven or eight members! I know we would have won if they hadn't had a section on pop music.
Incidently, other than tourists, it is surprising to note how many ex-pats are living and working in Phnom Penh as evidenced at this pub quiz. I saw lots of Australians. I think it is because there are many of these so called 'Non-Governmental Agencies' ( NGOs ) operating in the country which are, effectively, charities and get good tax breaks for the work they do. They started to appear in big numbers in 1992 to fulfil many jobs such as drilling for water, providing food, healthcare, de-mining and many other humanitarian tasks. I think some of them do a good job. I have a feeling some just aim to attract money to pay themselves a decent salary.
Off next to visit old haunts and ex-colleagues in Saigon ( Ho Chi Minh City ). Stand by for further riveting revelations.

SIEM REAP - CAMBODIA

2012-02-29T07:48:00.000-08:00

20th - 24th Feb 2012

Gateway to Cambodia at Poipet

So onwards into the Kingdom of Cambodia. Now back in the Frog ex-colonies of Indo-Chine where boulevards and good fresh bread still exist. The train stopped at Aranyaprathet and it is quite a time consuming performance getting through the Thai exit and in through the Cambodian entry points. It involved hassle with irritating over-enthusiastic Thai tuk-tuk drivers, a 5 km trip to the Thai customs post, more hassle with scam-merchants trying to sell you 'cheap' transport to Siem Reap, pushing luggage for another kilometre to the Cambodian customs post at Poipet, a bus to the transport hub near Poipet and eventually a taxi which I shared with a couple of dotty female Canadian students and a rather monosyllabic Aussie bloke on to Siem Reap. The Canadian girls had convinced themselves that they had developed an allergy while travelling on the train when dust and stuff blew in through the open windows. They were worried that without suitable medicines they might easily die. They had also lost their Thai departure slips which caused further delay. It reinforced my opinion that travelling alone is so much easier! It also reminded me of the paranoia which grips most North Americans concerning ( mostly unnecessary ) vaccines and medicaments when they travel. I will bore you on this subject later; suffice to say they are uncomfortable travelling without their bodies being pumped full of vaccines and serums plus a suitcase full of drugs and pills to combat all the many and much advertised lethal ailments and diseases without which they are convinced that they will inevitably fall victim to, much to the delight of greedy pharmaceutical companies which stir up this paranoia in the first place. Does anyone remember Swine 'Flu? What a successful con that was!

Left: The flag which features the outline of the temple at Angkor Wat. I was last in Cambodia in 1992-93 for six months service with the UN force ( UNTAC ) which, after the horrors of the Khmer Rouge period and the Vietnamese invasion that ended it, ultimately oversaw the May 1993 elections. It was, despite most of us here then not knowing what the hell we were supposed to be doing most of the time, one of the more successful UN missions. It led to peaceful, free and fair elections in which the Royalist FUNCINPEC party won ( 58% of the votes ) and the communist CPP party came second. They offered to form a coalition with Prince Ranariddh ( FUNCINPEC ) becoming 1st Prime Minister and Hun Sen ( CPP ) being 2nd Prime Minister. A few years later Hun Sen instigated a military coup which ousted FUNCINPEC. Hun Sen and the CPP, by fair means and mostly foul, have maintained power ever since. The much revered old king, Sihanouk, abdicated but is still alive and the new king, Sihamoni, is now on the throne. It is all very complicated. In 92/93 I was stationed, as a United Nations Monitoring Officer ( UNMO ), at a nondescript village on the northern border with Thailand in remaining Khmer Rouge territory where the most notable thing we achieved was to organise some amusing water-buffalo and ox-cart racing. We also played volleyball with ex-Khmer Rouge guerrillas who, disconcertingly, were still well armed although had more or less stopped killing people, and propped up their AK47s and rocket launchers against the surrounding trees and net posts while games were in progress. I like to think a bit of sport and some dodgy ox-cart racing served to take their minds off politics and fighting, at least until we got out! I hope also that we taught them to smile. They, admittedly, did do a bit of kidnapping of UN personal while we were there but they declined to kidnap me. I suspect they realised that if they did they would sooner or later be offering money to have me taken back and anyway, who would organise the ox-cart races ( and provide the prizes ).
In those days the roads and infrastructure in general were in a state of complete collapse. The road now from Poipet to Siem Reap is a well maintained highway. It takes about 3 hours to drive. The Canadian girls managed to get there without dying...indeed I think they had rather forgotten about their allergies.
Incredibly, the town was packed with tourists. There are lots of hotels and guest houses, some of which are very luxurious and expensive. The bar and restaurant district was heaving at night; all kinds of food and drink on offer with, of course, the mandatory Oirish bears ( I visited Molly Mallone's for excellent shepherd's pie and Irish stew ) and much high-octane night-life. It is a far cry from those days in the early 90s when the town was an almost deserted ruin in the jungle. It is a very prosperous and lively place now.
The overriding attraction, other than cheap drink and entertainment, are the ancient Angkor civilisation ruins nearby. As you may know, Angkor was the capital city and centre of the vast Khmer empire between the 9th and 15th centuries when it ruled all of what is now Indo-China, Thailand, some of southern China and across towards India. To put it in perspective, at it's peak the city of Angkor had a population of over a million when London's was a mere 50,000.

Right: The centre-piece of ancient Angkor is Angkor Wat ( Anchor Temple ). It is advertised as the world's largest religious building. I don't think so. Maybe they mean it was at the time.
If you look at it from directly in front you only see three towers, hence the image on the flag. With apologies to Nigel Molesworth, "As any fule kno" it has five.
I hadn't realised that the Angkor city complex of stone temples and palaces is so huge. It covers an area of about 20 X 20 miles. Of course all you see are the remains of the religious and royal palace stone built buildings, and a lot of reconstruction and restoration work is going on here continuously, because the normal houses and other buildings were all made of wood which have subsequently disappeared.

The transport around the town and Angkor consists predominantly of the fairly modern ( because there were none in 1993 that I remember ) Cambodian tuk-tuks ( left ). Don't know why they don't call them something more original. They are basically a small motorbike which tows a little covered trailer with two rows of facing seats. Not bad, and you are continually pestered by their drivers for your custom. I was advised by the lovely lady who ran the hotel where I stayed ( Encore Angkor it's name, and highly recommended ) that you need at least three days to tour the whole site. She organised a tuk-tuk for me the next morning driven by Mr Rhet. He was very good; informative but not intrusive. There is a 'small' tour route and a 'grand' tour route around the site. I chose the small one. You pay either $20 for a one day, or $40 for a three day pass, plus $15 for the day's use of tuk-tuk and driver. Not cheap. Off we set around a series of temples and buildings in varying states of collapse and decay or restoration. I staggered and climbed my way through a selection of these. I will not itemise each one ( they all had names.. boring ) but just show a series of photos.

A typical building/temple.....Most of these places were Hindu ( I think ). The Hindus took over from Buddhists ( I think ), or maybe it was the other way around. BUT AT LEAST WE DIDN"T HAVE TO TAKE OUR SHOES OFF!!!! Actually your feet would be cut to ribbons if you did.

.......and another..

....and another, restored version....

...and one with trees growing through it. They say that the complex was mostly enveloped by the jungle. It is not really jungle, just a forest area, plenty of trees with quite sparse undergrowth actually.

.....and another.....

...and another...I think I climbed up this one...

....and another....

......and another....

......and another....

....and another....I climbed up this one too......

.....same one from the top.......

......and another from the top.....

...and a headless Buddha.....

...and another Buddha....

After driving, walking and climbing up and around about half a dozen of these buildings, and it was getting bazzing hot towards midday, we stopped for a well deserved lunch of delicious beef noodles and I murdered several bottles of Angkor beer. I was, to say the least, very thirsty!

The two main sites within the city complex are Angkor Wat ( wat means temple ) and Angkor Thom which is a large fortified area containing several palace buildings and temples, indeed it was the final stronghold of the city. Some of those pics above are of buildings in Angkor Thom. Much of the damage to these buildings and statues was done by invading armies after the fall of the Khmer empire, and some by looters and wreckers during and just after the Khmer Rouge period.

Scattered amongst the trees and along the sandy paths leading up to many of the temples were these 'authentic' Khmer musical ensembles ( left ) which played atmospheric Khmer music. They were also very keen to receive donations and to sell their CDs for $10 a piece. No thanks.
The atmosphere was somewhat spoilt by far too many hawkers, often snotty nosed little children, desperately trying to sell souvenirs to the tourists. They were a bit of a pest.

After lunch we went to the Hindu Angkor Wat. This is surrounded by a 200 metre wide moat ( right ) which forms a giant square with sides of about 1.5 km.

Left: It is approached over a causeway from the west side, the 'direction of death'. From this direction you see the 'three tower' aspect. The entry reminded me somewhat of that to the Taj Mahal. Indeed it is presumed that this temple was also originally built as a mausoleum, this time for a dead early Khmer king. Indeed the whole area is a curious cross between Bagan, Burma and the Taj Mahal.

A wide colonnade goes around the entire outer edge displaying many intricate carvings and friezes which depict lots of 'apsiras' or goddesses, and animals. Inside are several towers and other structures such as four symmetrical sunken, they look like bathing pools, areas. One of which ( right ).

I was interested to see in one of the courtyards this display of little stone mounds ( left ). There were others elsewhere. They are identical to those I remember on the mountains in Peru which were put there originally by the Incas, and even by locals nowadays, as religious 'offerings' to the volcano Gods and over which you are expected to make a wish. Maybe the Incas paid this place a visit?

Right: There were plenty of the Khmer version of Buddhist monks around. These are much more upmarket versions of monk than the Burmese variety. They tend to carry cameras, wear colourful and expensive looking saffron robes and all have very natty and good quality silk shoulder bags in different bright hues.

I might have alluded to the fact that there are many tourists around the place. In fact it is, other than at lunch time when everyone is sitting down eating and drinking, a bit like Piccadilly Circus in the rush hour. The organisation which looks after the place, and I was told that a Korean company has bought the business, and/or the Cambodian Government must earn quite a packet from entry fees. To give them credit a lot of work and money goes into restoration and protection. It is difficult to guess the numbers but I estimate ( and I might be miles out ) that about 20,000 people visit per day in the dry season ( November to May ) at $20 per head per day.

Left: This is just one small section of the many tracks over which a line of tuk-tuks and bicycles are continually on the move. There are also large gangs of bicycle riding blue shirted maintenance girls which patrol the place.

I also reckon that about 50% of the tourists are Japanese. Angkor on their 'check list' of places to visit during their once in a lifetime world tour, along with Edinburgh Castle, the Louvre and Machu Picchu amongst many others. They were also here en-masse in 1942-45 courtesy of the French. Right: This is one of the many 'Banzai Tour' groups receiving a final briefing.

They patrol around the grounds behind their leaders who carry flags ( not necessarily of the Rising Sun ). Left: A squad of Japs launching a frontal kamikaze assault on Angkor Wat. Are they expecting rain? Maybe its camouflage from aerial attack.

I did all this on Day 1. As you can imagine I was by now somewhat 'templed out' having walked miles in sweaty hot weather and really couldn't see the point in doing another two days of visiting remarkably similar sights. My feet were a bit sore. I spent the next day pottering gently around the town and relaxing, some of it, I must admit, in Molly Malone's establishment.
Then I had a rush of blood to the head and, against all my principles and sound common sense, succumbed to the tourist bug and decided to do 'Angkor Wat' at sunrise the next day. This involved getting up at 0500hrs. The hotel had a packed breakfast ready for me. Mr Rhet was waiting and we drove off to Angkor in the dark. I was dropped off at the west end of the causeway and walked in.
I was not alone.

Right: This was my view of the temple when I got to a prime viewing position just on the corner of one of the lakes in front of the wat at about 0545hrs.

Left: Eventually, it started to get a bit lighter after 0615hrs.

Right: ....and as the sun came up over the temple. It then quickly clouded over and the sun was lost until later in the morning.
There were plenty of mosquitos around as well as scores of hawkers selling various tat; books, postcards and coffee. I'm not sure which were the most irritating.

Left: More interesting was the reverse view. The crowd must have numbered over two thousand and the sound of clattering cameras ( or cratterling camelas as most of them were wielded by the sons and daughters of Nippon ) was almost continuous.

This pretty Chinese lady offered to pose with the damned rat in front of one of the ancient 'library' buildings walking back to the tuk-tuk park. She wanted to pose with it.

We stopped off on the way back at the site which offers a 'tethered' ballon ride to see and photograph the area from above. It was out of action because of the windy weather, I was told. I didn't notice much wind and suspect they didn't have enough takers this morning due to the cloudy conditions, although they seemed to have a few written down on their bookings board. The Japanese writing at the top means, I think, something along the lines of 'There's a nip in the air'.

So a fond farewell from all of us at Siem Reap and next onwards by bus down south to what was known in French colonial days as 'The Pearl of the Orient'; the charming city of Phnom Penh.

Origato!

BANGKOK - THAILAND

2012-02-26T12:07:00.002-08:00

11th - 20th Feb 2012

Her Majesty. In honour of her Diamond Jubilee. Stupidly I forgot to put the rat on the chair. Silly me.

Flight into Bangkok with Air Asia was uneventful and due to pre-paying a $20 'extra' on my ticket I could take up to 30kgs of hold baggage. These weight restrictions are good little earners for cheapo airlines and bear no relevance to the technical aircraft all up weight ( AOW ) safety limit. There are other rules and regs about quantity, size and weight of cabin baggage but thankfully, in Rangoon airport, the staff are quite flexible about this. They are most attentive but not complete jobsworths.
Another thing ( permit me a little rant here ); why is it in these supposedly third world 'developing' countries the immigration, security and customs staff tend to look smart in neatly pressed uniforms, well groomed, appear efficient, and often greet you with a smile and a cheery hello? If you ask them for assistance they usually provide it willingly and helpfully. In general they appear enthusiastic, attentive and well turned-out. Whereas in the UK you are more often than not met by scruffy, sullen looking individuals who give every impression that you, as a passing traveller, are a great inconvenience to their daily routine and, if anything at all, greet you with a grunt of acknowledgement when you pass by having interrupted the interesting conversation they are having with a colleague. The characters manning the UK airport arrival passport 'control' desks frequently look as if they are third world immigrants themselves, are unkempt, wear untidy civilian clothes and whenever they, or customs 'officers' ( and I put that word 'officer' deliberately in inverted commas ), are compelled to wear uniform it seems as if it is done with the utmost reluctance. I have often witnessed UK customs men lounging around arrivals, chatting to one another in unpressed white shirts, ties undone, scuffed black shoes and with their hands in their pockets! No, really, its no exaggeration. I would expect any self respecting SNCO, which obviously don't exist in that organisation ( and I've forgotten what it is called nowadays because they keep changing the name to become ever more politically correct and unaccountable ) to have an apoplectic fit and scream at them to "get a grip and smarten yourselves up you idle little man or woman 'cos I can't tell which, and get yor effing hair cut before you trip over it". Standing on parade with your hands in your pockets used to be, and probably still is, a lockable-up offence in the army! It comes as no surprise when I read of the UK Border Control Agency being in complete disarray and that thousands of illegals have snuck into the country under their unwatchful, disinterested eyes. It is not all the employees' fault I hasten to add; it is due to a total lack of leadership and proper man-management. Why does no-one in authority notice the sheer indolence and apathy which surrounds the employees of this shambolic system and if they do, why has nobody 'got a grip' ages ago. Whoever is in charge, and I doubt anyone owns up to it, should have been sacked years ago. It is a most depressing situation and the chaos which ensues rather inevitable. It must also give a terribly poor impression to visitors to the UK. Rant over.
Bangkok Suvarnabhumi International airport has the advantage of being constructed only a few years ago. It is modern, high tech and customer friendly. It is infinitely superior to the chaos and congestion at Heathrow, Gatwick, Stansted etc. One of many things I notice in airports are the baggage trolleys. Why on earth do British baggage trolleys have four castoring wheels and are therefore impossible to steer. One experiences and sees passengers swerving uncontrollably around the concourses and crashing into one another. Modern ( third world ) airports, i.e. Suvarnabhumi, and some of the up to date European ones, have more sensible trolleys with three wheels; the two back wheels are non-castoring and the front one swivels. These trolleys are easily steerable and must be cheaper to produce. They are also designed to be used on escalators and the more modern stepless moving up/down walkways. It means you can take your baggage from carousel to onward transport ( train, metro, taxi etc. ) without offloading it. Why the HELL do British airports lag so far behind in such convenience to overwrought passengers. Pathetic.
Following normal SOP, I went upstairs to departures to get a taxi. The arrivals scam merchants were charging 800 Baht ( £16/$20 ) to the city centre, the so called Official Price as displayed on their self made laminated price lists. At 'departures' the metred taxi cost me 240Baht ( £5/$8 ). I have explained this before.

Sunday was spent at the Chatuchak weekend market in the north of the city. This is a huge popular market which sells anything you can think of at relatively cheap prices. Fun, and I bought some clothes, and listened to this chap ( left ) playing a guitar, amongst other things.

Next day on to the Cambodian Embassy to get a visa for Cambodia. Unexpectedly the whole process took only 15 minutes and cost $20. Most efficient.

Several days spent in Bangkok visiting a few friends, and opera singers. I bumped into ex-colleagues from Vietnam Airlines doing their simulator training ( right ). Actually the chap in the middle is a Thai friend of ours who has nothing to do with Vietnam Airlines but is very hospitable and looks after us. The tall man with the rat is Christian, an Austrian B-777 training Captain. On the right F/O Ha from Ho Chi Minh.

Bangkok is changing continually and is scarcely recognisable from the place 20 years ago. Some changes are for the better. They now have magnificent metro and 'sky train' systems which are immaculately clean, fast, quiet and efficient. Soothing music is played in the stations with no silly unnecessary announcements. It is cheap and if you are over 60 ( and this applies to foreigners as well ) you pay half fare. I was rather upset that when I asked to pay half fare the chap on the desk did not even question my age! Good for the wallet but not for morale. The pavements and streets have been cleaned up, new highways and flyovers have been built which hardly alleviate the traffic congestion because they just encourage more road usage and further fill up the streets below. The traffic lights have count-down clocks on them which, when at red, start at 180 seconds. That means very long waits. I always think that in large cities and affluent countries it doesn't matter how many big roads you build, they always fill up until eventually grid-lock is reached. Talking of traffic, only in UK have I noticed the ludicrous situation of having roundabouts ( of which I strongly approve ) and then putting bloody traffic lights on them as well! It totally defeats the object of the idea. Back to Bangkok; they now have many very smart and upmarket shopping centres, hotels, restaurants and entertainments. In short, the city has become a modern, hi-tech and cosmopolitan place. The downside is that much of the old 'character' has gone. Many more rules, regulations and restrictions are in place ( smoking is banned in most public places, although perhaps not so zealously as in UK ), the iconic Tuk-Tuks have been emasculated and now have 4-stroke engines which don't make the proper 'tuk-tuk' noise any more and whereas the number of these has been greatly reduced the prices have dramatically gone up. They are now just an expensive tourist attraction. The infamous Pat Pong area has gone downhill from being at the 'cutting edge' of the sex trade to rather a shabby, seedy, sleazy, rip-off zone ( so I am told ). Probably the most noticeable difference is the average size of the younger Thai. One of the penalties any city pays for modernisation appears to be a willing surrender to the American mass market and to allow their addictive burger and fizzy drinks chains to infest the streets. The result is that there are now many overweight and probably diabetic Thais. They used to eat, exclusively, a healthy diet and had lithe, beautiful and fit looking bodies ( especially the girls ). Now it is Macdonalds, KFC and Coca-Cola which prevail and an average increase of about 2 stone and plenty of flab. That is really sad. American culture and diet will be the death of us all.
Some old traditions still persist however; for example, in downtown touristy Silom area, the habitual Thai greetings of 'youwanmassar', or 'youwanladyshow' are still the norm. As indeed is the traditional British response of 'fuck off'.

This guy ( left ) is obviously not addicted to Macdonalds or Coca-Cola. I think he must have been following me here from India. Possibly coming over to have a serious word with his tailor.

....and this bloke ( right ) is nominally in charge of the evil empire which is entirely to blame for lots of things. Do all wealthy Americans have hideous glowing white false teeth? Reminds me of George Mitchell's Black and White Minstrel show.

As an example of how the city's department stores, and customers, are now so affluent I visited the Siam Centre, a vast shiny three building many storied temple to consumer excess, where I passed a large shop displaying an array of Steinway grand pianos. I asked the price of a natty golden coloured model and was told it costs $138,700. Having given up the piano after one term at school ( I still recall with horror the evil tempered Miss Unwin who taught me and remember the pain of having the piano lid slammed down on my fingers when I made repeated mistakes ) I decided not to buy it. I expect the shipment and import costs would have been well beyond my reach. I expect the piano stool alone would have bankrupted me.

Self, Christian and our hospitable friend, who is nicknamed 'Skinny' for no apparent reason, went to visit the Thai Aviation Museum located at the old Don Mueang airport in the north of the city. This area was badly affected by the floods which hit the country last November. Indeed we could see at the restaurant where we had a delicious beef and noodle lunch the water level marks about four feet up the walls. Sadly the museum had also been inundated and most of the exhibits were undergoing, or had been removed, for repair and renovation. Christian ( left ) found a good second-hand transport aircraft to play around in.

.....and likes to be remembered ( right ) as the 'oldest tiger'.

Lots of other old haunts around the city visited including the famous ancient Oriental Hotel down on the river-front which features the Writers' Wing where various well known characters have stayed over the years; you know the normal list of brilliant minds such Noel Coward, Graham Greene, Salman Rushdie, Ernest Hemmingway, Rudyard Kipling ( who no doubt saw lots of flyin' fish playing on the river ), Marilyn Monroe and 'Sir' Mick Jagger. They do a very good and rather expensive English style 'tea'.

I was also taken to the Royal Bangkok Sports Club by aforementioned 'Skinny' ( left ), who is a member, and treated to a very good lunch in the members' dining room. It is a most pleasant if curious place in that it was started up in 1929 by British ex-pats as a tennis, squash and bowls club. Even now, as then, all the signs, boards and notices are written in English. Quite extraordinary considering the membership and committee are now almost entirely Thai.

Right: A smart grass racecourse, which still flourishes, was added in 1948 ( or thereabouts ). There is a golf course inside the track and there are grass tennis courts, squash courts and bowling greens outside. I was told they hold race meetings about once a month. It was due to host the prestigious annual 'King's Cup' meeting on the day I was due to leave. It is a thoroughly pleasant 'green' area in the middle of the city and is obviously immaculately maintained.
I had a marvellously idle time in and around Bangkok and don't have that much to report really. Incidently I rediscovered the 'Oirish bear' scene hear. The O'Reillys, Murphys, Flannigans and Paddy McGintys establishments, etc, are thriving in downtown Bangkok. I had forgotten all about them as the last Irish drinks establishment I remember was in Singapore, I think. They must be banned from the sub-continent and haven't yet made an appearance in Burma.

Next off to Cambodia. The train departs from the excellent Bangkok Central Station ( left ) to the most convenient crossing point at Aranyaprathet at 0555hrs. It is a 7 hour journey and although a rather slow train with somewhat stiffly padded seats it is reasonably comfortable and ladies come through the carriages selling soft drinks and snacks. Aircon is supplied by a gentle breeze through the windows and the open outside doors.

The extraordinary thing is that the price of the ticket is 48 Baht, exactly £1. Isn't that amazing!
Right: The station. Very smart and efficient. Helpful and polite staff.

Left: Apropos of absolutely nothing, did you know the name of this so-called artist? I met him here. His full name: Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepumuceno Maria de los Remedios Crispiniano de la Santisima Trinidad Ruiz Picasso.

Next report from, probably, Siem Reap, Cambodia

NGAPALI BEACH - BURMA

2012-02-22T05:02:00.000-08:00

6th - 10th Feb 2012

Ngapali Beach

Heho is the domestic airport about 45 mins drive north of Nyuangshwe. Despite my reservations about most airports, this little place is absolutely fine. No mucking around; one's bags are portered for you and, provided they didn't look too outrageously large or heavy, are simply checked in without even being weighed ( they are scanned ). Absolutely no hassle and quick. They even sell the quite drinkable ( German made ) Burmese wine in the departure loungette. It seems the Burmese are so far, at domestic airports anyway, blissfully unaffected by the security paranoia which afflicts most of the rest of the 'civilised' world. It will change, of course, when tourism here blossoms further. Coincidently the Captain of the ATR 72 aircraft was a friend of a Burmese ex-colleague of mine who is still flying for Vietnam Airlines, so I was invited up to the flight deck for a chat on the way to Thandwe airport which serves Ngapali. It is only a 40 minute flight south-west but we were still served sandwiches, soft drinks and coffee. Very pretty cabin attendants too. For once I arrived by air feeling relaxed and happy!

The hotel bus, as with all the other hotels here, picked us up ( having collected our luggage for us from the arrivals hall ) and took us, in my case, to the Silver Beach Hotel about 15 minutes away. I was due to spend 3 full days here with nothing to do except practice being idle. Left: Our chalet style rooms. It is a remarkably pleasant hotel, and not even expensive. Ngapali, in the province of Rakhaing ( known previously as Arakan ) on the Bay of Bengal just south of Bangladesh, is spread over two miles of beautifully clean golden sands with several low bungalow hotels, backed by palm trees.

The sea is clear blue and warm and there were enough tourists around to give the place a bit of life without being at all crowded. I think, as things are, it caters for those who enjoy a peaceful and relaxed time.

As well as the excellent hotel bars and restaurants ( although I had to explain to our barman how to make a proper gin & tonic ), there are many simple but good seafood restaurants along the road behind the beach ( right ).

Left: Pleasant and quiet restaurants also overlook the beach. Tourists come from all countries but mostly Europeans it appeared. Germany, Holland and France seem to account for the majority. I didn't see any Japanese. Maybe they don't know that the war in these parts is over. The bloodthirsty little buggers certainly didn't do themselves any favours here between 1942-45. Actually there is a story concerning them and, indirectly, myself. My father served before and during the war with an Indian cavalry ( tank ) regiment called the 19th King George V1 Own Lancers. In January 1945 a squadron of this regiment, mounted in Sherman tanks and commanded by my father, took part in the British landings on the Arakan Peninsular, just up the road. There then followed a big battle, the Battle of Kangaw, between 22nd and 26th January and involved the infamous and bloody fight for Hill 170 south of Myebon near the little hamlet of Kangaw. The Japs were eventually defeated leaving 400 dead on the hill. The 19th Lancers provided armoured support here for 1 Commando Brigade. During the course of the fighting my father was shot by a Jap sniper ( shot 'up the Irrawaddy', as my disrespectful family refer to it ). He was seriously wounded but they got him to a Field Dressing Station and he survived the night. He was then transferred to a hospital ship and taken to South Africa for treatment. During his period of recovery in the South African hospital he met a Red Cross nurse from Northumberland who, five years later became my mother. So maybe I have cause to be grateful to the Imperial Japanese Army for my existence. Others may not be so forgiving.
I thought, while I was here, I might see if I could locate Kangaw and pay the place a visit. The peninsular in question, around Myebon, is not far north of Ngapali. Stupidly, I had left all the documentation, including military maps of the battle, which I had previously collected, at home. There are some details on the internet, but no maps. I tried my best to find any very old local who might be able to assist, but failed to elicit any useful information. I expect Kangaw either no longer exists or has changed it's name. I could have spent a day or two on a boat looking for the place but thought the exercise would prove futile and anyway I doubt if any local around today would know enough detail to help. Another time maybe.

In any event I was having a gloriously idle time doing not very much apart from lounging around and paddling in the sea. There are opportunities for snorkelling, scuba diving, fishing and golf. This place is a hidden paradise but I suspect it will be ruined in the coming years, as so many lovely places are, when the mass tourist market catches on and invades. So, my advice is get here quick before the place is over-run ( by the Japs again? ) and the locals get greedy and it becomes noisy and brash.

I met a few interesting travellers who were also revelling in the laid-back atmosphere of the place. Even the Germans failed to nick all the deckchairs before breakfast.

Another Burmese observation; all the roofs of buildings are made either from red corrugated iron ( as per the newly reconstructed Royal Palace buildings in Mandalay ), or from palm leaves as in small village houses (below ). Someone is making a killing selling red corrugated iron!

Internet, if not Wi-Fi, in these parts exists in most hotels but is incredibly slow. It is probably quicker to write a letter. Just up the road from the hotel is a marvellous little internet cafe ( right ) called May-18. The internet was not any quicker, but it served snacks, beer and coffee and half of it is a wine shop. A very social place for a chat with other tourists while they wait for their e-mails eventually to download.

Left: The owner/manager is a lady called May. She speaks good English and albeit unsuccessfully, with assistance from her friends, tried to help me locate Kangaw. Another problem with internet here ( at the moment ) is that some servers, in some locations, appear to be denied access. My AOL server was one. She introduced me to a useful free 'proxy' server called Ultrasurf.us. This worked; it bypassed AOL and as she said, it is a useful tool in any place which might restrict other servers. I mention this because I think it is a useful tip.

Public transport up and down the beach road is provided by these things ( right ) called To-Tos. Basically the front half of a motorbike attached to a trailer with seats in it. Not very comfortable and you often end up hanging off the back but they are a cheap and frequent 'hop on hop off' service.

So not a lot of excitement to report from Ngapali, thankfully, and any shoe removal was purely voluntary. There was a refreshing absence of temples, stupas and Buddhas.....and I certainly wasn't looking for them.
Off back for a further night in Rangoon before flying ( per force ) to Bangkok. I must say Burma is a fascinating place for a holiday and I had a memorable time as you no doubt gather. Travelling here is getting much easier and will probably continue to do so, especially ( maybe ) after their elections in April. The people here are utterly unspoilt and absolutely charming and they genuinely enjoy looking after tourists. Long may it last, but my advice is to get here before the rush! The idiot sanctions imposed by the US ( and followed dog-like by the EU ) are not helping the Burmese people, nor greatly inconveniencing the Burmese hierarchy. Perhaps when these are lifted and normal economic service is resumed ( i.e. ATMs and free transfer of goods and money ) the Burmese will get the rewards they so richly deserve.
Onwards eastwards before turning north. My travels through Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam will not be so expansive because I have done to death all these places before. I aim to call on old acquaintances and , with maybe a few exceptions, avoid the tourist trail. Mingulabar.

INLE LAKE - BURMA

2012-02-19T07:41:00.000-08:00

4th - 6th Feb 2012

Fisherman on Inle Lake

Off we set at 0730hrs, Mr Myo driving with his son as co-pilot, for what was advertised as an 8 hour drive to the small town of Nyaungshwe, 2000ft up, at the north end of Inle Lake. I was told it was about 150 miles, so couldn't see how it was going to take 8 hours. The road south out of Mandalay was an excellent two lane highway and Mr Myo's Toyota fairly hummed along. I reckoned, at this rate, we would be there for an early lunch. After about 20 miles we turned left off the main road to the east. The road rapidly deteriorated, initially into a narrow potholed tarmac strip and then into a single lane dusty bumpy mountain track ( with the occasional bit of tarmac just to give the appearance of a road ). And we climbed....and climbed... around zig-zagging sharp bends up into the Shan mountains. The average speed must have reduced to about 20 mph. I could now see at least eight hours of driving ahead of us. To further delay matters, it turned out that Mr Myo's son was very car sick and we had to keep stopping to let him out to throw up. After 3 hours we began to level out at about 5000ft ( according to the map ). Then the car ground to a halt with steam coming from the bonnet. It was discovered that the fan belt had snapped. We were in the middle of nowhere, not a car or building in sight and stuck. Mr Myo was beside himself with remorse and apologies. By sheer good fortune after about 20 minutes a minibus pulled up and, having a couple of spare seats, kindly offered to take myself and Mr Myo's son on to the nearest habitation. Not much room inside so I reluctantly disregarded the old army maxim of 'a soldier and his kit should never be separated', took my small valuables rucksack and left my big suitcase in Mr Myo's car. He promised to deliver it to me in Nyaungshwe, after somehow getting the car fixed. Another 2 hours of driving along the winding and bumpy 'track' brought us to a village with a small restaurant in it. Myself and Mr Myo's son got out. I think we were due to wait here until the car turned up. It didn't. After a good lunch a passing taxi with 3 pax in already ( a monk, a Burmese agricultural fertiliser salesman and a German tour operator ) offered to take me on, free of charge! It was a bit of a squeeze but welcome nevertheless.

We passed this strange looking hilltop monastery ( left ) on the way, and stopped for a 'comfort break' here. They love to build these things on the top of impossibly steep rocks which, I suppose, provided protection in the old days, and freedom from passing tourists. Lots of lugging bricks uphill though.
The roads actually became rather better as we descended the mountains on the southern side and finally reached Nyaungshwe at 1900hrs. An 11.5 hour journey as it turned out and I was not confident of ever seeing my suitcase again. Oh! me of little faith. I was called in my room at 0030hrs to be told that my suitcase had arrived. Mr Myo and his son personally carried it up to my room and again apologised profusely for the inconvenience! He had, apparently waited for a repair service from Mandalay, then driven on for a further 8 hours to Nyaungshwe with his son and my case. He said he was now going straight back to Mandalay! Unbelievable and, if he made it, extraordinary stamina and determination. I was very grateful.
I was met early the next morning by my guide for the day, Mr Min. We walked to the market cum quayside near the hotel and got into one of the many long-tail narrow motorboats with powerful engines. Just as well my suitcase had arrived as I had been warned that it was cold in the mornings and overnight here and my sweater and jacket were in it. It certainly was a bit parky, and misty. We are at 2000ft and it felt it temperature-wise. Right: Mr Min in our speedy water-taxi. Just the two of us plus the driver. Off we set south down the canal to join the lake which is 14 miles long and 7 miles wide. There were many other similar long boats containing tourists. This place is a tourist magnet and is, nowadays, brim full of tourists in the winter season ( Nov to March ). Being light our boat overtook several others along the canal. I waved happily, and rather arrogantly, to them as we sped by. After a mile or so, our engine conked out. No effort would restart it and we drifted to the shore.

Left: Many other boats then swept past giving us a cheerful, if sarcastic, wave. Even the 'finger' in one case. This part of my Burmese trip appears to be fraught with mechanical problems. After about 30 mins a replacement empty boat came alongside and we transferred ship.

Onwards into the tranquil waters of Inle Lake where there are many of these little skiffs ( right ) used for fishing. This is done in a truly unique style with the fisherman perched on one leg at the back and paddling his boat using the other leg twisted around the oar with a curious but most effective snake-like motion. All the while operating the curious double net 'basket' which he lowers into the water. It shows incredible balance and coordination and, indeed, stamina as some were fishing at least 3 miles from the nearest shore!

We even passed a small mini-pagoda in the middle of the lake ( left ) in which a monk sometimes sits to pray for good fishing or maybe just for a bit of aquatic meditation.
The lake was busy with long-boat traffic which was carrying goods and local passengers to and from the various shoreside markets plus, of course, the flotilla of speeding tourist boats. Some of the heavy-laden rice carrying craft were riding so low in the water it seemed they were on the point of sinking.

Right: After about an hour we arrived near the southern end of the lake where there is a village, I think called Thaung Tho ( there are many villages all round the perimeter ), which is mainly constructed on stilts well out into the lake. There are also several large floating islands around here made out of reeds and vegetation on which crops are grown. It reminded me a bit of Lake Titicaca in Peru.

There is a large market here which sold everything from fish to brass taps and timber. Lots of ethnic tribal people come down from the hills to shop. One such people are the Pau-O ( left ). They are noticeable by their black tunics and the bright coloured towels they wear on their heads. There were lots of them.

Mr Min knew many of the locals and we wandered happily around the stalls. At one point I was persuaded to try a drink of the locally produced rice wine which, Mr Min assured me, was of good quality and entirely safe. Indeed he bought a litre plastic bottle of the stuff ( 15 cents ) for his wife which, he said, when consumed made her look much more attractive. The ultimate beauty product. One sip rather took my breath away and made my eyes water. I suspect they use the stuff to power the boats and clean ovens with as well.
Right: Mr Min at the market. He is an avid Arsenal supporter.

We went off on a tour of local workshops and houses all set on stilts in the water. Little skiffs, family affairs and mostly being paddled, were the main means of transport and operated with extraordinary skill by children and old folk alike.
There were more examples of supremely skilful work being done with primitive machinery, all in shops hovering above the water with landing stages for our boats. Weaving fabric was one. I bought a shirt. There was a blacksmith's shop with furnace and hand pumped bellows and three chaps wielding sledge-hammers onto a single piece of red hot metal to make a blade of some description. They were well practiced and their timing was perfectly coordinated to make a non-stop anvil chorus without hitting each others' hammers. It was a good show for the tourists. We also visited a silversmith's workshop which produced minutely intricate silver chains, necklaces, bracelets etc. all done painstakingly by hand. It was fascinating to watch these people at work. They must have incredibly good eyesight and steady hands. There was, unlike India, absolutely no hard sell to buy anything in any of these places.
Lunch was had in another stilt building ( right ). Very good non-spicy food. The little boat passing by is typical of the family transport. They are hardly more than a thick plank with a groove cut down the centre to sit in.

Left: On next to watch the cheroot makers at work. Burmese cheroots are hand made and contain surprisingly little tobacco. The mix which goes into the cheroot consists to a large part of ground aromatic wood of some sort, rolled and sealed in a leaf. They are surprisingly mild and very different to a cigar, or cigarette for that matter. They are also very cheap.

On up the west side of the lake past the extensive floating island 'gardens' on which the Intha ( local tribe ) farmers grow tomatoes, squashes, fruit and other vegetables on wooden trellises . I think the islands are staked to the lake bed to stop them floating away.

Then off west up an incoming river for a few miles which involved shooting a series of small rapids. Skillful boat handling here, and the jungle was closing in on all sides before we popped out into the tranquil village of Indien ( right ). It was reminiscent of that sequence in the film Apocalypse Now, apart from the scores of tourist long-boats waiting there.

By this stage, early afternoon, it was getting very hot! I told Mr Min that I was not so keen to see more temples, so we bypassed the Shwe Inn Thein Paya on the hill above the village. Left: This is it on being bypassed. Much of the complex, built in the 17th century, has become overgrown but many new stupas have been rebuilt. Keeping our shoes firmly on, we headed towards what Mr Min described as a very pleasant little place that sold Burmese wine. I had discovered previously that a German wine expert had established a vineyard on the hillside to the east of the lake and was now producing decent, export quality, red and white wines. The bar/restaurant was back down near the river and was indeed a most picturesque and comfortable place called the Bamboo Bar. The wine was perfectly good too and most welcome. Then back on board and fast downstream to the lake where, on turning north, we called in at a house which produces handicrafts and is staffed by the 'long-necked' women from the Paidaung clan.

Right: These surprisingly adorned ladies have stretched their necks beneath shiny brass rings. This tradition started centuries ago when tigers were a constant danger. It was considered prudent to cover the vulnerable parts of the womenfolk with brass to protect them in the event of being mauled by a tiger. I suppose this then became a fashion. They cannot take the brass rings off, even when sleeping, because otherwise their necks would collapse and they would suffocate. The neck pieces, made of solid brass, weigh a ton! They gave us an example to hold. I suppose one set of rings weighs, at a guess, about 4lb, or 2kg. They said the 'fashion' for this was dying out. How surprising.
Regardless, they seemed very cheerful ladies. I wonder how long they spend polishing each others' necks every morning. I don't suppose they do much swimming either. Diving yes, but not swimming .
I thought, for almost my very first full day so far in Burma, that I had got away without removing my shoes before bedtime. No such luck. Mr Min said I should not miss a visit to the Nga Hpe Kyaung, the Jumping Cat Monastery. We, along with about 50 other boats, pulled in at this fairly nondescript monastery on stilts to view the spectacle, without shoes and socks of course. Apparently, in between meditating, sleeping and eating the monks here got bored and having a profusion of cats about the place decided to teach them to jump through hoops. Well, I suppose with limited outside activities, no alcohol, no women and no TV that is exactly the sort of thing you might expect bored monks to do.

In fact it was a lady who appeared ( the monks were meditating or sleeping I suppose) and put the pussies through their paces before a phalanx of camera toting tourists. I mean, it is not exactly an earth shattering experience to watch a cat leap through a hoop ( not even a flaming one ), but they did and we duly watched. They were encouraged to do this by the lady holding a bit of cat food the other side of the hoop. I suspect their training also included a monk standing behind them with a poised size eleven boot.
It is surprisingly difficult to get a good photo of a leaping cat. They blur easily. I took several before giving up.

So back on board again and we set course for the one hour return trip to Nyaungshwe. It had been a long and interesting day. Mr Min had been an excellent guide with a great sense of humour. Shoes off and on once only!
Right: Back at 'base' the place was fairly full up with the returned long-boats.

Left: We grabbed a conveniently passing taxi back to the hotel. Mr Min went back home to watch Arsenal on TV, and me to wander the town for the rest of the evening. Its a very busy place with lots of watering holes to cater for all types of tourist who almost seem to outnumber the locals.

Right: So its goodnight from me, and goodnight from her. I never asked these girls if it ever gets a bit itchy down their necks and if so what they did to alleviate it. One of them was called Slinky.

Lazy morning tomorrow then, per force, a shortish flight from the local airport, Heho, to the beach on the west coast, the Arakan peninsular.

MANDALAY - BURMA ( part 2 )

2012-02-17T08:57:00.000-08:00

3rd - 4th Feb 2012

Ducks' arse

Left: Another workshop, this time weaving cloth. Again primitive equipment, hand looms, and I couldn't fathom out how the damned things worked. The girls operating these consulted some complicated hieroglyphics on what looked like sheet music held on a stand and whizzed the shuttle side to side and pumped the pedals non-stop with their feet. Quite some skill and co-ordination. The end product was an intricately designed length of silk and cotton fabric.

I forgot to mention our driver, the delightful Mr Myo. He was the perfect chauffeur and felt obliged to open and close the car door for me whenever getting in or out. I must look more decrepit than I thought. We went off to visit another couple of ex-royal capitals nearby. Firstly Amarapura, about 7 miles south, Burma's penultimate royal capital before King Mindon moved it to Madalay due to a Buddhist prophesy. It is most renowned for the iconic U Bein's bridge ( right ). This crosses the shallow Taungthaman Lake and is 1.3 miles long. It is the worlds longest teak footbridge. I am getting a little cynical about 'the worlds biggest, longest, shortest etc.'. It is always very specifically qualified. I mean I could claim, with some justification, to be the world's tallest ( English, wearing a cloth cap, carrying a Burmese walking stick, in Mandalay on 3rd Feb 2012 ) man.

We walked about halfway across and past these men, there were six of them, up to their chests in water. I thought they were herding ducks ( of which there were hundreds and didn't, or couldn't, fly ). They waded in formation around the lake slapping the water as they went. It turned out that they were pulling a fishing net. We watched them for ages being keen to see what they had caught. Not very much, as it happened. Not even a duck....something I noted that the English cricket team had acquired a lot of in the recent Tests against Pakistan.
It always seemed to be rather misty around Mandalay.

After this it was to another monastery, the Maha Ganayon Kyaung, nearby. It is home to several thousand monks of all ages ranging from 6 or 7 yrs to very old, who study, meditate, sleep and ........eat there. Definitely no TV, whisky or wild women. There were lots of tourists gathered because, at about 1100am, the monks go to lunch. This is the equivalent of a chimpanzee's tea party; 'the monks lunch party'. To the sound of clicking cameras and ( shoes off again ) the whiff of rice and smelly feet, thousands of monks, carrying their rice bowls, traipse through the open plan dining hall and sit down to midday nosh ( right ). The ordinary monks eat very simple meals.........in silence.

......as do the very young child monklets in the white robes ( left ). They are forbidden to talk. Something here reminded me of a soldiers' cookhouse ( c. 1970 ) where the duty officer had to walk around, inspect the food and receive any complaints. You know, the normal ones like "Sir, these peas are not green enough", or when asked, "How did you find your steak, Trooper Smith?" The reply being along the lines of "Well, sir, I just lifted up this chip and there it was".
The senior monks here sensibly avoid this humiliation.

Right: I think this must be the chief monk who was eating alone. He has quite a spread in front of him. As with the military system; rank has it's privileges.

Then on by a small fast motor boat across the river to another ancient capital, Ava ( now called Inwa ). I was by now getting quite competent at 'walking the plank' twixt boat and shore. At least I haven't fallen in yet. Our next mode of transport was pony and trap. In fact this vehicle is the norm in Burmese rural areas as well as the smaller towns. Left: Miss Tit Tit standing next to our chariot. She was terrified of the pony which was called Su Bang or something similar. Better than Michael Jackson or Fidel Castro as per the Indian camels.

We set off on what was a long hot dusty and bumpy drive around the few remains of this ancient city because what is left is well spread out. Many temples/stupas and disused monasteries were on our route and, naturally, involved much de-shoeing. Miss TT is very devout and knelt down and prayed in front of every Buddha we came across. That, for her, involved a lot of kneeling. The other guides did not do this. Maybe they were more 'footy' worshippers than the Buddha variety. Right: Miss TT praying to one of the Buddhas. You may also notice a small stuffed rodent sitting in front of it and to which she was also making obeisance.

I will try not bore you with too many more photos of the many temples, monasteries and Buddhas etc. which tend to become a little repetitive.

I forgot, however, to take a pic of what is known as the Leaning Tower of Ava. This is a 90ft high crumbling and derelict tower which lists at an alarming angle and was badly damaged in an 1838 earthquake. The view from the top is not particularly inspiring but you certainly notice the precarious tilt as you climb up the spiral staircase, with loose wooden steps, on the outside of the building. Miss TT climbed part of the way up ( I don't think she likes heights, or loose wooden steps for that matter ). I managed to get up a ladder onto the open roof space where I found a group of young Burmese having a very jolly picnic with music ( ghetto blaster ) plus copious quantities of food and wine. I hope they managed to get down safely.

Left: This is a misty view from a disused monastery window across the river to Mandalay in the distance. The little girl took quite a shine to the rat. It could have become quite a protracted struggle to get it back and developed into a 'hostage' situation. Aided by Miss TT, I managed to secure it's release, unharmed, after some hard bargaining and handing over K200 ( 20 cents ). I think I was very lucky to get away with it so cheaply.

Right: A typical rural house in Ava. These are simple dwellings but beautifully built from various woods, teak and bamboo mainly, and the outside areas are always well swept. Poor people maybe, but clean, tidy and house proud. Entirely unsimilar to 'poor' areas of London, for example.

Back across the river and after lunch we visited a building near the Palace and Fort called the Shwenandaw Kyaung ( that 'shwe' again ). This was originally a royal apartment in the palace complex. It was in here that King Mindon died in 1878. His son, King Thibaw, repeatedly saw the ghost of his father there and had the building dismantled and reassembled outside the palace ( fort ) walls. It is a beautiful teak building with remains of some intricate carving and ornate gold decoration. It subsequently became a monastery. Just as well he moved it because otherwise it would have been destroyed by bombs in WW2, along with all the other palace buildings.

Next on the agenda was the 19th century Kuthodaw Paya. This temple/stupa is notable for the fact that it, and another adjacent temple, are encircled by many concentric rings of marble tablets, each contained in it's own little shrine, or mini-stupa ( badly shown on pic to left ). There are a total of 2503 ( yes, really ) of these slabs and shrines which have engraved on them all the 15 books of the Buddhist 'bible', the Tripitaka, plus added commentaries. They are collectively known as the World's Biggest Book. It is difficult to get a photograph from ground level which demonstrates the huge scale of this 'book'.
Something I didn't have time to do was to go to see a performance of the locally renowned Moustache Brothers. This is a three man satirical comedy group who regularly take the piss out of the Burmese government and, as a result, are equally regularly locked up. They seem to be able to carry on regardless even if often down to one or two performers at times. Their act is spoken in Burmese only so, I suspect, a lot of the jokes would be lost on non-Burmese speaking members of the audience, as well as the Burmese government. Despite this they are probably funnier than many of the dreadful and witless present day British 'comedians'.

Right: Before I forget, I took a photo of one of the many street-side stalls set up to provide the popular ( amongst the poor, mainly ) and cheap betel nut chew. The ingredients consist of a large betel tree leaf, a dollop of lime ( this is not the lime you put in your gin & tonic, this is white lime as in Calcium Hydroxide, Ca(OH)2, which you might use to clean the drains with ), some cut up betel nut, a dash of chopped tobacco and maybe a sprinkling of aniseed or cloves to taste. This is wrapped into a mouth sized portion and chewed resulting in a slightly hallucinogenic effect, black and red stained teeth and lips, rotted gums, and scalded throat plus copious quantities of red saliva to be spat out ( note the advertising of Oral B! ). I think I would be equally happy to chew some cardboard soaked in battery acid and sprinkled with iron filings. Whatever turns you on, I suppose.

Just in time to get up Mandalay Hill to the temple up there, to witness the sunset over the Irrawaddy ( left ). These 'sunset and sunrise viewings' appear to be a staple of the tourist diet worldwide. I tend not to do sunrise viewings because I am asleep then. There is a memorial up here to the Royal Berkshire Regiment who re-took the fort from the Japs in March 1945.
Shoes off and on nine times today.

A slightly early start tomorrow morning with a pick up by the marvellous Mr Myo for an eight hour drive over the hills to Inle Lake.

MANDALAY - BURMA ( part 1 )

2012-02-16T04:57:00.000-08:00

1st - 2nd Feb 2012

Mandalay Hill, in the mist, north of the city

"On the road to Mandalay, where the flyin' fishes play" as the words, written by Rudyard Kipling, go. Do they bollocks! I believe Mr Kipling was not in Burma very long; maybe just for a night stop-over when, after a few too many pink gins at the bar of the Strand Hotel in Rangoon, he wrote this poem. There are certainly no flyin' fishes in, or over, the Irrawaddy. At least no more than there are pink elephants and green spiders.

Early morning, 0515hrs and pitch black, we boarded by means of a long wobbly wooden plank the good ship Schwe ( that word again ) Keinnery and left the riverside at Old Bagan bound for Mandalay on the 13 hour voyage up the Irrawaddy. It left in the dark so I hadn’t a clue how the skipper knew where he was going. They probably do it from memory and cross their fingers that they don't hit a sandbank. It was a normal river boat, nothing luxurious, but had fairly comfortable reclining chair seating and a bar and restaurant upstairs plus an upper ‘promenade’ deck with deck chairs. It had the capacity for about 150 passengers. There were only six of us ( tourists ) on board including two amusing English ladies from Kent and a Frenchman from Lyons . Plenty of room.

The journey up the river was uneventful and there was not really much of great interest to see sailing through the flat countryside. At this time of year the river is low and many sandbanks have to be avoided. At some potentially very shallow parts a chap hung over the bow with a long bamboo pole to check the depth and yelled words of encouragement or caution to the helmsman up above. I think they were following, or avoiding, a line of bamboo poles sticking out of the water.

Left: There were occasional tugs towing rafts of teak logs downstream. These rafts had temporary houses built on top of them for the workers to sleep and cook in.

Right: We also passed one of the super-luxury Pandaw ships, a restored ex-British Irrawaddy Flotilla Company vessel from before WW2. These do cruises up and down the river with comfort levels and tours ( and prices ) similar to the Indian ‘Palace on Wheels’ train, I read.

It was noticeable how little bird life was present; just a few seagull types. No sign of any fish rising either, let alone flyin' fishes or the strange bulbous headed Irrawaddy dolphin that I'd read about. Maybe that was just another figment of the inventive Mr Kipling's imagination.

Left: On the east bank approaching Mandalay. Not sure what this temple complex is but it looked quite impressive. We arrived, again in the dark, at 1900hrs. The skipper was using spot-lights to do the landing.

Mandalay was the last Burmese royal capital city with King Thibaw as ruler until the British removed him and packed him and family off on holiday to India in 1885. It is a pretty uninspiring place, low rise and sprawling with a sort of street grid system where most of the streets are known by numbers ( 1 - 50 E-W, and 51 - 100 N-S ) It is situated below Mandalay Hill, which was reputedly visited by Buddha, and from which it got it’s name. It is also mostly very clean and well swept if a little on the basic side. These Burmese take a pride in their local environment and enjoy a bit of personal space, unlike some neighbouring countries to the west that I could mention.

I had a lady guide for the next two days. Her name was spelt Htet Htet Wai Hiang. She pronounced it ‘Tit Tit Wee Ing’ which, I thought, was not very flattering. I don’t know who was responsible for translating the squiggly Burmese writing into Roman script, but he, or she, must have had a tin ear because the spelling you read in the translated aural version often bears scant resemblance to the Burmese pronounciation. As a case in point, the word for their currency, the Kyat ( as spelt in guide books ), is pronounced more like ‘Chet’. It was probably done by some well refreshed British civil servant in a couple of hours after a very good lunch.
The only other Burmese word with which I have become familiar is 'Mingulabar', which means hello, or good morning, or good evening or whenever you greet someone.

We started off by visiting another blinking temple, the Mahamuni Paya, which is extraordinary for the fact that the star feature in this enormous complex is the highly venerated 13ft high Buddha ( right ) which attracts thousands of devotees daily to stick gold leaf squares on it. The Buddha now looks very lumpy with about six inches of solid gold splodged onto the exterior after years of gold leaf being added. Women ( including Miss Tit Tit ) are not allowed to approach this Buddha.

..... but I was able to walk up to and around the back of this lump of gold and watched as a continuous stream of men came up and each stuck several small gold leaf patches onto it ( left ). I was working out if I could accidently dislodge an inch or two. This Buddha is also subjected to it’s teeth and face being scrubbed in a ceremony at 4.00am every morning. It all gets stranger and stranger.

Right: I'm not sure if it was in this complex, or another ( who cares ) where there are some ancient bronze statues which supposedly have miraculous healing powers. You are meant to rub the part of the statue which corresponds to that bit of your body which needs rectification. You can see from the photo by the parts which shine, or have been completely rubbed away, those areas which most commonly trouble the afflicted believers.

Next on the agenda was a visit to a factory where tapestries, wood-carvings and marionettes are made. As with all these ‘workshops’, the skill, effort and sheer time which goes into producing a complex design and beautiful end product, all painstakingly hand made using primitive equipment, is not reflected in the price charged. The ladies making these highly intricate tapestries sit and stitch with minute accuracy for a solid eight hours per day, every day of the week. The pay they get for this work is minimal and the cost of the finished product is small for the labour put in. Nowhere in the western ‘first’ world could such skill or work ethic be found. Noone would be prepared to do this for any price, I suspect.

Left: An array of exquisite embroidery and cheap at the price. The wood carvings and beautifully dressed large and small puppets were equally impressive. Truly a labour of love or, more likely, no other means of earning a living.

Then on to one of the places where they make and sell the gold leaf. This is another extraordinary workshop. They take a small ( memory stick sized ) 12 gram mini gold bar and initially heat and then roll it into a 5 metre long gold strip. This strip is cut into 200 pieces. Each of these 200 pieces is progressively hammered, by hand, into 1600 2” squares of tissue thin gold leaf. I tried to get the details written down correctly, but don't bank on them! The hammering is done in 30 minute sessions, timed by a coconut shell with a hole in it sitting in a bucket of water until it sinks, over a total aggregate of 5 hours hammering. I didn't ask why they don't just use a clock. Each little almost transparent square of gold leaf costs K1000 ( about 1.2 US$ ). I bought two as souvenirs. This gold leaf is the stuff that the worshippers stick onto the Buddhas etc. It is all very weird to my way of thinking.

Right: The hammerers and the coconut shell timer in the brown bowl of water. Keeps them fit, no doubt. I had a go and it is jolly hard work. Maybe they have a machine that does it much more efficiently when the tourists' backs are turned.

Left: This is the girl who did all the explaining. She sold me two bits of gold leaf but failed to sell me lots of the more expensive gold items.

We then went on the old Royal Palace complex in the centre of the city. This is a big fortified area. Each crenellated outside wall is about 2 miles long and has elaborate Chinese style watchtowers along it’s length and a large covered gate in each side plus a 50 yard wide water filled moat surrounding it all. It became a military base in British days known as Fort Dufferin. It was bombed flat in WW2 and all the old palace structures were destroyed. The bloody Japs were to blame.

Right: Replicas of, supposedly, the original palace buildings have now been rebuilt ( with red corrugated iron roofs ) and look a little tacky and artificial, and the central area is open, at a price, to tourists. Most of the tree covered inside area is still a Burmese army base which is strictly out of bounds. This is looking down on the central palace buildings where King Mindon and finally King Thibaw presided. The pic was taken from the top of a rather rickety tower. Miss Tit Tit was completely knackered when she got to the top. It wasn't that high but she could scarcely get her breath back. She is not fit. Obviously been neglecting her physical jerks in the mornings.

Left: King Mindon on his throne. There are other dummies around the place; supposedly look-alikes of long deceased royal personages.

Right: A part of the wall and moat. Alongside much of the railings on the footpath between street and moat they have built a sort ‘excercise’ route with push-me-pull-you machines and things you stand on and swivel your hips plus lots of other body toning devices. They were being well used, I noticed, on leaving the city early one morning. Not by me, I hasten to add.
The majority of people in this part of the world ( Thailand and Vietnam included ) get up very early and regularly do some form of exercise, in the dark, before going to work. I also saw squads of ladies and gents doing choreographed dance routines and complicated things with long sticks. They take their physical jerks quite seriously before going away to smoke their heads off and chew the carcinogenic betel nut gunge. Miss Tit Tit must be an exception to all this.

Then after lunch by small boat up-river to Mingun about 10 miles north on the western bank. Myself and Miss Tit Tit had a boat to ourselves. Left: Boarding involved clambering from boat to boat from the shore along more wobbly planks. One needs to be relatively sober to complete this boarding procedure without falling in.

Right: The deck of our boat. The skipper plus his sister and mother were the crew. They supplied refreshments and got us safely there and back.

Mingun, another ancient royal site is famous for three things. An unfinished stupa, a large bell and a big white pagoda.

Left: This unfinished construction was to have been the biggest stupa in the world. It was the brainchild of a previous king and building commenced in the late 18th century. What you see here is only the remains of the base level. It would indeed have been enormous and by far and away the biggest stupa in the universe but the king died in 1819 before it was completed and the project died with him. I imagine the workers and the next regime got supremely bored of this mammoth task. It has also some big cracks and much damage caused by earthquakes. In fact it resembles nothing more than a gigantic pile of bricks; millions of them. You can climb to the top up a series of rickety debris-strewn steps but, believe it or not, you are obliged to take off shoes and socks to do this. I need to use my feet again so wasn't tempted. Inside the doorway in the white front porch is, yes you've guessed correctly, a Buddha ( rather a small and unimpressive one ) plus collection boxes for the 'maintenance' of this heap of rubble.

Right: Then there is the bell. Another mega-project by the same size obsessed king and made in 1808. It is cast in bronze, is 16 feet in diameter, 12 feet tall and weighs 90 tons. It is the largest intact bell in the world. There is a much bigger and heavier one in Moscow but that is cracked and not hung. The done thing here is to climb inside and get your friend to whack it with a big heavy stick provided for the purpose. It does indeed make a loud 'BONG', and I only heard it from the outside.

Left: Lastly, a strange white pagoda. We climbed up to the top of this ( sans sabots, obviously ) where a couple more Buddhas were waiting in situ, together with a security guard who expected a small donation to reward his sedentary efforts. I was told what the significance of this pagoda is but, to be honest, I've now forgotten.
That was Mingun and concluded the first part of the tour of Mandalay and environs.
Quite an interesting and enjoyable day and I only had to do the shoes off/on routine 5 times.

BAGAN - BURMA

2012-02-13T08:23:00.000-08:00

30th Jan - 1st Feb 2012

View over Old Bagan

Bagan, previously the Burmese capital city from 11th to 13th centuries, was originally known as Pyugan, then Pukam after which the British called it Pagan and finally the military ‘junta’ switched it to Bagan. The barbaric Imperial Jap Army might have called it Nippan for all I know. One problem in this country is deciphering the original, intermediate and new place names. It gets most confusing because the names change depending on their context and who you are speaking to or what books you read. For example, Mrs Michael Aris ( aka Aung San Suu Khi, the popular local politician ) still refers to the country as ‘Burma’ not ‘Myanmar’ because she believes that the military junta had no authority or legitimacy to change all these names whatever the historical rights and wrongs.

The ‘Royal’ capital of this country switched location several times. Over the past 1000 years it shuttled between Bagan ( Pagan ), Ava ( now Inwa ), Taungoo, Mokesebo ( now Shwebo ), Sagaing, Amarapura and finally Mandalay before the British deposed the Burman monarchy in 1885 and established the new capital in Rangoon ( now Yangon ), and the latest government has moved it yet again to a new city called Nay Pyi Taw somewhere up country but which is out of bounds to foreigners. It is all a bit muddling. I shall refer to Bagan as Bagan. I didn’t know it as anything else.

On the east bank of the Irrawaddy river, about 90 miles south of Mandalay, Bagan now consists of three seperate areas; Old Bagan, New Bagan to the south and Nyaung U to the north. It is remarkable because the kings between the 10th and 13th centuries went on a fanatical non-stop Buddhist temple/stupa/monastery building binge. In an area of 42 square km ( 32 square miles ) over 5000 temples were constructed of varying size and opulence. These were built of brick and stone and some marble whereas the palaces and houses were made of wood and have as a consequence disappeared. Following a big earthquake in 1975 many of these temples were either completely flattened or damaged.

There has been a vigorous programme of reconstruction since and there are now 3122 standing and the figure is growing! There has been some international ‘heritage‘ criticism of the standard of this rebuilding. Some of the reconstructed sites are already looking a bit dilapidated and some have not been very tastefully done. Whatever your viewpoint the scale of this over-the-top ‘temple-fest‘ is quite incredible. Wherever you look there are stupas and pagodas sticking up, most within 100 yards of each other. On a conducted tour of the area, to which I was subjected, it is adviseable to wear easily removable footwear. The shoes on/off ( and socks please ) routine here goes into overdrive. The view ( above ) gives a poor impression of the landscape which is crowded with temple and stupas.

I was booked into a very pleasant hotel, the Thanzin Garden ( reception area right ). Bagan area now has lots of hotels and restaurants due to an increasing tourist trade and is, as a consequence, bumping up it’s prices considerably. It has a rather captive market. A beer here costs twice as much as in Rangoon. The internet works, but very slowly and sometimes various ‘servers’ cannot be accessed. My AOL system seems often to be blocked. Some experts know how to download and use ‘proxy’ servers which gets around the problem but I have failed to manage this. I expect any schoolchild could do it.

Left: My rustic looking but very comfortable 'chalet' style room.

I will not even begin to describe individually the loads of temples, stupas, monasteries and squillions of Buddhas I was guided to see but I think this was the biggest ( right ), the one with the gold stupa, the Schwezigon Paya ( that ‘schwe’ word again ). They all have names, often including ‘schwe’, but I soon gave up trying to record what they are. If you are that interested buy a copy of the Lonely Planet.

....and this ( left ) was taken of another which I took because I thought it made a decent photograph. Talking of photographs, I have been amazed at the enormous size, and probably cost, of many of the cameras and lenses that so many tourists lug around with them. Some of their equipment looks as if it requires wheels. I expect they might produce marvellous photos but the hassle and effort of carrying these hefty and easily breakable ( and stealable ) bits of kit around without a team of porters, must be considerable. I use a little point and shoot thing which fits in my pocket and does the job. I mean, most people only want photos as ‘souvenirs’ with which to bore rigid their friends on return home, or put in a blog. I doubt so many require the quality of image necessary to fill the pages of National Geographic.

Some tourists travel around the area by pony and trap, some by oxcart, some by bicycle and some, the idle ones like me, by car. Some structures you can climb up via crumbling stonework, some you can’t. Some have rooms and steps inside, some are solid. Right: A troop of the oxcart brigade.

The Buddhas come in a variety of sizes and are made of differing materials. Where a rectangular temple houses up to four ‘big’ Buddhas ( one on each side ) they normally have lots, hundreds in some cases, of alcoves holding smaller Buddhas. Following on are a selected few.
Left: The girl here was deputed by Mr Tun to show me around for a bit while, I suspect, he went off for a smoke break. She was very pleasant and as you can see wore rather a heavy layer of the thanakha make-up.

This ( right ) was one of the larger ones. It reminds me of someone; other than Buddha I mean. Bernie; you looking?

and ( left ) this one’s mouth intriguingly changed from a straight line close up, to a broad smile as you walked back from it. I am now aware of the difference between Indian, Burmese and Chinese Buddhas. I’m sure this knowledge will come in handy one day.

There was never a shortage of collection boxes. It was explained that each box is to collect money for a different purpose, ie. electricity, building, monks’ food, cleaning, security, rat traps etc. etc. Not whisky and wild women one supposes. Who is responsible for collecting and distributing this money was not made clear. An honest and sober senior monk perhaps.

I resisted the temptation to put the rat on the desk in front of this little Buddha before which several people were fervently praying. I was getting a touch bored by now.

I spent the day being escorted around and was told that to cover the whole site would take about three days! To be honest I’d seen more than enough blasted temples etc. before lunch. It was taking a lot of effort to appear interested in the elaborate descriptions of Buddhist buildings, history and ‘legends’ given by my most enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide, Mr Tun, plus the non-stop tedious shoes on/off routine.

I was by now more than well aware that most Burmese are devoutly religious ( superstitious one might say ) when it comes to the Buddhist faith, but I gathered quickly, and this was confirmed by Mr Tun, that they have another equally and obsessively observed religion; English Premier League Football. Mr Tun is an avid Chelsea supporter. It is expected that if you come from England you have a comprehensive knowledge of all the Premier League teams and their goings on. I have had to start making notes on this because I am somewhat ignorant in this direction. It is simply not accepted that you are not a devout supporter of one English team or another and know all the players in it. Almost on a par with the Lord Buddha are David Beckham, Alex Ferguson and, curiously, Alan Shearer plus some others of whom I hadn't heard. They, the Burmese I have met who speak English, wax lyrical about English footy teams and all support one team or another. They are much more knowledgeable than me. The main 'sects' of Burmese Footy worship seem to centre around Manchester United, Arsenal, Chelsea and Tottenham Hotspur. I mentioned Newcastle..."Aah, Alan Shearer very good" is the inevitable response ( hasn't he retired?; but then so has Mr Buddha ).

For reasons I never really fathomed, the soles of Buddha’s feet play an important role. These ‘feet’ ( left ) were ancient ( 11th century ) paintings on one of the ceilings. Maybe this is the connection with football. I never thought to ask.

By the time we got to the ‘fabulous sunset viewing’ from the summit of the final pagoda or temple or whatever it was ( right ), I was suffering from a serious temple/pagoda overdose and just wanted to go home for a strong drink. I could not imagine spending three days here, unless you are a fanatical temple viewer. Frankly, once you’ve seen a couple you’ve more or less seen ‘em all. I was absolutely ‘stupa’d’, pagoda’d and well nigh Buddha’d by the end of the day which was marked by climbing up this precipitous temple amongst loads of other camera wielding tourists to take a photo of the area looking towards the Irrawaddy at aforementioned sunset ( photo at top ).

Left: Tourists wielding their big bodies and long lenses at sunset.

Right: It was a steep climb down and, having got to the top, there was a big queue in front. It was almost dark when I got to the bottom. They will need to build a few more temples of equal height, and they probably will, if the tourist market booms further.

The weather here, especially in the afternoon, was bazzing hot. I believe that all of the central plain of Burma becomes a semi-desert with temperatures soring to the mid 40s ( degrees C that is ) in March/April before the monsoon rains come.

The other thing for which this area is renowned is it’s cottage industry for lacquerware. Some of it looks very pretty but I have no way of knowing the quality. The fact that Bagan is a tourist magnet has led to an overpopulation of temple-side stalls flogging the stuff, plus other tat and junk. I have a horrible fear that these will soon take on Indian proportions but, as yet, the Burmese are far too polite to be aggressive hawkers and touts. The problem is that due to the meagre wages people earn on the land or doing hard manual labour, they only have to sell a tiny amount of ‘souvenirs’ to generous tourists to get more money for comparatively little effort.

Onwards tomorrow. Up the Irrawaddy by boat to Mandalay.

THE TRAIN TO BAGAN

2012-02-11T22:41:00.000-08:00

29th - 30th Jan 2012

Rangoon railway station.

We set off with a jolt from Rangoon Central smack on time at 1600hrs on the overnight train for the scheduled 17 hour journey to Bagan. My carriage was an ‘upper-class’ sleeper which was the second to rear of a nine carriage train on a very ancient narrow guage railway track built by the British in, I suspect, 1325 AD.

The compartment ( left ) had four bunks and I was to share it with a Dutch/Indonesian father and son; the father being an anaesthetist in Nijmegen and the son an economist on holiday from working in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. It was quite comfortable, when static, with a window, or rather a large square hole in the wall with a pull-down blind, an air-con machine which didn’t work and a fan which did, noisily. The Dutch couple were to prove amusing company.

We ground to a halt five minutes later at a station called, curiously, Athlone Road. And then again after another five minutes at another halt with an undecipherable name in squiggly lettered Burmese. If this was going to be the routine it was going to take an awfully long time to cover the 420 miles to Bagan. It then sped up and, by crikey, we soon realised that either the train wheels were scew-whiff or the track was seriously warped, or both. It didn’t just rock ‘n’ roll, it leaped up and down and tilted to the point where we were wondering how it was going to stay upright. It brought to mind those cartoon trains, the rear carriages of which left the rails on bends and hills waggling about like a dogs tail. The three of us were hanging on and giggling nervously. I was sitting next to the open space ( window ) and sat back carefully in case a sudden lurch saw me do a quick sideways exit. The noise was deafening. A ‘waiter’ entered to ask what we wanted for supper and as we didn’t really understand, or even hear, him we said we would get something to eat later. Therefore, at some point, we decided to go to the restaurant car which was two carriages in front. This turned out to be an exciting expedition. On staggering down the narrow corridor it was necessary to keep both hands on the walls to avoid spinning out of the conveniently located open ‘windows’ which ran from thigh to neck height and the even more perilous wide-open outside carriage doors through which it was eminently possible to be ejected. It was like walking on one of those ‘fun-fair’ wobbly floors with added screeching, crashing and banging sound effects plus extra dangers. Conversation at less that a scream was impossible. On reaching the joins between carriages we were confronted with a further interesting, indeed alarming, hazard. The gap was about a yard wide and open-air down to the coupling and track rushing past beneath. The edges of this gaping void added to the challenge by moving up and down about two feet in opposing directions. It was necessary to judge when both sides would be roughly approaching level before making a leap and grabbing the sides of the opposite doorway. The potential for a slip and subsequent disaster was high. We made it over two of these lethal gaps to the dimly lit restaurant car safely, laughing uproariously as one does having survived near death experiences. I then realised I had left my camera and bag of valuables in the compartment! If these were nicked I would be devastated, so back I went. Only to find the door to the compartment had been locked. Fearing that someone obviously has access and might return to borrow my stuff, if they hadn’t already, I then had to go back to the restaurant car where I found a waiter who ‘helpfully’ gave me the key to the compartment. Back I went on another life threatening journey to open the sliding compartment door ( after a violent struggle because it had jammed ), gratefully retrieved my valuables and returned again over the obstacle course to the restaurant. To be honest, I was becoming rather adept and almost blasé at leaping the bucking ‘chasms of death’. We sat and drank that beer which did not spill out of glass or bottle and shouted to one another. The food, sweet and sour chicken with rice, took a while to appear because, I suspect, the chef had to scrape most of it off floor, walls and ceiling in the mini-kitchen. It tasted pretty good. Two other foreign tourists stumbled in looking rather shell-shocked who, now I think about it, I never saw again. Maybe they are still lying out on the track somewhere. They might have overdone the beer. We passed several picturesque little villages as night drew in and then had to do the final fraught return trip in total darkness this time. Doing it in daylight without drink taken was no challenge any more. So reaching the relative safety of our compartment unscathed we congratulated ourselves ( now ‘night and day qualified’ as they say in the world of aviation ). There is something quite satisfying and invigorating about making a journey which has a certain ‘frisson’ of danger thrown in. Something which is rather lost in the sterile world of British ( and Australian ) railways with all their bloody annoying ‘elf ‘n’ safety’ announcements and unnecessarily odious and restrictive rules and regulations. It is a salutary lesson, I often think, how, given a slightly risky situation, by using common sense and being alert to the dangers, people survive very happily.

We settled down, if that expression can be used in circumstances of severe turbulence and noise, to try to sleep. I woke up at some point wanting to have a pee. This was going to be interesting. There were no lights and the first problem was that the compartment door had jammed again. It was a fight to get it open which, had the prevailing noise not been so loud, would have raised the dead. I escaped into the dark and bouncing passageway and realised I didn’t know where the bog was. I tried some doors which turned out to be locked. Being a bit bleary-eyed and alone and in my socks, I wasn’t prepared to leap across the gaps again in vain search, so just pissed onto the track while hanging on to the doorway with one hand. Problem solved.

Other than it getting rather cold, the rest of the night was spent in relative comfort and even occasionally falling asleep. One gets used to living in a salt-shaker I presume.

Breakfast, including much welcome sweet tea, was served by our waiter who is obviously entirely at home leaping from swerving and pitching carriage to carriage with both hands full.

We passed more little villages ( right ) and stations which looked remarkably neat and tidy ( anything looks neat and tidy after India ) which consisted of some beautifully built wooden ( bamboo and teak? ) houses on stilts.

People were washing at communal stand-pipes and beginning the day’s work ( left ) in the fields. The countryside had the appearance being poor but well ordered and with seemingly happy and smiling people.

Lots of people were waiting at the several little stations we stopped at the next morning; some trying to flog food and others, like these two youngsters ( right ) some kind of refreshment in bottles. Or it might have been fuel or weed-killer for all I knew.

We arrived a couple of hours late, 1100hrs, at Bagan. It had been an exhilarating 19 hour trip. Strongly recommended for those who need a bit of ‘spice’ put into their rail travel.

Our train.

RANGOON - BURMA

2012-02-11T10:42:00.000-08:00

27th - 29th Jan 2012

Shwedagon Paya (Temple ). Rangoon

The early morning taxi ride to Calcutta airport passed through some grim knee-deep rubbish-strewn outlying slums with low-life and mangy dogs warming themselves around roadside open fires ....just to give me that final taste of India. The check-in procedures through Calcutta International Airport were well up to expectations. A grim beaurocratic time consuming ( nearly 2 hours ) performance during which my passport and documents were inspected no less than nine times and overweight suitcase re-packed and then twice through a security scanner and I still had to pay an exorbitant price for being 3 kg over the miserable 20 kg baggage allowance ( they must be playing to Aussie Rules here ). The airport itself is a sorry excuse for an international airport with pathetic facilities and very scruffy. They tell us that it is being rebuilt, hence the poor facilities, but there was little sign of activity in that direction. I seem to develop a mild form of Tourette's Syndrome whenever I am forced to use international airports ( as a passenger ). I find myself swearing and cursing, not always under my breath, at everyone and no-one in particular. Equally worrying, nobody seems to notice.
It was only a 1.5hr flight to Rangoon and I arrived at 1245hrs (L). The airport here is clean and modern and the officials were welcoming, smartly dressed and smiling. No fuss. I was met at arrivals by a very pretty young lady, Miss Hnin Wai, with whom I had been planning, by e-mail, my trip. She was delightful and helped me change some of my hard fought-for dollars into the local currency ( spelt 'khat', but pronounced 'chet' for some reason' ) of which, at a decent rate, there are 835 to the US$.
Chauffeur driven to my hotel, the Asia Plaza downtown Rangoon, I was immediately impressed by how clean, bright and ordered the city streets appeared ( in comparison with India that is ). I also noted that they drive on the right side of the road ( the wrong side ) unlike their neighbours India and Thailand who sensibly drive on the left. They changed from left to right under orders from the 'SLORC' government in 1974. No hassle or mad rushing crowds and it all looked remarkably pleasant with modern vehicles and quite smart shops and offices. I can only conclude that Indians, whose poor are no worse off financially than most of the Burmese poor, have lived packed together with shit up to their eyeballs for so long that either they don't notice it, or don't care.
Booked into the hotel and, again much to my pleasant surprise, they had Wi-Fi, and it was free! ( if remarkably slow ). So, I'm now in Burma the 'Golden Land'.

The next morning I was met by my guide ( left ), a charming chap whose 'nom de tour' is Clement ( his real is Khin Zaw ) and our driver, a cheerful lad called Joker. These two, indeed most of the blokes around these parts, wear 'cocktail dresses' called 'longyis' with their shirts and jackets. A sort of Burmese sarong equivalent. Very smart and practical. Longyis can be worn long, or short or even rolled up and made into shorts for football.
We started off a Rangoon city tour by visiting the enormous Vegetable Market at the far western end of Strand Road. Some of the roads and streets have maintained their British names, most have changed to Burmese. Clement referred to the city as Rangoon and the country as Burma....maybe just to humour me.

The vegetable market is notable by it's sheer size. It covers the area of at least six football pitches and sells goods grown from all around the country. It is open 24 hours a day and serves all the resale shops in town. The hundreds of trucks delivering the goods often come from 600 miles up country, with one driver apiece, and do the return journey after day's rest. I noticed that most of the knackered looking driver's mouths and teeth were stained black/red from chewing betel nut; probably to keep them awake on the road. Right: Some cabbages being off-loaded.

The city is large, low-rise and well spread out. It is all relatively clean and tidy with many 'green' areas of parks, lakes and gardens. The old part runs alongside the busy port area on the Rangoon River. There are still a few old colonial buildings to decorate the place such as this ( left ) the old Customs House. No motor-bikes or scooters are allowed in the city centre. Apparently they were banned after a senior minister's car was rammed by a motor-bike some years ago.

Before I witter on further, I think it is necessary to mention and explain the 'Stupa'. This is the bell-shaped edifice central to Buddhist temples. Regardless of whether you take an interest in religion or not, it should be mentioned and explained because, apart from anything else, Burma has more Buddhist temples per square mile than you can shake a stick at. It is the most enthusiastically Buddhist country ( maybe Tibet and Bhutan come close, but I think they might be a different variety of Buddhist ) in the world and they have a super abundance of extremely ornate, expensively decorated and remarkably impressive Buddhist temples each accompanied by its respective Stupa, or many more than one in most cases. It is impossible to tour Burma without being compelled to visit a selection of these. Right: A diagram of the typical Stupa. Enlarge to read and memorise all the various parts that go to make up the traditional design.

I remember cynically commenting on the Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic ( supposedly housing one of Lord Buddha's molars ) in Kandy, Sri Lanka, and mentioning that we might well see some other odd body parts of his Lordship being revered elsewhere. I was not wrong. Here in Rangoon is the Botataung Paya ( temple ) which is also known as the '1000 Leaders Temple', and in which reposes an equally revered relic; a strand of Buddha's hair! I nearly guessed correctly earlier. I000 military leaders, so the story goes, escorted this strand of hair from India to Burma.

It is kept safely ( out of sight ) in an elaborate ivory and gold, solid gold, casket here ( right ). Visitors are expected to pop a bank note through a slot as they peer in. Out of view below the photo is a sunken floor which is piled six feet high with bank notes and this cavern is emptied weekly, or more often. The financial collections in Buddhist temples put even American TV Evangelist con-men to shame. Everywhere you go, at all points in these temples, there are multiple collection boxes and they fill up rapidly. Queues of people, including the very poorest, contribute non-stop around the clock in some places. Their next life ( reincarnation ) depends on it.

The stupa of this temple is gleaming with gold; gold leaf at the bottom and on all the interior walls and 1 ft square gold plates further up. I'm afraid you are going to get very bored with seeing gold stupas and temples and Buddhas here, with lots of diamonds thrown in, but I was rather flabbergasted at the opulence of these places. It is what Burma does to the extreme and I doubt anywhere else gets within a distance of it. Lots more to come, so brace yourself ( or turn off ).

After building the Botataung Paya they paid tribute to the workers and their families by putting these sculptures of local children in the temple grounds. They are actually quite charming and make a refreshing change from more bleedin' Buddhas.

Burmese ladies, and some gents, wear this make up called 'Thanakha' on their cheeks ( left ), which is made from the bark of the thanakha tree. It is a traditional facial decoration and very fashionable still. Indeed most girls and ladies wear it , but it originated as a practical and effective type of facial sun screen.

This bronze Buddha, amongst many in the grounds, was donated by the famous Burmese film actor Chau Hing. I'm sure you've heard of him. He did not star in Ben Hur or any of the Bond films. It is the done thing for wealthy people to donate Buddha statues; the bigger the better. There are hundreds of them in varying sizes on shelves and in alcoves throughout most of the many thousands of temples and pagodas.

A more famous Buddha statue in this temple complex is this one, again gilded bronze, which was taken from the temple by the British when they got rid of the last Burmese King, King Thibaw, in 1885. It was exhibited at the V&A museum in London until being returned in 1951. So we do give some things back.

Next stop was the gigantic 'reclining Buddha' ( right ) at the Changhtatgyi Paya. It is 68 metres ( 221 ft ) long and also has lots of collection boxes and people praying in front of it.
By the way, we were well into the shoes on/ shoes off routine visiting all these places. The British, when they ran the country, made themselves very unpopular with the Burmese by refusing to take their shoes off when entering Buddhist temples. Considering they probably wore expensive, smart, highly polished Messrs Lobbs' lace up boots and shoes, I have a sneaking sympathy for them. It's no big deal if you only wear flip-flops. I dislike wearing flip-flops.

Left: The 108 symbols carefully carved on Mr Buddha's feet are all decoded as representing some auspicious Buddhist phenomena or other. There is a large board on the wall opposite detailing what all these symbols represent. The whole Buddha story is beginning to go well over my head.
I was persuaded to buy a Burmese walking stick ( $5 ) in a local shop nearby. I had made my mind up previously to refuse to buy anything, but the Burmese are so charming. I don't need a stick. I didn't even want a stick, but I bought the damned thing anyway and it is too long to go in my case.

Right: The daddy of all the Payas in Burma, the Shwedagon Paya. The word 'shwe' means gold in Burmese and features widely in regard to Buddhist temples here, and lots of places, buildings, ships and hotel names too. It is not the biggest temple in either height or area but it is by far the most flamboyant and intrinsically valuable. Don't forget the 'schwe' word. You'll hear it again. And again.
All Burmese Buddhists are expected to visit this place once in their lives. This photo ( right ) shows a new initiate to the temple being carried and followed by his friends and family three times clockwise around the central stupa.

It has been added onto and reconstructed in part following earthquakes but has essentially been in it's present form ( left ) since 1769. It is decorated with and contains enormous amounts of gold and diamonds. It is truly astonishing in it's flamboyance. To give you an idea; the outside of the main stupa is covered in gold leaf at the bottom and has an estimated 20 tons of gold plates screwed on the upper area.

Left: There are 2000 carats of diamonds implanted under the 'umbrella' and on the 'vane' which can ( just ) be viewed through a telescope in the grounds and there is a diamond of 280 carats ( invisible ) held in the 'bulb' on the top. Not content with that there are, reputedly, 60 tons of gold bullion stashed inside the 'bell'. I mean, this is incredible! It is more gold then the Bank of England has ever held in it's vaults. Actually, after that insane ex-Chancellor of ours, the 'Mad Broon', sold off our ( British ) gold reserves at rock bottom prices, I probably have more gold in my teeth than is now held by the Bank of England. Anyway, the 60 tons is continually added to as the temple scoops in money from wealthy donors and the public ( and tourists ). You can guess how much I contributed.

The main stupa here is surrounded by 68 gold-leafed mini-stupas and the whole thing is surrounded by over 100 elaborately decorated and bejewelled pagodas and pavilions ( as per right ) on a 12 acre site.

And this is only the most fabulously endowed temple in the country; there are thousands of other gold embellished stupas and temples around. The wealth that is contained and invested in, and donated to, these temples is astronomical. I can't even begin to make an estimate of their intrinsic worth. All of this just sits there as some sort of 'good luck charm' it seems. It appears to satisfy the customers however.

All the while most of the population and tens of thousands of monks prostrate themselves in front of the multitudinous Buddhas country-wide and chant and pray as if their present lives, but more importantly their next, depend on it. They certainly don't seem to begrudge the wealth contained therein. There are also some weird wild-eyed beardy characters in ragged robes who also pray and chant like mad in the temple grounds either solo, or hold court with a group of followers, and are known as Alchemists ( I thought they made gold out of lead piping or something; maybe they do ). One tried to give me his business card! I never fully gathered what turns these crazies on. As you might have gathered from all of the above, Burma has a vast 'in-house' supply of gold, schwe, from it's mines up north.

A meditating monk. That is what they do when not eating or sleeping it seems. I suppose it passes the time; eventually.
I can never quite understand the Buddhist point of being 'reincarnated' as, maybe, someone better in the next life if you cannot remember what you were in the previous one.

We had an excellent lunch at a rather touristy cafe ( good steak sandwich ) and went on to see a few of the more 'earthly' sights. OK, I was encouraged to pop in to the Chinese version of a Buddhist temple, Kheng Hock Keong ( right ), in China Town and here we didn't even have to do the shoes-off routine. I think because the Chinese wear more substantial footware ( hirey porrished race-ups flom Messrs Robbs? ) Mr Clement was keen to give me a good run around all the sacred spots it seemed. I don't think I've seen the last of them somehow.

Left: A good example of the Thanakha fashion. Most of the girls plaster it on.

There are some very impressive old colonial areas and buildings about the place. We passed by what was known as the Mount Pleasant area on a hill in the centre of town. It looks most attractive with some tasteful and expensive looking residences. It almost retains the old British look and, I was told, the remaining colonial style residences are much sought after by those that can afford them.

Right: Probably the most impressive looking building in the city down near the river is, to my eyes, the old British Secretariat which is hardly given a mention in the guide books. It is a vast 'grand' 19th century Victorian Gothic style complex of offices with pillared passageways, colonnades, turrets and towers. I think it was the place from where Burma was administered by the British Governor, although in those days the country was effectively under command of the Government in India. It is, sadly, almost derelict although I was told there are a few offices still in use. It is also fenced off with wire mesh outer and iron-barred inner barriers. No entry, and even difficult to see inside. The photo was taken by poking my camera through the wire mesh. It has the dates 1889 - 1892 engraved on the top frontage; probably when it was built.

Left: Fortunately I could get a better view of it from the roof terrace of my hotel. I sincerely hope the powers that be renovate this place and don't, and I have a horrible suspicion that they will, pull it down to make way for glass and concrete office blocks. Nobody can tell me they don't have enough money to do it, vis-a-vis stacks of gold and loot in the temples!

Right: We went on to have a look at the busy river dockside. There are still remnants of the British days such as the port administrative buildings and disused coal yards. There is now, amongst all the hundreds of smaller ship and boat moorings, a container port.

Left: Also on Strand Road down here is the impressive Strand Hotel. Very smart, and expensive too. Looking at old photos of this area, on display inside the hotel, it is noticeable how elegant these colonial buildings were, and indeed still are where they exist, but in those pre-WW2 days the surrounding streets and area were elegant too. The surroundings have gone considerably downhill since, if nowhere near on an Indian scale. I also noticed that several of the presumably wealthy ( western ) customers using the hotel looked remarkably scruffy too in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. I must admit I was not much better dressed, but then I only called in for a drink and a look-see and I certainly wasn’t wearing shorts!

Lots of places, stadiums and streets, have the name Aung San given to them. As you may be aware, General Aung San was the Burmese military/political leader who lent his support to the dastardly and cruel Japs when they invaded the country in 1942 and evicted the British. He then switched sides to support the British when they were recapturing the place. He knew which side his bread was buttered. He then led the Burmese National Party, or whatever it was called, and is credited with securing Burmese independence ( although without British control of India it would have occurred anyway I suppose ). He was assassinated, outside the Secretariat buildings, in 1947 and became a national hero. He was also responsible for producing, amongst other offspring, the redoubtable Mrs Michael Aris, aka Aung San Suu Khi, who is now free of house arrest and able to contest elections due to be held this April.

That was a day and a half in Rangoon. So much to see and do and, so far, everything has been most efficiently organised by Miss Hnin Wai and her tour company. Incidently, I was previously under the impression that visitors to Burma had to have a tour itinerary booked in advance including a letter of authority. This may have been the case but is not so now. If you wish, it is easy to get a visa without any pre-organised travel plans. You can just turn up and do your own thing. I have the next few days on my own individual ‘tour’ which at times involves pre-paid guides. I think this may be a more economic and efficient way of seeing the sights but may feature a few too many temples and Buddhas for my liking. We shall see.

Next off on the train to Bagan ( or Pagan ) one of the ancient Royal capitals of Burma. So far so good.

The flag.

CALCUTTA - INDIA

2012-01-26T10:33:00.000-08:00

13th - 24th Jan 2012

The Victoria Memorial. Calcutta.

Another day and night spent in dirty Delhi doing dhobi and a bit of shopping in the relatively smart and modern 'shopping mall' area in Saket on the southern side of the city. Having said that they didn't have much of what I wanted and the security procedures you have to put up with in these shops are a little irritating, but at least this is a tout and hawker free area.

Then onto the 1640hrs Rajdhani Express from New Delhi Central to Sealdah station in Calcutta. An eighteen hour overnight journey in another 2 AC carriage. My compartment co-habitees included this couple ( left ). His name was, as far as I could make out, Mr Basha, or something similar. They were actually a charming couple who generously gave me the window seat and a sticky sweet or two. They turned down my return offer of a glass of Indian wine. What a delightful orange beard he sports. I have noticed that quite a few Indian people dye their hair this alarming colour using, I am told, henna. Mr Basha spent several periods kneeling on one of the bunks, facing the wall ( east I suppose ) while mumbling and aggressively pointing his arse towards the rest of us. Mrs Basha did not seem to notice; well she sees it all the time I suppose. The guy reading the newspaper is an Indian living in America and was back here visiting relatives. I must say, all the people I have met on these trains have been most pleasant and helpful company. They have been kind to me by translating what is on offer for meals and giving advice on what to do at destinations. I think they rather enjoy having an ignorant foreigner to look after. We were served complimentary tea and sandwiches, cooked dinner ( chicken and rice, bread rolls plus a sort of pasty, fruit and ice cream ) and breakfast on this service. All quite civilised. The meal packages had the witty logo 'Meals on Wheels' stamped on them. They actually had a buffet/dining car, I think, but I couldn't be bothered to visit it. On the northern outskirts of Calcutta we rolled through the station of Dum Dum. In olden Raj days this town was the site of an important ordnance factory which produced the original, and now banned, 'Dum-Dum' bullets. I bet you didn't know that. We arrived, more or less on time, at the 'bustling' ( BR 8 ) Sealdah station in north-central Calcutta at 1045hrs on Friday the 13th.

On the advice of the Indian/American I took a taxi to the Tollygunge Club in the south of the city. I was initially impressed by three things 1). The taxi , one of the ubiquitous ancient yellow 'Amby' wrecks, I picked up from an orderly cab rank outside the station ( very few touts ). It was surprisingly cheap and was safely driven, despite a frighteningly loose steering rack and pinion with resulting wild arm movements by the driver to keep the thing going in a straightish line, for what was about a 45 minute journey. I gave him R150 ( $3 ) and he promptly, without me asking, gave me R30 change! Impressive. 2). I was expecting the city to be a foul mass of stinking garbage, open sewers and heaving filthy masses. It wasn't. It was a bit crowded, fumey and ramshackle in some of the places we went through but on the whole comparatively clean ( compared with all of north Bombay for instance ) and with decent enough roads. 3). The Tollygunge Club, a 'Country and Golf Club', is situated down a tree lined road in a private park in the south of the city and, if a little faded and in need of a touch of paint, would not have appeared out of place in the British Home Counties. Not quite Hurlingham or Wentworth perhaps but not to far off!

I was told, as the American/Indian might have known, that it is a strictly 'members only' establishment so I could not stay there, and anyway they were full up with wedding parties and golfers. I noticed several English and Americans booking in. The helpful guest-house manager told me that I should try a small hotel almost opposite the Club entrance called 'Executive Suites'. He phoned to make sure they had a room available and even arranged for a car to take me there. Free! What service. I was doubly impressed.
This small but clean and pleasant establishment proved, again by sheer chance, to be great value. It had free wifi and the frightfully 'upmarket' couple who owned it proved to be remarkably good news. They gave me lots of useful advice and, towards the end of my rather protracted stay here, gave me the use of their chauffeur driven car and much assistance with 'financial' admin concerning my next port of call. I was to be here for two weeks due to the time necessary to secure a visa and then waiting for, dare I say this, a FLIGHT to Burma. There is no permitted way in to Burma, for tourists, by road, rail or sea.
Calcutta, West Bengal, was originally called Kalikata, one of three tiny nondescript villages close together near the mouth of the Hooghly river. It was 'discovered' by a British merchant, Job Charnock, in 1686 and he considered the site appropriate for a new, defendable colonial settlement. Thus it started to grow and prosper and ultimately became the British Raj's capital city before that was moved to New Delhi. Hence there is a lot of 'old empire' architecture about the place, much of which being in a photogenic state of semi-collapse ( but certainly not all ). Technically ( politically ) the place is renamed Kolkata but, as with most Indian cities, most locals still call it Calcutta. Where's the 'romance and history' in 'Kolkata'.

I spent the first weekend visiting a few of the city sights such as the white marble confection of the Victoria Memorial ( see photo at the top ). This is a truly magnificent building and was designed to commemorate Queen Victoria's 1901 diamond jubilee, although it wasn't completed until 1921. Think US Capitol meets Taj Mahal. It is, actually, much bigger and more elaborate than the Taj Mahal. As someone pointed out, if this had been built to honour a beautiful Indian princess rather than a dead colonial Queen, this would surely be considered one of India's greatest buildings.
Right: Herself on the throne

The statues both inside and out were impressive. Left: One of two grand bronze panels on the plinth where VR sits. Inside the memorial there are life size statues of her in her youth, King George V, Queen Mary and Robert Clive ( Clive of India ) amongst others. The building was well packed with mainly Indian visitors shuffling past many pictures of scenes of the day, portraits and descriptions of it's construction, all mounted on rather tacky looking hoardings around the walls, plus display cases containing weapons and general impedimenta from those days. Photography inside was prohibited. The park andgardens area outside was a popular venue for sitting around and 'taking in the air'. It was all clean and tidy and generally well maintained. Nice flowers too.

I went on to the nearby racecourse. Having been somewhat disappointed by the Delhi track, I was not expecting much. How pleasantly surprised I was. This is the not Kolkata Racecourse, it is 'The Royal Calcutta Turf Club'! It is a 'big' course with impressive old stands which give an excellent view even from the cheap seats, a good galloping right-handed grass track and excellent eating and drinking facilities. It is, in short, well up to the standards of a decent British or Irish or, dare I say, French, racecourse and was well attended, packed indeed, by a most enthusiastic crowd. What a mega-change from the slummy dump at Delhi!

Left: There were four main stands all, presumably, built at the turn of the 19th/20th century. The members stand and enclosure had private boxes which were inhabited by some very 'pukka' old fashioned looking Indian gents and also corporate boxes containing well-to-do parties including several foreigners. The dress was typical of a British racecourse with plenty of 'Jack-the-Lad' wide boys in shiny suits and shades and the more traditional tweed and trilby brigade.

Right: The members stand and 'boxes'. I somehow inveigled my way up here and bumped into a charming Brit, from Leeds, and his wife who were guests in the box of the American Consul. He, the Brit that is, is on attachment to the US Consulate. Drinks and food were delivered by white jacketed waiters. It was all very civilised. There were also outside dining areas and a large seated bar behind the stands. I was fascinated by the race commentator. He had a remarkably plummy English accent!

The main race of the day was the EverReady Calcutta Derby over 2400 metres ( is that about 1 mile 5 furlongs? ). The second favourite, In the Spotlight, was ridden by the English jockey Martin Dwyer ( he won the 2006 English Derby on Sir Henry ), and he duly won this by a double distance too. Left: In the parade ring; white with green diamond. M Dwyer up.

I suspect a lot of good planning had gone into this victory. Right: In the Spotlight passing the winning post with only the nose of the second horse in sight. A most convincing win. ( Victoria Memorial in the background ).

Left: An elaborate prize-giving ceremony followed on the track by the winning post after the big race.

Indian racing colours often feature the swastika design ( right ). This, of course, would be outlawed in Europe. The swastika is, originally, a Sanscrit word and an old Indian design which symbolises 'auspiciousness' and 'good fortune'. It still implies that meaning here. It was hijacked by Mr Hitler & Co and thence demonised in the West.

Left: The large drinking and eating area. As always in India staffed by very attentive waiters. Lots of G&T and whiskey and sodas were being consumed along with the ever-present Kingfisher beer and curry.

It was a very jolly and amusing afternoon at the races.

Right: To the north of the Victoria Memorial is the enormous grass park known as the Maidan. It must be a mile long and is used for any amount of leisure activities amongst which feature cricket, of course, riding horses, flying kites, football and just having picnics. A sort of bigger version of Clapham Common.

Left: A Sunday hack around the Maidan for Pa and the children on a hired pony. No arseing about with crash-hats here.

Left: These tastefully decorated horse-drawn carriages were all the rage. They too are hired from around the Maidan and seemed very popular. There were lots of them and they were kept busy with families enjoying a trot around some of the park. Not sure exactly where they went, but the passengers looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Some of the nags looked as if they could do with a good feed.

The throngs of old 'amby' taxis and auto-rickshaws in the city, painted in yellow and green livery, work to a different system than in other Indian cities. They all operate from set taxi ranks and auto-rickshaws all operate set routes. So you turn up at a rickshaw rank and find a vehicle that is going your way. It then waits until its full up ( and you get five passengers on/in a rickshaw; three in the back and one either side of the driver ). Then off you go, hanging on tight if you are sitting, one buttock on the seat, next to the driver. As a result you seldom pay more than R6 ( 10 cents ) for a journey. The taxis use meters which actually work and the end result is , or was in my case, remarkably cheap journeys.

As well as auto-rickshaws and the pedalled tri-shaw versions, Calcutta must be the very last refuge of the ancient man-pulled basic rickshaws ( left ). There are plenty of them around and they are not primarily for the tourists. Indeed these things with their large wheels, overhead shelters ( folded down here ) and almost complete lack of mechanics are the most effective mode of conveyance when the streets become seriously flooded. They are cheap to run and highly efficient and, as I have mentioned at length somewhere before, provide the 'puller' with free and healthy exercise. This old chap must have been 70 if he was a day............

......but, over a comparatively short distance, he went like the clappers! He rang a little silver bell to warn the slow movers to get out of his way! I refrained from making 'giddyup' noises and clicking my tongue. I was only going down the street to a small hostelry, and I think he wanted to charge me 2 rupees. I gave him R100 and, after recovering from the shock, I suspect he has retired on the proceeds.

In fact I was going to visit the Fairlawn Hotel which is a relic of a bygone age and an iconic watering hole in the Sudder Street area ( popular with backpackers and tourists ). It is of the 1780s Raj era and became a hotel in 1936. The owner/manager is a 92 year old Armenian lady called Violette Smith. She escaped with her parents from persecution by the Turks in Armenia to India and subsequently married an English army officer, a Major Smith. She, and the hotel, has been visited by many well known people over the years and she keeps hundreds of photos of these personages, and her family, on the walls. The furniture and fittings cannot have been changed since the 1930s and there is a jungly garden to sit out and eat and drink in. An interesting place. I believe Mrs Smith limits her appearances nowadays to chatting up the guests at breakfast time.

Right: A statue, near the Maidan, of Indira Ghandi. There was also a statue of Ho Chi Minh nearby and a street named after him too. I wasn't aware that he was well respected in West Bengal, but I am now. I'm not sure what the connection was.

I noticed one major difference between Calcutta and the other places I have visited in India. There is an almost total lack of pestilential touts and hawkers. As a tourist you are left to wander unmolested. Nobody was grabbing at me and trying to tell me their life story, or asking mine, and then trying to get money from me or 'show' me something or somewhere. It was a pleasant and refreshing change, especially from Delhi. In general, the people I met, and there is undoubtedly severe poverty, impossible filth in places, a creaking infrastructure and anarchy on the streets to test their patience, were remarkably polite and pleasant and didn't give any hassle. Neither was I ripped off by taxi drivers or auto-rickshaws or, indeed, by anyone. If you can say such a thing in a generally overcrowded and polluted place like this, it was like a breath of fresh air.

I did notice signs that the authorities are trying to bring some order and cleanliness to the place.
There are lots of notices saying "Keep Kolkata Clean", and "Obey the Rules of the Road", and "Don't drop Litter" etc. etc. It is, one feels, pissing in the wind. It will take a complete change of culture and mind-set to stop most Indians dropping litter and flinging garbage into the street ( they keep their own immediate premises immaculate but garbage, once outside their door, goes unnoticed and uncollected ). There is evidence, however, that valiant efforts are being made by rubbish carts and lorries to redress the problem. Some streets are actually surprisingly clean. They have at least got rid of the dreadful cows. Calcutta is a cow-free zone.

There are also hundreds of thousands who have no home and who live under primitive shelters on the street ( right ), and this was a relatively up-market location in Sudder Street.

That, as you can imagine, means that they perform all their 'ablutions' on the street. I learnt early on ( because I saw it ) that some pavements ( not in the more prestigious and policed areas I hasten to add ) which back onto a wall are used as lavatories, night and day. One does not walk on the pavements in outlying areas.

Right: Games of street cricket are popular. This highly competitive match was between Royal Sporting Club and Rangers Sporting Club. Royal won. I watched along with several vociferous supporters. They probably expend their energy on things like this rather than in the present day British tradition of drunken pub and street brawls.

Left: The normal washing and bathing arrangements for a lot of the population. They do keep themselves remarkably clean despite lack of domestic facilities.

Many have no money, no job and few prospects. They do, however, breed and so perpetuate, or even increase, this cycle of hopeless and squalid existence and this is exacerbated by incomers from the countryside. Some city areas resemble over-run rabbit warrens. One feels that any national or urban government has little chance of containing let alone improving the situation. I may be wrong.

Another rather off-putting habit to which the 'lower end' of the population is prone is the chewing of betel nut in it's various forms. I discussed this with my landlady at the hotel. She says it is frowned upon by most respectable people, and certainly any health authority, but it is a national addiction. The crushed betel nut is chewed and has a mild narcotic effect. It produces in the chewer's mouth a large quantity of bubbling red saliva which is then spat out in great gouts. Many taxi and auto-rickshaw drivers lean out of their vehicles and 'gob' great jets of this red gunge onto the road every two or three minutes. There are lots of large red stains on pavements and walls as a result. The juice also rots and stains teeth and gums and is, apparently, carcinogenic. It is fairly disgusting to watch this in action, but..........it is, like the littering, set into the national psyche. I suppose our chewing gum spitters-out in UK who leave their dreadful mark on the pavements are pretty revolting too, but I think the betel nut juice spitters are, on balance, worse.

There are, as you can imagine, lots of crippled beggars on the streets. Unlike some of the shiftless creatures who hang around our British sub-ways and shopping areas waiting, with poor starving dog in tow, for hand-outs to fuel their drug habit, the Indian beggar is really in need. This poor chap ( right ) lying on the ground was shivering and shaking and, as you can see, has no arms. The money left on the groundsheet was never touched, only added to. I hope he has a friend to gather it up for him!

Rather by-the-by I noticed several of these street vendors selling large giraffes ( left ). OK, if there was just one I could understand it, but there were many of them in different parts of the city. Maybe a ship carrying a large cargo of these ornaments was wrecked and they all washed up ashore somewhere. Is there something special about stuffed giraffes that I am unaware of?

On the other side of the tracks there is, as I mentioned earlier, the Tollygunge Club; or the 'Tolly' as its affectionally known. It is a Golf and Country Club founded in 1895 and, apart from the odd lick of paint, hasn't changed much since, I suspect. It has, primarily, a good golf course, but also a swimming pool and several tennis courts. There are two restaurants, a guest house ( known as Tolly Towers ) and a large clubhouse. I wandered back there the day after I settled into the 'Executive Suite' ( not very executive really but good value ).

Right: The 'Shamiana' dining room and bar at the Tolly. I had not been there long when I 'bumped into' a rather smart and somewhat 'pukka' military-looking oldish Indian gent who was sitting by himself with a gin & tonic. I introduced myself and we got talking. Its amazing how far you can get with a somewhat embellished version of your own military background i.e. utter bullshit, together with mentioning that my father was a Sqn Ldr ( Major ) in the 19th KGVO Lancers, an Indian Regiment ( now in Pakistan but we'll let that pass ) in the war, which happens to be true. To cut the story short, he agreed to 'sponsor' me for a temporary membership of the Club. Very decent of him indeed, and the Tolly became a bit of a haven for me while I was hanging around waiting for my visa to be processed.

Left: The Clubhouse which, I feel, has seen better days and is in need of a spot of paint and more grass on the lawn. I think they had just removed a large marquee from the front lawn which possibly explains the bits and pieces lying about.
It is a very popular and well attended Club with lots of social activities as well as all the sporting facilities.
I spent some time getting gently sozzled watching England being hammered by Pakistan in the Test match in Dubai.
I also saw India being annihilated by Australia. The Indian viewers at the Club seemed rather resigned to it.

Left: A view down the first ( I think ) fairway on the golf course, just abeam the dining room. I know little about golf. What a strange noise those 'drivers' make when they whack the ball down the range; a sort of loud 'clink'. Also, I noticed that the golfists seem to take far too many shots trying to sink their ball down the hole from remarkably short 'putting' distances. Possibly the result of a good lunch.

There is a Metro underground in the city which operates a single line North/South. It proved, for me, remarkably useful and efficient. The nearest station was five minutes walk from the Tolly and my hotel. It shifted people from one end of town to the other quickly and the trains were very frequent. It did become incredibly 'bustling' ( BR 10 ) at rush hours. Only Indians, in my experience so far, can do claustrophobic and dangerously packed crowds with such remarkable patience and sang-froid as occur on occasions like these. I saw one of these rush hour melees and chose not to enter. No way Jose!

I spent two evenings out at city restaurants. The first being at the Oberoi Hotel, tucked away off the main street, Chowringhee Road, near the Esplanade ( west centre ). What a smart place! A bit expensive, but these jewels do exist in what seem otherwise to be noisy crowded bazaars. It had all that could be expected of a grand 5 star establishment but in a pleasant rather old-fashioned style. Immaculate service, as always.
Another evening I spent on the Floatel ( left ), a converted ship of some sort which is moored to the east bank of the Hooghly river near Fort William north of the Maidan. A pleasant enough area and pleasant enough to watch the sun set over the Hooghly.

I felt I had to go to see the place where the wizened little Albanian nun, Mother Teresa, once operated from with her blue and white dishcloth wearing sisters of the Missionaries of Charity, and is now entombed. It is a rather nondescript building on Bose Street and is known as 'The Mother House'. Lots of foreigners visit this place to pay their respects and even offer their services. Apparently you can, other than on Thursdays when I was there, visit her old bedroom and see her.....bed, and food bowl. The tomb, right, was enormous for one so small............

......but she is kept in a glass case outside anyway. Here she is ( left ) terrifying the life out of a naked baby.
The Mother Teresa 'brand' has generated a lot of industries in the local area selling tons of Mother Teresa tat. There are a raft of shops nearby selling this junk.There are also some highly professional and persistent touts and hawkers who make quite a good living on the back of generous and 'giving for a good cause' tourists.

I must say, despite a lot of squalor and chaos, I rather liked Calcutta. I liked the people I met. There are many remarkably pleasant parts of the city with good facilities and even some of the poorer areas are making a big effort to keep the streets clean with rubbish noticeably absent in some surprising areas. Perhaps they have a more effective City council, or whatever, here. I used a brilliant shopping centre only about 10 minutes auto-rickshaw ride away for my needs, and it was equal to most British shopping centres.

Visa for Burma is now obtained, and was done so with no fuss and little form filling from an efficient and polite staff at the Myanmar Consulate. I just had to wait through a couple of weekends and two public holidays which lengthened the process. The only major hiccup I encountered was when I discovered, late in the day, that in Burma there are no ATM cash machines, they don't accept any credit cards or travellers' cheques and all tour bookings and hotel costs have to be paid for in pristine ( unmarked and uncreased ) US dollar bills!
This is because the all powerful and beneficent Uncle Sam, backed up by the kowtowing EU, have placed financial and trade embargoes on Burma because they object to the present Burmese government and, probably for their own commercial ( oil ) and political motives, wish to punish and get rid of it. Sadly, of course, this affects the normal Burmese public much more seriously than it does the wealthy military members of the government. The major problem for me occurred because I then discovered that Indian banks and travel agencies are not permitted to sell or otherwise issue US$ to foreigners. Bloody hell, I thought, how do I get out of this hole. I seriously thought I would have to cancel the trip. Luckily, and this is where my most helpful hotel owners came to the fore, because they knew a bank manager well and he, in turn, knew a man who could 'unofficially' change enough rupees ( if I could get enough ) into US$ that afternoon. It worked and they saved the day. I was incredibly grateful.
On the road to Mandalay..............by rickshaw.

There may be a bit of a hiatus in Burma because I have been advised that the internet facilities there are not so widespread. For those who are remotely interested in reading this stuff, you may have to wait a couple of weeks before more of these gripping adventures are 'posted'.

PALACE ON WHEELS. RAJASTHAN - INDIA ( Part 5 )

2012-01-23T00:22:00.000-08:00

4th - 11th Jan 2012

Day 6. Agra

A wall and moat of Agra Fort.

So I enjoyed a pleasant lie-in rather than slink off into the cold dark dawn to watch birds on Lake Ghana near Bharatpur where the train was parked. We ( because I was by no means alone in chickening out ) met the returned bird-watchers at breakfast. They had got a bit cold ( hypothermic by the look of Rebecca ) Some of their trip involved a journey in a rickshaw and the lake was fog-bound, they told us. So watching birds in the fog? They said they enjoyed seeing many green pigeons and a duck. I never did see their photos. The train then set off for Agra which is about 2 hours to the east, out of Rajasthan and into Uttar Pradesh.

Anyway, on arrival Mr Mouse introduced us to our guide for the day, said a lot of words in a language that he's made all his own, understood neither by Indian nor Englishman, although a group of South Africans who spoke Africaans professed to understand him a bit, and off we went to the fort.
The Agra Fort is one of the finest maintained Mughal ( Muslim ) forts in India. It was built on the Yamuna river in 1565 by Emperor Akbar. His grand-son, Shah Jahan, added many extravagant buildings to make it into a palace. He was very keen on white marble. It was Shah Jahan's third wife, Mumtaz, who died giving birth to her 14th child in 1631, for whom he built the mausoleum; the Taj Mahal.
Some of the fort is out of bounds because the Indian army occupy a substantial section of it ( as did the British army previously ), part is out of bounds because it is undergoing renovation work including much of the underground sections and the rest is open to the public.
It is an impressive and well maintained place with a mixture of military and palatial buildings and, of course, a few mosques which had been for the benefit of all the devout mosquitos of the day. Much of the palace building is in white marble ( Jahan's favourite building material ) and the rest in red sandstone ( as per right ).

As always our guide was both articulate and knowledgeable. This marble edifice ( left ) was the kings's audience hall where complaints and problems from the public were listened to and proclamations made, probably along the lines of "pull the other one mate, I wasn't born yesterday. Now piss off".
The emperor/king or whatever he was, held court sitting on a fabled 'Peacock Throne', which was inset with precious stones and was subsequently stolen and then dismantled by Persians.

Shah Jahan was eventually imprisoned by his son, reputedly for squandering too much of the family fortune building things, and he was kept in an octagonal marble tower on the eastern end of the fort, a sort of gentle house arrest, really, once his cheque book had been confiscated. It was from here, on this balcony, that the poor old sod could gaze out at the mausoleum, the Taj Mahal, in which was entombed his late wife. It was more than we could because it was hidden in the mist.

Left: Mr Mouse and Lili ( from Bali ) standing outside the entrance which is in the building behind, now locked, to a staircase that leads down to a two storey underground labyrinth of passageways and rooms where a previous ruler housed his 500-strong harem. That must be an exaggeration. I didn't gather why it was locked. Maybe undergoing renovation, or being re-stocked.

Right: A palace within the palace. This fashionable residence, a blend of many architectural styles, was reputedly built by Emperor Akbar for his son.

After this tour we went off for another hotel style lunch.

That afternoon was to be our final guided jaunt; to the Taj Mahal. Our guide was waxing lyrical about the place from a long way out and working up quite a head of steam over how spiritual an experience it is to see this famous, fabulous structure. How it is one of the unofficial 'wonders of the world', and how he never tires of seeing it, however often, and how it is infinitely more impressive to see in real life than from pictures which can never do it justice. "The beauty of this building and the majesty and awe that it inspires is breathtaking and often reduces people to tears", he continued, at length, his voice cracking with emotion, "and I defy any of you not to be overwhelmed when you see it in it's real-life glory for the first time". I couldn't help but think he was exaggerating a touche, but it was our 'finale' after all so he could be forgiven a few theatrics.
Fossil fuel powered transport has to park some couple of kilometres away because, after much effort has been spent cleaning off pollution and grime and titillating the place, the authorities don't want to have it subjected to fumes again. So we were taken off our bus and put into a battery powered one, which took us to the site.

The first thing I noticed, and who wouldn't, was this board ( left ) which pictures all the things which are prohibited. I thought the Aussies were the world champions at prohibiting things but this is in a class of it's own. It was difficult to understand what you could actually take in. I notice, second from the left on top row, that black hands are taboo. Mr Obama was let in! Fortunately cows are banned, but no mention of elephants or chickens, or crocodiles for that matter.
We queued up in separate barriered lines, women in one line, men in another, and there was a third line for something else, although it was not made clear what. There was quite a crowd trying to get in but being POW we were afforded priority treatment. It was then that I suffered a serious misfortune. I thought I had carefully complied with all the restrictions but, after being thoroughly frisked and scanned and sniffed by a mangy dog with a wet nose, the heavily armed and unsmiling guard opened my small bag and found inside a stuffed toy rat. Good grief, he looked horrified and immediately called over reinforcements. I thought he was going to shoot me, or the rat, or at least arrest me. To cut a slightly embarrassing story short, and much to the amusement, indeed hilarity, of my GG colleagues, with great public display and held up at arm's length for the thronging crowds to see, the rat was promptly and noisily confiscated! I was shocked. I pleaded and asked "why?", but to no avail, just a bit of head wobbling. The rat has not made an appearance for some time and I was going to give it a much needed and belated photo-opportunity at this important landmark. My plan was ruined. I hadn't even thought to conceal it about my person and if I'd known how much fuss and bother the rat would cause, I would surely have stuck it in my underpants. It might have attracted a few admiring glances but I doubt if the guard would have found it. I was seriously pissed off. Sod the bloody Taj Mahal, I thought, and it's humourless stupid jobsworth guards.
So we wended our way to the entrance gates to the Taj and the guide was still banging on about how we were going to be amazingly impressed.

The first glimpse of the thing was through the west, or was it east, gate. There was quite a crush of visitors and some people have these large 'i-pads' which they hold up above their heads like notice-boards to take their ruddy photos and block out the view for people behind ( see right ).
Shah Jahan started construction on this the year after Mumaz, his wife, died in 1631 and the whole complex was finally completed in 1653. We were told that 20,000 workers and craftsmen were employed on the site. It has a mosque on one side and, for symmetry, there is an identical building ( but not a mosque ) on the other.
Following his death in 1666 ( not in the Great Fire of London ) Shah Jahan was entombed here alongside his wife.
We filed along the reflecting pond and up and through the mausoleum itself where instead of removing our shoes we were given plastic bags to wear over them. It was a bit of a scrum to be honest. I thought it looked just like all the pictures I had previously seen, except that in real life there are crowds of tourists around jumping up and down for the benefit of their families' cameras and pushing and shoving. My breath was not taken away, and anyway I was still in a grump over the damned rat incident. We were given lots and lots of info as to how it was all constructed and how the semi-precious stones were inlaid into the marble. Squadrons of 'professional' photographers were on hand to take 'romantic' pictures of tourists with the Taj as the backdrop, and they were kept very busy. We had a Green Group team photo done. One family in our group, who shall remain nameless, but comes from a well known holiday island, had a total of 28 photos taken in various poses!

The thing that most fascinated me was something that my friend JP told me about when I was in Bombay. He said that when he visited he had noticed a strange pigmentation in the vaulted marble ceiling at the rear side of the building. No guide or anyone else has ever mentioned this. It shows quite clearly the unmistakable and characteristic visage of Albert Einstein. ( see left ). Now that is interesting!

We then filed back out. It was interesting also to observe most of the Indian contingent removing their plastic shoe covers and just flinging them on the ground. The Indian population has a complete disregard for litter, even at their most valued and prestigious locations.
Right: This is the reverse view back to the gate from the mausoleum. The crowds were thinning out a bit by this time.

So that is the Taj Mahal. It does what it says on the packet. It sits there and looks like.....the Taj Mahal. I find it extraordinary that someone should have spent so much time and money building such an amazing construction which, however beautiful, is in effect completely useless, just for his dead WIFE! Maybe the son had a point when he decided to lock his Dad up.

The slightly cheering news I received when leaving was that our guide had secured the release, unharmed, of the rat. I suspect this was only because of our POW status. It was battery-mobile back to the bus and then, saints preserve us, another 'shopping opportunity' at, this time, a factory shop which is one of the 'very rare places' nowadays to practice the skill, as witnessed at the Taj Mahal, of inlaying semi-precious stone designs into marble. They showed us how it is done in their back yard using primitive tools operated by skilful men with calloused and gnarled hands ( and it is probably also done much better and cheaper and quicker in a factory by sophisticated machinery ). The end product, concerning which we were treated to a polished sales patter, plus 'tea, caffee, biscuits and cookies', or a beer in my case, was quite impressive, I must admit. There were marble tables of varying size and other marble flat things with pretty stone inlays. The price of an average size coffee table was in the region of $1500, and the big ones up to $15,000. Shipping and any import customs duty payable extra. I didn't see anyone buying anything, but then I wasn't looking.

Right: The team photo. Green Group, which consisted of Americans ( Bill the GP from Michigan is on the left ), 4 South Africans, some Aussies, the Bali family, a couple of Indians and a couple of ladies from UK. Absent: The rat.

The last night on the train included the normal debauched dinner. We then set off back to Delhi and arrived at Safdarjung station to be kicked off after breakfast at 0730 hrs the next morning. Rajesh and Rajendra handled all our luggage for us. They were brilliant. The POW blurb says in black and white 'no tips', but we mutually agreed to give our carriage staff a present, and contributed to a 'pot' for the other train staff. On leaving the station Mr Mouse was hovering around expecting a little something too! Cheese?

The POW is certainly an amusing and luxurious experience, the sort of thing to be done once in a life-time, perhaps. It rather puts the much more expensive ( per day ) Aussie Ghan, with it's rulebound, bossy jobsworths ( can't lift more than 20kg mate ) and flea-ridden upholstery to shame. Strongly recommended.

OK, back to reality and another night in dusty, dirty Delhi. Then onwards by more mundane transport to the unknown delights of Calcutta. Oh! Calcutta.

PALACE ON WHEELS. RAJASTHAN - INDIA ( Part 4 )

2012-01-21T12:37:00.000-08:00

4th - 11th Jan 2012

Day 5. Jodhpur. The Blue City.

Mehrangarh

The mighty Mehrangarh, the 'muscular' fort that towers over the Blue City of Jodhpur is a sight to behold. A Rathore leader called Rao Jodha established this fort and town in 1459, hence Jodhpur. The area surrounding it was called Marwar ( the land of death ) due to it's harsh topography and climate i.e. lots of rocks and bugger all water.

We had another relatively civilised start to the day, but before visiting this magnificent fort we were obliged to view the opulent memorial to the chap who was credited with being the best Maharaja of Jodhpur of all time, and who had sorted the place out in the 19th century ( for the benefit of ex-15/19 Hussars, one can imagine the locals' comment, after a few pints, at any social 'jurgah', "Whay, Sor, yor the best Maharaja wuv ivvor had!").

He was called Jaswant Singh. He died in 1895, and this plaque inside the ostentatious white marble memorial explains what he did. He was clearly much admired and respected by his subjects. I don't suspect that the public will ever give quite so much credit to the bunch of self-serving politicians at the helm today in New Delhi.

We then went on to the fort and were straight-away whisked up in a lift to the top. It is a long way up. Very sensible because the tour was all downhill from thereon in. Left: The battlements on a top deck. This place is still in the hands of the Jodhpur royal family, but they moved some time ago into a small place in town ( to be shown later ).

Right: A view to the north from the top. If you click on to enlarge you might see the many blue houses which give the city it's name. These originally belonged to the Brahmin priests and hierarchy and were painted in 'Brahmin blue' supposedly to protect them from attack. Nobody would dare attack a Brahmin household. Of course, many others cottoned onto this and also painted their houses blue. It is also reputed that the blue colour repels mosquitos. Who knows.

Left: There were again several seriously opulent and dramatically carved and designed exteriors. These incredibly intricate carvings in the stonework gave the impression that they were made of wood; but no it is all sandstone.

Right: This is another mirrored and bejewelled interior within the old royal quarters in the fort. The light, powered by candles in old days, was reflected and amplified by lots of mirrors. I'll try not to bore you, or myself, with too many more of these photos of grossly OTT interior and exterior designs, but they feature on a grand scale in all the old palaces.

Left: This elegant gentleman was the formidable 'guard' to the royal quarters. After a few hours on the 'hubble-bubble' I suggest he would not have been at the peak of alertness. He was obviously well paid because no effort was made to extract 'tips' from the passers-by. Perhaps he was far from caring.

We passed a turban tying demo. The officials on parade around here all wear the Jodhpur coloured turban of predominantly yellow with red and green. The length of cloth used to make a turban is, I think, about 9 metres ( 20 ft ) long. These two, doing the demo, made winding it on look simple. I suspect that if you or I tried it would end up in a bird's nest tangle with your legs tied together.

Amongst lots of other things, the fort museum has the World's Best collection of palanquins and howdahs ( elephant flight-decks ). This howdah ( left ) is one of many examples and maybe not the most elaborate. I wondered where was the control column, and what were the duties of the co-pilot in the rear seat? Do they have check-lists and 'memory items' for elephant failures. It was not explained. Maybe someone out there will enlighten us all.

Right: This is a palanquin for a Maharani. Four carriers at each end. She was not allowed to be seen. I can think of only a few 'maharanis' who should be subjected to this restriction nowadays. Sadly, they are not. Some would require many more than eight carriers.

Left: And this was the Maharaja's version. He was expected to be on full display. I expect there were cocktail cabinets and other 'facilities' on board these luxurious platforms. Four at each end again. They may have provided extension poles for more engines if the need arose. Interesting to know what the drill was in the event of a 'carrier' malfunction or failure.
Land at the first available opportunity, presumably.

Right: A display of some very evil looking stabbing instruments. Their purpose and application was described in full gory detail. There were loads of other weapons and bits of armourment on display. In fact there was lots to look at and we were navigated, gradually downstairs, before reaching, as half expected, a SHOP, which provided another 'shopping opportunity' for items pertaining to the Jodhpur clan and well-being.

Left: Not sure who this colourful flautist is. It just made a decent photo and he wasn't looking for a hand-out. It was taken on our way to visit the present discrete little home of the Maharaja of Jodhpur.

......which is this place ( right ) called Umaid Bhawan Palace. It was built by the previous Maharaja, Umaid Singh, a much respected ruler before he died in 1947. It took 15 years to build and was completed in 1944. No mortar was used in it's construction. Umaid Singh was an Air Vice Marshall in the RAF, and went on to become an Air Marshall in the Indian Air Force. The palace incorporates a sort of museum which depicts it's construction as well as a large display of the Maharaja's polo playing trophies, kit and photos. He was an 8 goal handicap player; the top.
His son, Gaj Sing ( known as Bapji ) still lives in part of the the palace. The rest is now a very upmarket hotel. There is also a garage in the grounds which displays the present Maharaja's collection of vintage cars. Several Rolls-Royces, Cadillacs, Buicks and a model T Ford feature. These Maharajas still thrive and are seemingly much appreciated by the local community.
After this it was time for a late lunch, preceded by yet more garlands and red splodges, at yet another posh hotel nearby.

Then, would you believe, a further 'shopping opportunity' at a local 'handcrafts' shop. I did another runner, and yet again there was nowhere to run to! I stayed away nevertheless and found myself in some dirty backstreets where locals were hammering away at rocks and metalwork in the dusty streets; no doubt supplying the smart and expensive handicraft shops with their products.
Left: There were more animals here picking their way through the garbage on the street side. Pigs, this time, which made a change from the normal filthy cows and scabby yellow dogs.

Then back to the PoW for an early departure at 1530hrs towards the next day's start point at Bharatpur on the eastern edge of Rajasthan. So we had tea ( caffee, biscuits and cookies) on board, then a bit of rest before drinks and dinner. Today was John's birthday. His other half, Barrie, had bought him a Jodhpur turban as a present. This was dutifully wound professionally about his head by the imperturbable Rajesh, and John wore it for the rest of the evening. Birthday cake and much ribaldry followed at dinner. I think he looks quite dignified wearing it.
Tomorrow is due to kick off at the impossibly early time of 0515hrs for a bird-watching trip at the Ghana Lake near Bharatpur. After the no-tiger safari of a few mornings ago, and the fact that watching birds in the cold damp dawn without the opportunity to shoot at them does not appeal to me, I took an early decision to have a good lie in.

..and the same to you, sir.

PALACE ON WHEELS. RAJASTHAN - INDIA ( Part 3 )

2012-01-20T06:11:00.000-08:00

4th - 11th Jan 2012

Day 4. Jaisalmer. The Golden City.

We awoke the next morning in the desert country of west Rajasthan, the Thar desert, within 90 miles of Pakistan, and were welcomed off the train by the usual reception committee of guards, ladies doling out flowers and red splodges and the local band. The military guards wore the fashionable 'mohican' style turban. Jaisalmer, founded in 1156 by a Rajput leader called, unsurprisingly, Jaisal, is a bit of a lonely outpost and initially relied on looting the camel-train routes from India to Central Asia for it's income. Now it just legitimately loots the tourists.

Right: The band

Left: Amit and Rebecca having been flowered and painted. Amit's father, Bill, was also in GG and because he and I were two 'singlies' we were often paired up for things ( like the elephant ride at Jaipur ). Bill is another doctor, a GP, from Michigan, USA. There was no shortage of medical assistance on this train should it be needed.

Our guide today was a remarkably smooth and affable chap who wore diamond ear-studs. We were taken initially to a lake ( or reservoir ) with a 'chatri' ( summerhouse ) just off-shore and I can't remember the significance of it. There were numerous hawkers following us around like this chap ( right ) selling necklaces. Who on earth would want to buy a necklace? I had often wondered what had become of my old mate Dave Woods! I thought he was in the south of France.

Left: The fort at Jaisalmer is quite an imposing sight.
It towers over the town and actually has a thriving community living inside it. It is a popular venue for the more 'hippyish' travellers and so there are also many low price hostels and cafes advertising western style food and strange herbal teas. The drug 'bangh' ( not sure of the spelling ), our guide told us, is legally sold in shops here, which might appeal to the 'travellers'. I believe it has hallucinogenic properties and although we were all egging each other on to buy some and try it, I don't think anyone risked it. There was talk of slipping some into Mr Mouse's 'tea or caffee'.

Right: One of the entrances to the fort. There were four narrow gates to pass through up a winding path; a good ploy to make it difficult for invaders. Inside is a maze of narrow streets and loads of small shops, rather like a Moroccan 'souk'. The tiny narrow streets have many blasted cows loitering around in them and the concomitant piles of manure to trap the unwary pedestrian. The place was a regular bovine minefield and one saw several people ( not the locals of course ) hopping about on one leg trying to scrape off the offending muck. Of course there were little boys with rags and brushes, strategically placed, who raced up and offered to clean the soiled shoes for a few rupees within nano-seconds. It was all a carefully choreographed and well rehearsed scam. I saw three of our GG hopping up and down and then forking out for this service.

Left: The central square inside the fort. This is the palace where the ruler held forth. It has been long since abandoned but is kept in good enough nick with much financial support from world heritage bodies, we were told.
I noticed many massage parlours, fast food shops and internet cafes, so there is obviously a big demand from the passing 'traveller' trade staying in the fort.

Right: As was becoming the norm, these two gents, Barry and Trevor Singh, doing the 'season' in Jaisalmer, sat in their colourful traditional robes and made-up to the nines expecting their photo to be taken, as it duly was, and then getting some rupees stuffed into their copper pots. Its a foolproof way of making a living ( with enough tourists around ). This pair of bandidos rather overdid it by appearing in different places ahead of our group as we moved through the fort! It was a classic example of the law of diminishing returns.

We were shown into a couple of 'shoes off' Jain Temples ( as per left ). It was explained but I didn't fully grasp what a 'Jain' is; some form of Hindu I think. However their temples are magnificent examples of quite incredibly complex stone carving. Every square inch of yellow sandstone is subjected to intricately engraved patterns. Maybe Jains spend a lot of time sitting inside with a hammer and chisel and bugger all else to do. A bit like auto-compulsive masonic doodling.

Right: A view over the golden city from the fort. Actually this was taken from the roof terrace of a very smart hotel in the fort. They must cater for some very wealthy hippies.

Left: An example of one of several 'havelies'. These were the homes of wealthy merchants and are highly decorated with intricately carved sandstone walls, both outside and in. They took many years to construct and, I presume, were a way of showing off your wealth if you had it. We were 'guided' into one of these for another 'shopping opportunity'; this time for silk tablecloths, pashmina shawls, bedspreads, scarves etc., all very beautiful I'm sure and they told us that they had contracts with places like Hermes in Paris, but we could get them here much cheaper, of course. I know that several of GG were keen to buy. I suspect that some of GG are compulsive shoppers. I did a runner. Then returned because I quickly realised I didn't know my way back to the bus! To get out of that fort unaided would be like trying to find your way out of Hampton Court maze, and anyway someone said they had moved the buses. They were devilish cunning.

Right: A girl spent ages walking, running, sliding, skipping and hopping up and down this tight-rope with some brass dishes on her head. She certainly had stamina. I suppose one was meant to contribute, but I stayed too far away. I'm sure that bloke standing in front is the same guy ( Jagdesh, ex-AAC ) I photographed outside the smart hotel ( doorman ) and at the railway station ( bongos ) in Delhi. Is he following me?

From the fort in Jaisalmer we drove off for about an hour westwards into the desert. This was to some encampments where we were to embark on a camel ride. We paired up again; me with my mate Dr Bill and mounted up, or rather sat on the sitting down camel and it stood up. I think they are particularly unattractive creatures. Left: Amit and Rebecca on their 'Ship of the Desert'.
It turned out to be quite a long ( 40 minute ) ride across the sand dunes in a sort of loosely formed camel train. There were hundreds of other punters around us, so not quite Lawrence of Arabia. More like donkeys on Blackpool beach. Ours was a particularly slow model, or it may have been due to the load factor. I asked the lad leading our camel what it was called. He replied "Fidel Castro". What an extraordinary name for a camel, we thought, and asked him why. He said "because all the others are called Michael Jackson". ???! On asking others when we got back it was true, their's were all called Michael Jackson! I discovered also that 40 minutes on a camel is long enough to give you a sore arse.
After dismounting we were treated to some more music around a campfire, plus refreshments of 'tea, caffee, biscuits and cookies'.

Later that evening we were taken to a smart hotel for dinner which included traditional local Indian music and dancing. Of course we were 'encouraged' to participate. Bill ( the GP from Michigan ) had said previously that he categorically can't sing and can't dance. It took a few people to quieten him down and drag him off the dance floor at the end of the evening! The food was fine.
These are quite long action packed days of touristing.

PALACE ON WHEELS. RAJASTHAN - INDIA ( Part 2 )

2012-01-19T22:44:00.000-08:00

4th - 11th Jan 2012

Day 2. Sawai Madhopur National Park and Chittor.
Some of our morning starts were rather ( too ) early. Day 2 and reveille was at 0530hrs for a 0615hrs depart to the National Park area near Sawai Madhopur. It is one of the 'Tiger Watching' parks. We were bused to the park entrance, then further split up onto 'safari' type wagons. Even at 0700hrs in the cold semi-dark there were gangs of hawkers ( I'm trying to think of a suitable collective noun for an irritating pack of persistent touts and hawkers ) at the entrance selling warm clothing, gloves and hats and things with tiger motifs. We were advised that there are probably only two to three tigers in the whole park! Also, due to the previous overnight rain and murky, damp conditions, any sensible tiger would still be in bed.

Left: Our wagon-load of part of Green Group ( GG ). As you can see, some looked as if they were suffering conditions less than tropical. We set off for what seemed like an eternity over bumpy, pot-holed, muddy tracks. As somewhat expected there was neither sight nor sound of a tiger. We had to console ourselves, at the insistence of a most enthusiastic and knowledgeable guide, with sightings of spotted deer ( these are the type I found wandering around at Trincomalee ) and they are as common and uninteresting as rabbits, some other deer, monkeys, peacocks and birds of various type. It was, for me anyway, all a bit boring and I won't bother to show you further photos. I've seen more interesting wildlife on Clapham Common. Some of GG, I learnt on return to the train for a hearty breakfast, had been as sensible as the tigers and stayed in bed. I was subsequently shown some excellent close up photos of a tigress and her cubs walking alongside one of the wagons taken on a previous trip. So they do exist and are not at all nervous of mankind. Trouble is they don't appear very often. I suggested they stick some 'stuffed' models, with tails that waggle, in the bushes and everyone would go home happy. I'm not sure if this was well received.

Right: These were my co-residents in the 'Jodhpur' saloon carriage. We got to know each other and got on remarkably well. They were a charming, interesting, and well travelled bunch. It was, inevitably, a bit of a 'team building' exercise living in such close proximity for over a week. Left to right: Bob ( retired dermatologist from Portland, Oregon ) and Meredith, Amit ( cardiologist from Los Angeles ) and Rebecca, John ( retired electrical engineer and economist from New Jersey ) and Barrie. So I was in good company if my spots, heart, electric toothbrush or finances needed attention.

We had lunch on board as we proceeded to Chittor, to visit it's massive fort, Chittorgarh. This fort is about 5 miles in length, situated like a vast rock island above the town and is the biggest in Rajasthan. Left: Looking west along some of the fort walls ( note rainwater filled reservoir; one of several ). It is now home to a community of about 5000 inhabitants. It was besieged, invaded and retaken on three occasions between 1303 and 1568 by Mughal attackers. The defending Rajputs committed 'Jauhar' when defeat was inevitable. This involved the men dressing in saffron robes, charging out of the fort and flinging themselves upon their opponents to certain death, while the women, to avoid capture and dishonour, flung themselves and their children onto massive pyres within the fort and were self-immolated. A lot of flinging is involved in 'Jauhar' and not recommended nowadays, whatever the odds.

Right: Another of our excellent and informative guides telling the stories of Chittorgarh. They were many and convoluted. If you are that interested I'm sure they are all described in painful detail on the internet.

Left: A photo of the summerhouse on the lake within the fort where a beautiful wife of the ruler of the day was, according to one of the stories, viewed by means of a mirror by an infatuated invading Mughal sultan. A long story and it ended in treachery when the sultan, escorted by the resident king out of the fort, captured said king and ultimately invaded the fort ( another 'Jauhar' inevitably followed and aforementioned beautiful wife became Mrs Barbecue ).

Right: The Victory Tower at Chittorgarh. In front of which is posed a most amusing family from Bali ( part of GG ). Nattalia ( yes, two 'tt's ), originally from Cork, Ireland, her husband Kadek, a builder of smart houses in Bali, and their children Putu and Lili who were on holiday from school at Geelong Grammar, Victoria, Australia. It was they that re-christened Bombur Singh, our frazzled group manager, 'Mr Mouse'. They thought, with some added whiskers and existing ears, he looked just rather mouse-like. So Mr Mouse he became. Self, Putu and an Australian GG member climbed the tower. It was dark inside with rather precipitous steps but a good view from the top.
I also went on a short ride on a local horse here. Extraordinary coloured creature with funny curved pointy ears that met at the tips. It was not exactly Arkle, but managed to carry me quite swiftly around a street or two once I managed to escape from the poor chasing Indian 'handler'. I think he thought I had 'done a runner' on it. I returned the brute unscathed much to Mr Singh's relief. I presume that was his name because everyone here is called Singh unless otherwise stated, as per the now re-named Mr Mouse.

We were treated to a 'Son et Lumiere' show after dusk which featured much story telling to atmospheric stereophonic music plus sound effects of such things as horses galloping up to the fort, a few screams and lights going on and off around the walls. I must admit to having a bit of a kip through most of it so not sure exactly what went on. It had been a long and tiring day.
Left: Prior to the Son et Lumiere show.
Back to the train afterwards for dinner and an early night.

Day 3. Udaipur. The White City.
A more civilised start time today, and we set off after Mr Mouse had given his normal unintelligible morning greeting on the bus which involves introducing us to our guide for the day and mentioning that "tea, caffee, biscuits and cookies" will occur at some point or other.

The first stop was some 'royal' gardens ( right ) which, frankly, were nothing to write home about. They were from olden times and featured gravity powered fountains and some delicately carved marble elephants that squirted water out of their trunks.

We were then subjected to a visit to an 'art school' which specialised in old-fashioned traditional miniature paintings. These were rather exquisite and featured stylised and very intricately painted pictures of Maharajas and their women and courts. We were given a lecture and display by the man in charge who was called, as far as I could understand, Mr Teapot. The paints used were from crushed semi-precious minerals and even gold. This was just a forerunner to a visit to their large shop behind ( another shopping opportunity ) where everyone was set upon by over-eager salesmen trying to flog the paintings. Incidently, as we discovered later, very similar 'exquisite' paintings were on sale elsewhere for half the price. At this point I escaped. Unfortunately there was nothing within reach to escape to.

The best of the sights in the local area featured this place ( left ), the Global Institute of Sexual Medicines. Not the sort of place you want your friends to see you enter, or leave for that matter. OK, for those who are not fluent in Hindi, if you 'click on' to enlarge, no pun intended, you will see the translation at the bottom, I mean underneath.

...and also the inevitable bloody cows ( right ) which seem to thrive on plastic bags and garbage. These, along with touts and hawkers, infest most of the towns here. The cows are an eyesore, stand in the middle of the road, and are a filthy nuisance but seem not to bother the locals, as indeed are the pestilential touts and hawkers who swarm like flies around tourists in all the touristy areas that don't strictly forbid them ( fortunately there are a few tout-free areas i.e. inside the buildings ), and even ambush us around the door of our bus. These people need to make money, I admit, but they possibly don't realise how irritated and thick-skinned tourists become due to their persistent pleading, grabbing salesmanship.

We then went off to more glamorous venues. The kings who ruled this state, previously known as Mewar, after the final fall of Chittorgarh were, of course, Singhs by family name but the ruling title was that of Maharana. This is one up on a Maharaja. The present day Marharana of Udaipur ( unofficial but still respected title ) still lives in grand style in the private part of the enormous City Palace, the largest palace in Rajasthan. Left: The private residence.
Part of this palace is now an expensive hotel. The rest is a walk through museum and most impressive with lots of intricately carved stonework and beautifully restored elaborately decorated rooms.

Right: One of the gates to the palace. This shows some of the pointy metal prongs ( many removed here for 'elf 'n' safety reasons to avoid having to unpick careless tourists ) embedded in the gate, common to most forts and palaces in the region. They acted as an 'anti-elephant' defence and protected the gates from the tactic of breaking them down by often drug-fuelled charging pachyderms. Elephants around here were reputedly trained by a renowned local warlord, Janshir Chipperfield-Singh and his wife, the double-jointed contortionist Betsy Boo Argh Mefootstuk. They were in popular demand.

Left: This is part of the ornate exterior to the old part of the palace. The last 'elephant fight' took place in the arena below here in 1951. It involved two elephants pulling each other towards a central wall. The one which ended up pulled over, or against the wall was the loser. Apparently each contest went on for hours with lots of 'trumpeting'. It must have been rather a dull event. Then the entrepreneurial Chipperfield-Singh got the idea to make then stand on big drums, dance on their hind legs, take buns from the audience and the rest is history.

Right: A view of the 'white city' from an upper window in the palace. It's a big place Udaipur and, by Indian standards, relatively clean even outside the polished and manicured tourist sites, despite the crapping cows.
I should mention that the first Maharana here ( in 1568 ) was called Udai Singh, hence Udaipur.
I might also mention that any city with 'pur' at the end is originally Hindu, and any place with 'bad' at the end is originally Muslim. You probably knew that already.

Left: An example, of many, of the over-the-top glass and shiny decoration that features in the old rooms.
There is also a large four sided gallery which features an extraordinary and enormous collection of crystal-ware from the long defunct British firm F&C Ostler. Maharana Sajjan Singh ordered tons of stuff in 1877, but he died before it could be delivered. It remained in packing crates for 110 years. It is now all on display and features extravagant ( and rather tasteless ) items such as crystal chairs, sofas, tables and even beds. The crystal beds looked remarkably uncomfortable. These Maharanas had some weird tastes in decor. And as for the gargantuan crystal chandeliers hanging in the Grand Durbar Hall, the lavish royal reception room, it is difficult to describe adequately their vast size and complexity. I don't think we were allowed to photograph in here. Much of these 'royal' interior designs and furnishings are seriously lavish to a point well beyond tasteless. Gold taps and ivory loo-roll holders, pah!, would go unnoticed. Even 'Del Boy' Trotter and Arfur Daly would consider the style a little 'de trop'.

.....and ( right ) an example of the extremely elaborate carving of the sandstone frontage in the many courtyards. Without too much TV, electronic distractions or even pubs to go to, these old-time plasterers and decorators were willing to put in a lot of man-hours to produce, with no effort spared over a long period, magnificent results. Impossible to even think it could be done today.

The old Marharanas built three big rain filled reservoirs ( glamorously re-christened lakes ) around the city. They were, maybe still are, their vital water source in a land where water is often in short supply. The biggest, and it has been known to dry up in bad years, is the Pichola Lake, which is home to the 'floating' Taj Lake Palace. It is an exclusive and ridiculously expensive hotel. It apparently featured in the 'Bond' film Octopussy which, sad though it may seem, I have not watched.

Around the outside of the 'lake' are more traditional Indian activities such as the washing of clothes ( right ). Wherever you go in India there is always the stark contrast between the supremely rich tiny minority and the vast majority of slum dwelling poor. There is, however, no overt indication of bitterness or jealousy. Life, they consider, is one of fate and 'caste' and one's accepted place in the order of things. I think the Hindu religion maintains the hope of the poor, that if they do all the correct 'religious' things, slap enough cowshit on their foreheads, pray fervently to the relevant Gods, and don't cause any trouble, they will be reincarnated as a higher life-form, or caste. I may be wrong, but it all seems to me a bit of a confidence trick.

Left: On the far western side of the 'lake' is another vast, elaborate and even more exclusive and monumentally expensive hotel, the Udaivilas Hotel where, to give you an idea, a suite costs up to $5000 per night!
The hilltop building in the background is a monastery.
There are many other artificial islands of ancient glamour on the lakes housing 'chatris', old summerhouses, for the Maharanas and their entourages to relax or entertain in. There was plenty of mention of music and dancing girls involved. After a sumptuous lunch in a smart hotel in the palace grounds ( no dancing girls ), we were taken on a serene boat trip around these, and had to wear life-jackets would you believe. Mr Mouse would hate to have any of us drown. On reaching shore we were entertained to more 'Tea, caffee, biscuits and cookies'.

We made it safely back to the Palace on Wheels which was now referred to as the 'PoW' and nobody appeared to have gone missing. Off we roll to see more Rajasthan highlights. Lots of things to see and photograph on this trip and I wish to keep a record, so you'll have to bear with me, if you want to that is.

PALACE ON WHEELS. RAJASTHAN - INDIA ( Part 1 )

2012-01-16T13:19:00.000-08:00

4th - 11th Jan 2012

Palace on Wheels. Our carriage staff.

As fully anticipated the idiot auto-rickshaw driver managed to visit two incorrect and far apart places before he finally took some advice on how to find Safdarjung railway station. It was here we were to board the ‘Palace on Wheels’ train for a seven day tour of the major attractions in Rajasthan, the Land of Kings. This State is arguably the most photogenic, and probably the most touristy, of all the Indian States. It was originally a warlike place inhabited by Rajputs who were initially under control of the muslim Moghul empire ( Genghis Khan's descendants ) and later the Indian Hindu Maharajas. The Maharajas surnames are usually Singh. Singh is still a predominant Rajasthani name, rather like the name Jones in Wales, although that is where the similarity ends. Having said that, there are undoubtedly more Singhs living in Wales than there are Joneses in Rajasthan.They used to fight amongst themselves if no-one else was attacking them ( OK, that is another Welsh similarity ). The British arranged a mutually beneficial relationship with the Maharajas which left them substantial freedom to rule their own kingdoms provided they acknowledged overall British rule, and the British guaranteed to provide military security for the area, i.e. they stopped them fighting each other! It all worked very well, and many Maharajas became great Anglophiles. Maybe some still are.

Left: Waiting at Safdarjung station to embark. There were 95 passengers on this train which was divided into 12 ‘saloon’ carriages, two restaurant cars, a lounge bar car and a ‘spa’ car ( whatever that is ). The passengers were an eclectic mix of nationalities as well as several Indian tourists. I was allocated a cabin in 'Jodhpur' carriage. Similarly the other carriages all had place names from Rajasthan. There were four cabins in each carriage plus a small lounge area and a pantry. Each carriage had a 'carriage captain' and his assistant; effectively a butler and under-butler. Ours were called Rajesh and Rajendra and they were extremely smart and efficient. Nothing was too much trouble. Rajesh was the veritable 'Jeeves' of Rajasthan.

We were greeted with a flowery 'garland' slung over the neck and a 'tikka', the red dot, splodged onto your forehead. They attempted this at all our subsequent station, and off-train restaurant, arrivals and I, amongst others, managed to avoid it after a bit. You can have too much of a good thing! The band ( right) was there to entertain us while we waited. I'm sure that chap playing the bongo at the back is the same guy, Jagdesh, whom I photographed at the hotel in the previous blog ( Ex-AAC ). The other bongo player was off having a leak.

To begin with we were given a conducted tour of the train and it's facilities. Left: The cabin ( bedroom ) which had plush carpets and a bathroom with a decent shower. The beds were really very comfortable. Morning 'wake-up' tea, or whatever you wanted, was delivered in suitably Jeeves-like manner in proper china, with biscuits. I'm sure Rajendra would happily have brought you a double brandy, or a bottle, or a barrel, if that's what you asked for. It was that sort of service!

Right: This is our carriage sitting-room where we were served tea, if in, and breakfast, and they did great bacon and eggs for breakfast. I never really got to grips with the Indian alternatives.

This railway is 'wide-guage'. On the whole it was a remarkably smooth ride. Occasionally there was a bit of rocking and rolling on the faster stretches and the driver loved blowing his whistle. Probably to get cows off the line.

Left: One of the two dining cars ( called the Maharaja and Maharani respectively ). The food was delicious and there were choices of 'Continental', 'Chinese' or 'Indian', or all three, or any combination, or quantity, that took your fancy. After the first dinner I had more visions of the exploding Mr Creosote in the Monty Python film, 'The Meaning of Life'. The meals were all included in the initial fare. The cost of drinks was extra. Crisps and peanuts were thrown in free.

And, of course, the all important lounge bar. It had a TV at this end which received BBC 24 or CNN news, unless some 'erk' got to it first and was watching a 'movie'. After our initial tour of the train we were assembled here (in two sittings) and given a free drink and a quick briefing on what excitements the next week would hold.

I must say, the on-train service was impeccable in a very pleasant old fashioned 'Raj' style and with seemingly innumerable and attentive staff. We were waited on hand, foot and anything else 'sir'. Most impressive. I always felt rather underdressed for the whole occasion. Black Tie for dinner would not have been out of place!

There was also a 'spa' car in which, apparently, expensive massages and other treatments of various weird descriptions were administered and of which I felt no need. I think it was mostly aimed at the ladies.

We passengers were divided into four groups, or teams, to fit into four buses for the daily tours. Amazingly, these same buses followed the train and met us at the various morning start-points. They must have driven like hell through the nights. I was in 'Green Group'. There were also yellow, blue and red groups. We were issued with our relevant coloured badges and didn't mix with the other groups much.

Left: Our Green Group 'manager' was a chap called Bombur Singh ( or something close ). He always welcomed us onto the bus in the morning. He spoke rapidly in English in a flat monotone but, sadly, much of it was unintelligible. The only words we regularly understood were when he mentioned "break for caffee, tea, biscuits and cookies". This became a standing joke. When he tried to explain what we were going to do, it usually caused more confusion than enlightenment. He constantly wore a sort of panic stricken look as if expecting to lose control or worse, lose entirely one of us passengers. He was unintentionally very amusing 'a la John Cleese' mode and even slightly similar in appearance.

It had all the makings of a fairly luxurious and well organised jaunt through Rajasthan. It was, perhaps, a little too organised for some people's liking but the organisers, especially Mr Singh, were terrified that some renegade tourist might show a bit too much independence and get lost and miss the bus or worse, the train. We were kept on a tight rein.

Day 1. Jaipur. The Pink City. It transpired that most of the cities in Rajasthan have been allotted 'colours', and often for sound reason.

As became the norm, we were welcomed off the train by musicians, and ladies who draped garlands around our necks and plonked a dot of red gunge on our foreheads ( hope it wasn't cow dung ), a tikka. There was often an armed police presence too! Not sure where the danger was coming from and it was possibly just for effect.

The day began with a visit to the Prince Albert Museum ( left ). An elaborate building built in 1876 outside the old town. It was quite interesting. There were thousands of pigeons around the place.

Then through the ancient moghul gate into the old town where the buildings are indeed of a uniform pinkish colour. All buildings are required, by law, to be kept this colour. This 'facade' ( right ), called the Hawa Mahal, in the main street, was constructed by a previous Maharaja to allow his women to sit behind the beautifully carved grille windows and watch what was going on in the town below without being seen themselves. As you are no doubt aware, in olden times ( and maybe even now in some traditional Muslim and Hindu places like the east-end of London ) women were not allowed to be seen in public, or even in private by anyone other than their direct families. Purdah!

Another previous Maharaja, 1728 vintage, was inventive and fascinated in the sciences, particularly astronomy. He was well ahead of his time. He built an amazing observatory called the Jantar Mantar which houses a collection of outsize astronomic instruments which measure all sorts of things astronomical. This one ( left ) calculates the position of stars. The whole collection resembled a vast array of 'modern art'! I was expecting to meet the magnificent xylophone playing astronomer Sir Patrick Moore with his trousers up to his chin ( is he still around? ), but didn't.

Right: Green Group having the workings of these 'instruments' explained by our guide of the day. Our guides were local to the areas we visited and were particularly good; they spoke excellent English and were clearly very highly educated and expert on their subjects. I suspect that the Palace on Wheels ( POW ) gets the pick of the bunch. At one point it was explained to us that to get to be a tourist guide in India is highly competitive. One chap said that there were 135,000 applicants for his 'course', of which 350 were selected for training and he was 7th in the final order of merit.

Left: A giant sundial. The largest in the world. It is accurate to 3 seconds. You can see the shade-mark falling on a very detailed and precise scale. Lots of pigeons were lined up on the central wall. It obviously doubles as a prestigious and popular pigeon social gathering place.

Nearby is the City Palace where the Jaipur Maharajas moved to when living in the fort above the city became impracticable. The present day Maharaja of Jaipur and his family still live here, in part of it. The pic ( right ) is of their private quarters. The status and independence of Maharajas, together with a government provided income, was initially guaranteed when the British left in 1947. However, in 1971?, Indira Ghandi's government passed a bill in Parliament that did away with the titles, income and any power they might have held. Most accepted this philosophically and moved into other income generating businesses. Although technically without any title or position, many of the present day Maharajas are still accorded the same respect and titles in their local 'kingdoms' and continue to live in the original palaces. I suspect they do good things for their 'people' who quite probably enjoy having a Maharaja about the place to look after them in preference to what they perceive as thoroughly corrupt and self-serving politicians in the State and New Delhi.

One previous Maharaja periodically went on 'sporting' ( grouse shooting, salmon fishing and polo ) visits to Britain accompanied by a large retinue of family, staff and servants. Being a devout Hindu he always took with him his personal supply of 'holy water' from the Ganges or other similar rancid drain. This water was contained in two enormous pure silver vessels; the biggest silver vessels in the world, by far I suspect. One of these is pictured ( left ) with a very shifty looking guard. They are about 8ft high.

Before return to India, the holy water having been used up, they were reputedly refilled with the finest Scotch single-malt whisky. I wonder how they got them through customs? I suspect Maharajas could 'pull a few strings' in those days. Imagine trying to get those things through the security obsessed, no liquids more that 125ml, jobsworths at Heathrow nowadays. And think of the excess baggage weight charges!

Right: This solemn looking, if colourful, gent was sitting somewhere outside the palace. Of course loads of people, like me, took his photo. Equally of course, he expected money for his 'efforts'. It became painfully obvious that this dressing up in colourful quasi-religious costume and warpaint was a bit of a money spinning scam ( you know, like the 'living statues' on such streets as Las Ramblas in Barcelona, or those dreadful Rob Roy look-alike lousy 'pipers' outside Edinburgh Castle at the time of the Festival ) and was apparent at all the sites we visited. It involves little effort for a bloody good return. He is probably another owner of a second home on the Cote d'Azure and drives a Ferrari. Probably has a private jet too. I might try this someday.

We were then whisked off to the Amber Fort which overlooks the city. It was the home of the Moghuls and subsequently Maharajas and well fortified by at least two concentric walls with lots of watch-towers. ( as per left ). I stupidly forgot to take a photo of the imposing fort on it's hill before going up there. Probably because Mr Bombur Singh was frantically trying to get us all aboard a column of gayly painted and decorated 'Happy Christmas' elephants for the 15 minute elephant ride to the top.

Hold very tight please, ting ting. More difficult than you think taking a photo of some of our Green Group from a swaying elephant's back. Sitting sideways on those elephant seats was not that comfortable. It felt as if you would slip over backwards or forwards. I expect Mr Singh was running along behind to pick up any fallers.

Left: The great elephant train arrived without mishap at the top where we were treated to rather a good buffet lunch. More ethnic musicians, garlands and razzmatazz.

Right: The old moghul buildings within the fort were impressive and beautifully maintained. Immaculate carvings and mirror inlays and gardens etc. etc. There were tons of photos taken, but this is a typical example; the 'audience' room in the centre. Elsewhere a most elaborate quadrangle housed 12 apartments for the king's wives. They ( the ladies) had no interconnecting doors, but the king ( moghul emperor, or whatever ) had access by secluded passageway to all. None of them knew which wife was being visited. They got things sorted in those days.

We returned to the city in 'jeeps'. Then taken on what was advertised as a shopping opportunity. I thought this would mean we could wander around the local shops and buy things, or not, at our leisure. No way. It soon became apparent that these 'shopping opportunities' were pre-arranged 'group' visits to a particular 'favoured' ( i.e. POW got a large back-hander ) local manufacturer of some goods or other and miles away from the main city shops, so little chance to escape. In this instance it was first to a large jewellery shop, and then a fabric and carpet place. This, for me, was a complete waste of time. The stuff on sale was vastly expensive and I had absolutely no interest in buying anything anyway. The venues put on spectacular and well rehearsed sales routines, especially the carpet place which dramatically flung open rolls of beautiful silk and pashmena wool carpets, accompanied by marvellously slick patter, costing up to $15,000 ( post and package included of course ) each. The bigger ones took, we were told, up to 3 years to complete. I wondered, and queried, how much the local women who slaved away to make these magnificent rugs got paid. As expected, no answer was forthcoming.The only plus was that they served drinks, including by now much needed beer, to keep us happy. It was a captive audience subjected to an intense sales pitch. Quite surprisingly in my opinion, several people were happily spending a fortune buying up the goods which were probably grossly overpriced and which, until then, they did not know they either needed or wanted. They undoubtedly had much more money than sense. Not my problem really but, for me, these almost enforced 'sales' pitches became one of the irritating drawbacks of the otherwise excellent daily tours. I broached the subject with Mr Singh, who just managed to look even more panic stricken. He had his instructions no doubt. I suppose he thought I would go and do my own thing in future. He was right!

We eventually escaped the 'shopping' and back to the train for wash, drinks and dinner. En-route, or maybe it was before, we passed this rather glamorous 'regal summerhouse' on the lake ( left ). It was a summer retreat for the Maharaja and his family when they wanted a bit of peace and quiet and a cool breeze. I don't suppose they were troubled by rising damp? I wonder what happened when there was a big monsoon rain. The butler handed out life-jackets I presume. It is now unoccupied and kept purely as an ornament. Not to be confused with the Lake Palace at Udaipur.

I am now sitting around waiting for a visa application to be processed. As such I have a bit of time on my hands and also free wifi, so will probably bang-on at length about the Rajasthan trip. As previously said, I'm doing this primarily for my own benefit and as a personal log, so no apologies if it bores you rigid. It keeps me amused and off the streets at night. Good Heavens, it's nearly 1.00am and I've only got through Day 1 of the Palace on Wheels Grand Tour. Lots more to put up with yet I'm afraid!

DELHI - INDIA

2012-01-13T10:45:00.000-08:00

1st - 4th Jan 2012

Presidential Residence ( ex-Viceroy's Palace ) New Delhi

The AC 2-tier train compartment from Bombay to Delhi was pretty crowded. I think an extended family had moved into the carriage with two extremely noisy children and not much space left for luggage. There certainly were more than four of us in our compartment but the number kept changing because they were constantly moving around and it was all a bit tiresome. I opened my 'New Year' bottle of wine, well before midnight, and offered a glass to a quieter older guy sitting next to me, but he didn’t want any. I drank alone. Somehow it was decided to sort out the bunks and lie down at about 10.00pm; I had a top bunk. Those damned brats started to yowl as soon as the lights were dimmed and they were eventually taken away and not heard from again. I was obviously not the only one who had had enough of them. We had left at 1640hrs and arrived at New Delhi Central at 0945hrs the next morning. Happy New Year.

I decided to try a hotel on Connaught Place ‘outer circle’ in the centre of New Delhi. The taxi and rickshaw touts here were particularly irritating, and even a bit threatening. I eventually found a ‘pre-pay’ taxi booth and made an escape from the station with a youthful driver who, of course, knew the way. Of course the silly arse got lost, and the hotel wasn’t even very far away.

Dirty, dusty Delhi was my first impression. The small hotel was fine and the lady running it was charming, but the outside area was pitifully awful.

The whole city covers a vast area and is, basically, divided into four distinct regions namely; Old Delhi to the north including the Red Fort complex, New Delhi Central around Connaught Place, south of that are the Governmental Secretariat buildings and further south and west the large military cantonment area including a modern shopping centre. It appears from the street map that you can walk between a lot of these places, but ‘no way Jose’. Its all very spread out.

Connaught Place ( left, the inner circle, and it is much grottier than it looks in this rather flattering photo taken quite early in the morning ) was designed for the British Raj as the civic focal-point for their new captal city of New Delhi. It was completed in 1931 when it must have looked truly magnificent consisting of three elegant concentric Georgian style white colonnaded circular streets of about 1000 yards in diameter with beautiful shiny patterned marble pavements, interlocking alleyways and a sumptuous grass and tree covered park in the centre. In true Indian fashion, and due to total neglect over the past 60 years, it has been reduced to a rubble and garbage strewn wasteland. The once beautiful pavements are grimey, torn up in places and broken, the colonnades hold some decent shops but consist mostly of tacky little cheapo joints infested with predatory aggravating touts, the plasterwork is cracked, crumbling and dirty and the central park is now mostly a filthy crowded bazaar. The alleyways connecting the three concentric streets are indescribably foul and stinking; they have become public toilets. Everywhere is covered in a thick layer of dust. I think some effort is being made to renovate the place, but too little and far too late I fear. It is the finest example of urban vandalism, on a truly epic scale, that I have ever seen. The neglect and demise of this once proud edifice is a disgrace that successive Indian governments should be thoroughly ashamed of. It is a very depressing sight.

Walking the streets at night around here was a bit dodgy and quite alarming. When you passed the dark stinky alleyways malformed, malodorous and filthy beggars with wild staring eyes lurched out at you, like zombies, clutching at your clothes and soundlessly pleading for money. It was a horror film brought to life. Right: This is one of the ‘open’ areas in the centre of Connaught Place. It had relatively few people on it but was covered in rubbish nevertheless. It is difficult to get a photo showing the full scale of the horror.

I spent a morning wandering around the place and found a few semi-respectable shops and restaurants. There are also some good local 'bazaars' selling cheap clothing and many tailors who attract a large clientele making bespoke garments at very competitive prices. The restaurants have that tiresome habit of quoting a price on the menu and stating at the bottom ‘taxes not included’, but they don’t say how much. There is a service charge and three different taxes which, effectively, increase the menu price by over 30%! Bloody annoying, as I told the manager of one place who sympathetically wobbled his head at me.

One real gem is the old Imperial Hotel. It is almost hidden away up a main street, Janpath, not far from Connaught Place. It has many interesting old prints and pictures on the walls of British/Indian battles fought long ago, jackal hunting, pig sticking and also portraits of splendidly attired Marharanas, Maharajas and Nawabs of the day. It is a lovely hotel and presumably highly pricey to stay there but I called in for a drink just to wander around and admire all the bits and pieces on display.

There are several old photos of Delhi Durbahs on the occasions of visits by British royalty, notably in 1903 and 1911. The city looked immaculate then ( OK, maybe only the bits involved in the Durbar ).

Left: The Durbar in 1903 on the occasion of the visit of the Duke and Duchess of Connaught.

Right: Photo of a splendidly dressed, bedecorated and bewhiskered Maharaja. There were many others equally, if not more, exotic. I admired this one for his extraordinary facial hair. They all appeared to have great independence of rule in their respective 'states' and the relationship between them and the 'Raj' seemed to be mutually beneficial.

Left: One of the bars at the Imperial Hotel. The dining room beyond is superb with many more old paintings and prints. If you are wealthy enough, this is a great place to stay.

Right: One of the streets leading off Connaught Place. It is another ‘bustling’ ( BR 8 ) bazaar. The appearance of the city was not helped while I was there because of the permanent mist or haze present. Not sure if this was due to the cool weather or smog.

The Delhi auto-rickshaws are coloured uniform green and yellow. There were so many it was always possible to get a good deal, although the drivers usually tried to persuade you, for a cheaper than offered fare, to go to ‘see’ a favoured shop ‘en-route’ where they get a commission for introducing a tourist. It may have been cheaper ( provided you didn’t buy anything ), but added an hour or two onto the journey time! I fell for that one. Twice.

The newish underground Metro system ( right ) is quite impressive. It is unbearably crowded at rush hours, and by crikey the Indians know how to do crowds, but at other times it is quick, efficient, easy to understand and cheap. It is very high tech and clean. As with any important public facility or large hotel in India everyone is subjected to body and baggage scans before entering.

Left: This photo is of the slightly more expensive but very up-market high-speed city to airport express, stopping at a couple of useful intermediate stations.
Amongst all the dilapidation there are the beginnings of some impressive and high-tech modern public systems.

To the south of the city are much smarter shopping, diplomatic and military areas. The city down here is more open-plan and, although still a bit dusty ( and hazy ), is really quite pleasant. The ‘diplomatic’ area to which I had to pay a call is clean and hosts some very opulent ambassadorial buildings. The cantonment area is home to many military ‘headquarters’ and barracks. I passed an impressive display of a squadron’s worth of horse mounted Lancers in full dress uniforms, plus lances, parading up the road ( in my haste the photo failed ). This is, presumably, the Aldershot equivalent in India and holds some ostentatious army, airforce and even naval establishments with accompanying sportsfields and golf courses.

I made a point of visiting the Delhi Racecourse, the smartly named ‘Delhi Race Club’ on a day, by chance, when there was a race-meeting scheduled. The first race was due off at 2.15pm and I turned up a bit early, at 1.00pm, to enjoy what I hoped was going to be a relaxed introduction to the racecourse with a few drinks and pleasant lunch at, what was advertised at the entry gate, as the members’ restaurant.

I quickly discovered that Royal Ascot this place most certainly ain’t! It is, to put it mildly, a grotty ‘flapper track’ of the most dilapidated and insalubrious kind. Firstly, I was told at the gate ( entry R50/$1 ) that cameras were strictly prohibited due to ‘security’ reasons. I objected strongly and when threatening to walk away the little Hitler on the gate relented.

Inside it was a typically dusty, dirty and ramshackle place. No alcohol of any kind was permitted and the ‘restaurant’ was certainly cheap but most of what was on the menu was not available. It was a chicken curry, chicken sandwich and/or chips, plus tea, coffee or coca-cola or nothing. There were no stands to speak of and only the final 3 furlongs, or 3 hundred metres, of the ‘hockey stick’ shaped weedy grass or dirt track were visible. The parade ring ( left ) was enclosed by a 10ft high mesh security fence and the only well attended area was a dismal betting ‘yard’ in a shed in the centre.

Seeing a ‘westerner’ in the thin crowd quickly attracted various ‘helpful’ touts to give tips in the expectation that said grateful tourist would offer remuneration. Some hope in my case. Frankly, it was a seedy, run-down place geared entirely to betting for a down-market exclusively male clientele and, I suspect, not above involving somewhat ‘pre-arranged’ results. By chance I met an amusing couple on holiday from Leeds who, along with me, were the only foreigners present. We had a bit of a giggle together. They even had an each-way bet and, when the horse they backed came second, were approached by a ‘tout’ who wanted a share of their winnings! It really was all quite ghastly and I only stayed for two races. This place must be a serious contender for the most horrid racecourse in the world. How do the Indians manage to make such a complete horlicks of these things!

Just around the corner from the racecourse entry was this sign ( left ) indicating where the ‘media’ should ‘go’. It’s nice to know that they deserve special ‘facilities’.

....and that they are obliged to keep suitable company.

Amongst the touts, hawkers and beggars on the streets are quite a few of these disfigured unfortunates with withered legs ( left ). I saw several similar begging around the beaches at Kerala and Goa. This affliction is normally the result of polio. I believe the disease is now contained but was quite widespread up until about ten years ago.There are many crippled beggars on the streets to feel sorry for.

A trip by metro to the Secretariat area, on Raisina Hill, south of Connaught Place, was interesting. This area holds the Presidential Residence ( ex- British Viceroy’s Palace ), Government buildings, the enormous Parliament building and processional route, the Rajpath ( Kingsway ). It is all magnificent and beautifully maintained. The buildings and monuments, mostly designed and constructed by the English architect Edwin Lutyens, are large scale and most impressive. This is where all the ‘pomp and ceremony’ takes place. No expense is spared here to keep things immaculate, in stark contrast to much of the rest of the country.

Right: This imposing building is directly opposite it’s twin and both house Government ministries. They are just east of the Presidential Residence featured at the top of this article. Fleets of ancient looking white 'Amby' cars are waiting to convey 'very important' officials from place to place. I saw many 'very important looking' military and civil personages strutting about. The Indian hierarchy does 'strutting' very well.

Left: Further east down the Rajpath is the India Gate, another Lutyen’s creation. It features the inscription ‘ INDIA. 1914 - 1921. To the dead of the Indian Armies who fell and are honoured in France and Flanders,( plus several other places...my abbreviation here ) on the North Frontier and during the 3rd Afghan War’.
Big military parades take place here. The next major event being the annual Republic Day Parade on the 26th January and all the stands were starting to be erected either side of the Rajpath.

It took me a bit of time, and I was only here for a few days, much of it being spent on ‘administrative’ tasks, to discover some well hidden little oases of excellence; one of which being a Balluchi restaurant near my hotel. Delicious food. Right: This was a close-up of the doorman. He had a most impressive set of moustaches which, according to a waiter, had taken him 10 years to perfect. I am sure that there are many other marvellous places to visit in Delhi but they do tend to be rather well hidden amongst the dust and rubble.
I didn't manage to get up to Old Delhi in the north part of the city to visit the vast Red Fort and other ancient relics of a bygone age. I suspect I will be seeing a lot of that stuff soon because I am leaving on a train trip around Rajasthan tonight ( 4th ). I aim to get to the somewhat obscure suburban train station of Safdarjung somehow, probably by auto-wreckshaw, and will be setting off very early because the driver who will ‘know the place well’ will be absolutely 100% guaranteed to get hopelessly lost and have to ask directions from, possibly, the opposite end of town. I have ‘recced’ this place and will know my way there and recognise it better than him. This is a necessary precaution because these bandits tend to say “ we are here now”, kick you off and you then find that you are stranded in totally the wrong place! I may next report if and when back in Delhi in a week's time. Tally ho!

PS. I'm sure I recognise the chap on the right. I think he served in the British Army Air Corps? Can anyone help me? He is now working as a very smart doorman at a prestigious hotel in New Delhi and calls himself Jagdesh.

BOMBAY - INDIA

2012-01-12T00:55:00.000-08:00

27th - 31st Dec 2011

The Gateway of India

The train ride fom Mangao to Bombay was again in an AC2 compartment. We left at 0930hrs and were due to arrive at Bombay Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus ( Victoria Terminus, or VT to most ) at 2030hrs. I was sitting opposite a 76 year old gent whose son, he told me, was a pilot with Spice Jet, a low cost Indian outfit. He was pleasant enough company and not over talkative, thankfully. I learnt a couple of words of Hindi from him; ha - yes, nai - no and dhanyabad - thank you. I think I will leave it at that. There are two main British topics of interest to Indians; premier league football ( as it is in all nations of the world - we remain influential in something at least ) and cricket. I may have mentioned when in Sri Lanka that as soon as you mention cricket and say you are from England the response normally involves the 'Barmy Army' ( the Bammyammy ). The Lankans, and the Indians, are fascinated by this boisterous group of bugle tooting, drum banging, fanatical heavy drinking English cricket supporters. I was reminded by a Sri Lankan that on one infamous occasion, when England were playing Sri Lanka at Kandy, the Barmy Army drank the town dry. The Sri Lankans could not believe how much drink this bunch of piss-artists put away. The Indians are similarly impressed. The BA have acquired cult status in the sub-continent, and this in a nation that does not normally much approve of alcohol. One of their drums is on display in prime position at the Cricket Club Cafe in Colombo and is probably accorded nearly as much reverence as that old fang in the temple at Kandy. By the way, I notice that the Sri Lankans beat South Africa in the 2nd Test there! After all the demoralised talk I heard from the locals a few weeks ago, well done them!

The time passed comfortably and quickly enough with lots of chai to drink, books to read and a supper meal of 'non-spicy' chicken and rice was served but, sadly, the views of the passing countryside went almost unseen. The AC carriage windows are double-glazed and condensation and dirt combine to make then barely transparent. See, or not, the outside view (left).

We arrived over an hour late, for whatever reason, at the VT. This seething ( Bustle Rating 8 ) gothic monstrosity of a building is probably the most impressive and iconic in all Bombay. The guide books describe it as 'imposing, exuberant and extravagant'. As a historian put it 'the Victoria Terminus is to the British Raj what the Taj Mahal is to the Mughal empire'. It is the busiest train station in Asia. I didn't get a chance to see much of it as it was dark and I fell foul of a bastard rip-off taxi driver ( it was late and I was in too much of a hurry and I should have known better ). He drove me in one of the squillions of bent, bashed and clapped out geriatric, cobbled together in India, Fiat-style taxis ( above ) with the boot held half closed by a piece of string, to my hotel in the Fort district, all of half a mile away. I learnt that I had paid over four times the going rate. The hotel, not previously booked, was rather pleasant ( The Residency ) and not too expensive with very helpful staff. Recommended, if you happen to be passing.

I woke up the next morning, looked out of the window, and thought I was in Leicester. I was soon reminded otherwise due to the sunshine, warmth and cheerfully attentive waiters. I then went on a wander.
Left: Part of the High Court. The Fort and Colaba areas on the southern tip of the Bombay peninsula are interesting, relatively clean and boast magnificent old gothic style British built buildings and pleasant parks. It is a very jolly place to walk around and there are surprisingly few touts.

The otherwise almost unheard of arts of 'street cleaning' and 'rubbish collection' are obviously practiced here. Maybe it will catch on in the rest of Bombay and even other Indian cities. There is a workforce employed, however inefficiently, to keep the parks and gardens looking nice as demonstrated by this chap ( right ) cutting the grass at the Flora Fountain.

The large grass park in the Fort area, called the Oval Maidan ( left ), is about half a mile long. It was hosting four cricket matches as I walked past. Tents were erected as temporary pavilions and it looked as if great fun was being had by all. The main 'international' cricket ground, Wankede Stadium, is nearby. It is hidden away in between hotels and large buildings and therefore difficult to find. The guy I asked to show me where it was asked "You from?" ( they never say 'where' are you from ). When I said England he replied, you've guessed it, "..aah, Bammyammy".
Didn't we beat them 5 - 0 last year? I didn't mention it.

Right: Even at this lowly level all the players were wearing whites.

Left: A part of the University buildings with the Rajabai Clock Tower behind. They seemed well maintained and NO LITTER! ( well not very much ).

I walked down to the Colaba district and on the quay-side is the impressive Gateway to India monument ( right ). The inscription carved into the stone above the main portico reads "Erected to commemorate the landing in India of their Imperial Majesties King George V and Queen Mary on 2nd December MCMXI. ( 1911 ). That is almost exactly 100 years ago.
There were long queues for rather wonky unstable looking ferries at the jetties on the quay behind. Trips round the harbour? I didn't.

Left: Nearby is the magnificent Taj Mahal hotel. This was one of the places that got attacked by terrorists in 2008. 163 people ( I think ) were killed throughout the city during this attack. I don't know how many died here, but several hotel staff and maybe some guests did. As a result, and quite understandably, most 'prestigious' hotels and buildings are now protected by army and police guards and they all have quite elaborate airport type baggage and personal screening systems in place. I went in at lunchtime for a gin & tonic. It cost nearly as much as my entire hotel bill for the previous night!

I then went to the well known and touristy venue, the Leopold Cafe, for lunch. It was packed. I didn't stay in the queue for a table. I went off wandering again and passed the Regal Cinema ( right ). Art Deco at it's best and reminded me of cinemas in Britain from my childhood. It was showing some dreadful film or other, probably a one in Hindi with lots of screechy singing and dancing. These 'movies' are an acquired taste, I suppose, and are immensely popular amongst the locals. The wildly enthusiastic Indian audiences, I am told, take a noisy pro-active part in the proceedings. I doubt if I will have the time, or inclination, to investigate Bollywood and all it's trappings.

Then to the Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Vastu Sangrahalaya Museum, nearby; formerly the Prince of Wales Museum ( left ). I think I prefer the latter title for obvious reason.

The building itself was fantastic. The exhibits not quite so much to my fancy. There were three floors of displays. Most of the stuff was a collection of statues, again, of Hindu deities. I am, by now, seriously bored by Hindu deities. Some remarkably dull pottery and paintings and ornaments filled a lot of space. There was a vaguely interesting historic coin display, and one of ancient swords, daggers and other weapons which, annoyingly, lacked any description of what they were or where they were from!

Left: The inside architecture of the museum. The most impressive aspect. The exhibits, in my opinion, were crap and appallingly labelled and displayed. There was an audio-guide which I switched off after a few most tedious 'descriptions'. For all my cynicism of things American, it needs something of their switched-on ability to 'do' displays and museums to get these sort of places sharpened up, livened up and 'on track' to attract and amuse tourists. With a bit of imagination and flair it could be done, I'm sure.

Right: Standing outside is, I can only presume because we were forbidden to approach it, a statue of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales ( later to become King Edward V11), who gave his name to this museum. He may not get many human visitors but sure is a popular guy with the local pigeons. I couldn't help but think; either pull the old boy down or clean him up a bit. Maybe it is intended as a deliberate insult to the old colonial power who surely deserve some credit for building the damned museum in the first place!

As I said earlier, I found wandering around this southern, touristy, end of Bombay City most enjoyable with plenty of interesting sights to see, vis-a-vis this horse drawn wedding carriage jammed in amongst the traffic. Although not too many touts and hawkers about, thankfully, there were several guys trying to sell enormous, mostly yellow, balloons. I can't think who would want to buy an outsize yellow balloon. Maybe they have some religious significance. There were a lot of armed security guards both of the police and army at all points. Some of their weaponry was seriously ancient ( 7.62 FN SLR's being the most modern ).

...and another shot of the Rajabai Clock Tower ( right ). This is at one end of the university buildings on the east side of the Oval Maidan.

I was due to meet up that evening with an ex-colleague who now works for the Indian Airline Jet Airways and who lives in a hotel in Powai district up north towards the airport. I was persuaded to use another battered old non-AC wreck of a taxi by a taxi rank ‘manager’ who told me the ancient driver was coming up for retirement, but was competent and knew the area like the back of his hand. It was also relatively cheap. The further north we went the more slummy the cityscape became. We passed through about 10 miles off filthy, dirty, crowded Grotsville before breaking out into relatively clear space at Powai and my driver was beginning to look around rather vaguely. Of course the old fool got completely lost, as I had fully anticipated, and we spent about 30 minutes driving very slowly around in circles amidst much traffic, with him stopping periodically to ask the way. It took us 1 hour 45 minutes hours to travel what should have taken an hour.

Courtesy of JP, the ex-colleague, I found myself, free of charge, in a luxurious room in the 5 star Renaissance Hotel. This is where these pilots are accommodated and have all mod cons including swimming pools, tennis courts, ‘spas’ ( whatever they are ) and wall to wall running waiters to pander to their every whim. How the other half live; but I am told that they also work very long hours with many overnight stops away from ‘home’ and they suffer chaotic rosters which, from my experience, makes for a stressful existence. For me it was a great and unexpected bonus.
Above: The irrepressible JP ( with the shades ) and another pilot Gilbert, from Newfoundland, Canada, hard at work by the swimming pool.

I took a taxi downtown to book my next rail ticket at the special ‘Tourist’ reservation office. The bigger cities have these offices and they are most useful and efficiently organised to sell specially ‘held back’ tickets for foreigners. If the normal local office or internet tells you that all the seats are sold, you can normally get what you want from these places, on production of your passport. This is a useful tip if you need an Indian rail ticket at short notice. Interestingly, the cost of the taxi ride to get the ticket and return ( R1500, or $30, and I was probably ripped off ) was more expensive than the AC2 ticket from Bombay to Delhi ( R1250, or $25 ).

The only place worth going to near the hotel was a shopping centre on the south side of Powai lake ( right ), a short hop away. We went out for supper down there once. The hotel is on the northern shore from where this was taken. The lake alledgedly has one, if not more, crocodile in it which escaped from a nearby zoo. I spent some time gazing out of the window watching, quivering with anticipation, for the croc to leap out and grab the occasional unsuspecting local washing, fishing or paddling around the shore, and thereby to become that well known item, the 'Lacoste sleeping bag'.

Left: Another of our bovine friends strolling near the shopping centre. I have now heard two more variations on the myth as to why Hindus regard cows as sacred. One involves the fact that they eat grass and make milk to feed people, or something along those lines. So why for that matter don’t they make a fuss of sheep, or goats? I think they just make it all up as they go along. MacDonalds have their dreadful eateries in Bombay, but they only serve ‘Chickenburgers’. In fact the chickens and sheep take a real bashing in this part of the world as they tend to be the main ‘non-veg’ dish and sandwich filler. Chickens and sheep are definitely not considered sacred.

Right: Caroline, from Ireland, Gilbert and JP at breakfast. They looked after me most generously while I was there and were highly amusing company. It was interesting to hear their views on living in India ( Gilbert has been working here for Jet Airways for 5 years ). Suffice to say that having seen the sights downtown and elsewhere once they now have no reason, or inclination, to move far from the hotel when not working. Talking of people from Ireland reminds me that I have not seen any 'Oirish bears' since leaving Singapore, I think. Maybe the Hindu religion bans them. I stayed here for 3 comfortable nights. Thanks very much JP, Gilbert and Caroline for entertaining me.

I didn’t have time to visit ‘Bollywood’ or do a guided tour of the famous Dharavi slum on the northern side of the city, which is apparently quite interesting ( no photography is allowed there ). Dharavi slum is the biggest slum in Asia and produces millions of dollars worth of recycled goods per year including considerable exports, and was the setting, or inspiration, for that 2008 film Slumdog Millionaire. I'm not exactly sure what constitutes a slum but did you know that 55% of Bombay’s population live in slums or shanty-towns? I did pass another well known landmark en-route to the train station, the Dhobi Ghat, ( left ), which is a vast human-powered public washing machine. This place has 1026 troughs in which hundreds of people scrub, then hang out to dry, acres of laundry. I wonder if they lose many socks?

Back downtown to Bombay Central station this time, to catch the 1640hrs train to Delhi on December the 31st. I took a bottle of wine with me to celebrate the New Year. Whoopee!