A quickie

We only had to wait eight hours for our flight to Kathmandu, Amanda blamed me only about nine times for not telling her about the airline's poor record, we had a great in-flight meal, the wing did not fall off and we got to our very nice $8 hotel at 4am. All's good.

Kathmandu is a real gringo breakfast heaven - banana pancakes, muesli, curd and fruit to die for and PROPER coffee. But it is also beautiful, with great local food, very friendly people (if slightly desperate to sell their wares), amazingly interesting little alleyways, impressive Durbar (palace) complex and even more intriguing ones in the outlying villages.

Can't for love nor rupees upload any photographs in the internet cafe, so it will have to wait until we're back in India.

Tomorrow we head to Tibet in a Jeep with a two Spaniards and a couple of Israelis. We're slightly concerned about altitude sickness - we're at 1,300m in Kathmandu, but rise within a couple of days to close to 6,000m. Remain hopeful that our experience in the Andes counts for something.

The trip to Lhasa (Tibetan capital) takes five days, and the Chinese are massively uptight about visas and the like (coming from Nepal), but we've managed to arrange a separate 'permit' which will allow us to leave the tour group and go off independently - but only for 21 days. On the way back we'll try to stop off at Everest base camp.

It's been raining non-stop for more than two days - and we're both wet down to our undies, grumpy and hungry. So it's over and out for a while.

Cookies and cool karma

We're again wallowing in our own sweat after 10 days in the sweet coolness of the Himalayan foothills. Tomorrow we set off for Nepal - in the footsteps of countless intrepid travellers of yore - by plane. With Royal Nepal Airlines. (Lonely Planet entry: The notoriously unreliable, cancellation-prone Royal Nepal Airlines has a chronic lack of aircraft. It is worth flying with any airline other than RNA. I haven't told Amanda that bit yet.)

And then and then...
To Mcleod Ganj, seat of the Tibetan government in exile and home to the 14th Dalai Lama, the restless and the disenchanted flock in desperation from the West in search of enlightenment and wisdom. Despite the disquieting whiff of spiritual tourism in town, the Dalai Lama's complex, temples and monastery, as well as the Buddhist monks themselves, exude a reassuring serenity and a genuine sense of goodness.

And we too, without looking for it, have a moment of cosmic coincidence when, only due to our search for my lost bandanna, we meet Stephen over a choc-chip cookie in the cafe of the Hotel Om. He took a year out to get away from it all, and 17 years later is still journeying. We talk for hours about randomness, ego and the mind, and his two-week stints in a cave. The next day we spend two hours playing with his version of Tarot cards, and leave feeling happy.

From there we catch a bus to chilled Chamba, a town of many Hindu temples, no tourists and welcoming locals. Despite our initial (oh how mistrustful we are) reluctance, we take chai (sweet tea) in the house of Amirjeet Singh, civil engineer, and his wife Anju, English teacher. We meet the children, look at all the photo albums, take family snaps and promise to send them the prints.

We leave Himachal Pradesh and descend back to the plains for Amritsar, where the Sikh Golden Temple bowls us over. We join 30,000 pilgrims in a free meal provided in the dining hall of the temple and are humbled by the incredible friendliness of everyone there. We lose count of the kids who want to show off their English (and laugh at the boy who mistakes Ricky Ponting for a South African cricketer).

Mary joins us from Chandigarh for the weekend, and together we go to the spectacle that is the daily closing of the Wagha border between India and Pakistan. A sea of people on both sides sing and dance the virtues of their country while the tall guards try to out-strut, out-prance and out-bellow each other. As the sun sets, so do the flags, the last patriotic chants echo across the divide and the gate closes. (Apparently, until recently the crowds then used to storm the gate to hurl insults at each other, but for good reason that practice is now prevented by the burly, moustachioed guards.)

So far so belly good
The food in India is truly fantastic (not good news for me lovehandles) and - may this country's many gods keep it so - neither of us has had any tummy problems so far. Even the goat dressed up as mutton is yummy, although everything is obviously mostly vegetarian. And nimbu-soda (fresh lime with soda water) is probably the most refreshing drink known to the hot and bothered.

An architectural tour

Un peu francais
Before India was partioned after Independence in 1947, the capital of the Punjab was Lahore. With Lahore now in Pakistan, a new first city was needed and in the spirit of a newly freed and modern country, Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru asked a firm of American architects to design a brand new city.

Unfortunately, the main architect on the job was killed in a plane crash some time into the project started and the firm decided to pull out. After a bit of argy-bargy, Frenchman Le Corbusier, he of nun's hat fame (and some fabulously curvy furniture), got the task of completing the task. Next year, Chandigarh will celebrate its 50th anniversary, and the locals are very proud of the capital that is so unlike any other Indian city.

And different it is too. Vast green spaces, broken up by angular, concrete cells that form the hub of commercial life to form Sectors (30-odd of them). Think London's South Bank cum nasty British council estate from the 1960s, and it gives an idea of the design ambivalence it evokes. Each Sector also has a residential area attached to it, and it's in Le Corbusier's houses that the beauty of the "urban planning scheme" comes into its own. We love it, and drool over the sharp angles, curvy corners and no few reminders of the nun's hat. And in the house of Mary, where we're staying, the furniture is still the original from the 1950s.

We're both permanently glowing in the sweaty heat, but Mary can't get over how cool it is compared with a couple of weeks earlier and compares it to British weather...

Amanda, that blond film star with whom I tag along, gets stopped everywhere by beautifully dressed ladies, keen for a photograph. (In return, I get to snap them in their fantastically stylish clothes - and giggle at how boorish we look next to them.)

And a very British affair
In the vein of true Brits (not counting myself) we retire to a hill station for some respite from the heat, but also to gawp at Shimla, the Empire's summer seat of government. It's a massive schlep up the mountain, and yet they created this strangely Alpine, with a spattering of Disneyland, monument to the grandeur of the Raj. Pics will follow shortly (as soon as I find an internet cafe with an accessible USB portal. The computer I'm working on at the moment, for example, has a PC mouse somehow squeezed into the DVD drive.)

Shimla is spread over 12km on a ridge to which life (and an army of monkeys) clings in a much more sedate pace than we've seen so far. Cars are forbidden on the main (and very long) drag, the Mall, and a local tells us that the average Shimla-ite walks about 6km a day. We welcome the exercise after a week and a half of non-stop rickshaws and auto-rickshaws.

In the Viceregal Lodge, the Scottish castle-like summer pile of the Vice-Roy (the Empire's main man in India) that is now a Centre for Advanced Study, we go on an interesting tour of the very impressive Burmese teak-panelled main hall, the old banquet hall and the vice-roy's morning room. In another sumptuously decorated room our tour fizzles out when we realise, after a 30-min wait, that our guide had done a runner, presumably because it was lunch time.

I get my own share of funny stares, on account of the rather hefty pole of a sun umbrella I've acquired to protect us from the unwelcome attention of the cheeky monkeys.

Now we look forward to leaving the European architectural legacies behind, and are heading for Dharamsala (seat in exile of the Dalai Lama) and Chambra, the town of many temples. Although the 10-hour bus-without-loo journey will verily test our inner strength.

Chronicle of a ticket unsold

Elated, we thrust our fists in the air. Never before have two women felt such a sense of achievement, so strong, so resourceful in the face of adversity, so singular in victory.

We have managed to buy two train tickets.

In Delhi. In the heat. Despite the counter-efforts of 2 autorickshaw drivers. Despite the aggression of a woman-hater doubling as a travel agent doubling as Tourist Information. In defiance of two adamant railway officials. In spite of a sanctimoniously insulted man with a pen.

We stood as one, went against the grain and conquered the thronging, chanting masses of humanity that tried to convince us that the International Tourist Bureau does not exist/has been burnt down/has moved/only sells tickets two hours in advance/is in fact across the road and is called Tourist Information Gov. approved/is run by my brother. (... "thronging", "chanting" and "masses" might be slight exaggerations.)

It goes something like this (and is a gentle reminder that one ignores the ancient wisdom "Always read thy Guide Book in Full before embarking on Journey" at one’s peril.):

One sunny, sweaty day in Delhi, the capital of India (pop. 1.2 billion), Amanda and Esther decide to buy a train ticket to visit Mary Singh in Chandigarh, Punjab. A four-hour journey costing 107 rupees (about GBP1.20) – non-AC.

Lesson One
Easy. We get Govinder, our loveable-rogue rickshaw driver, to collect us from our breakfast spot. (Lesson one: recognizing a rogue doesn’t mean he won’t act roguishly).

“Please take us to New Delhi train station, Govinder, we want to buy a train ticket.”

“No problem, but first I take you to tourist information.”

Because we had read some bits of Lonely Planet’s “Scams and annoyances”, we say: “No thank you, Govinder, we would like to go the station.”

“But tourist information will give you all the information for free and you can buy ticket too. You just look”

Because we have read another bit in Lonely Planet which says the only official tourist information is Connaught Place at 88 Janpath – and don’t believe anybody making any claim to the contrary (burnt down/moved/changed name etc), we ask: “Is that the tourist information at 88 Janpath?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Oh ok, maybe we should go there.”

We stop in front of small shop with a sign saying tourist information and Gov approved. (To Govinder: “This is 88 Janpath?” “Yes” To man in shop: “This is 88 Janpath?” “Yes.”)

We look at each other. This is Connaught Place but it can’t be 88 Janpath. “Govinder, take us to the station.” “OK”

Lesson Two
We get to the station, and the first floor (where LP states the International Tourist Bureau is), is in the process of being demolished. Dejected, Amanda goes to man in an official-looking office: “Where is the International Tourist Bureau?”

“It’s been demolished. You must go to Connaught Place – Block N – to the Indian Tourist and Transport Development Corporation.” He’s so believable, we believe him. (Lesson two: believable people should not always be believed.)

Sheepishly, we say to Govinder: “We must go back to Connaught Place.” So we go back to Connaught Place, Block N. We stop in front of shop saying Official Tourist Information, Gov approved. “Are you the Indian Tourist and Transport Development Corporation?” “Yes.” “But where is the sign saying so?” Offended, man who clearly doesn’t like women says: “Don’t you trust me? Do you think that all Indians do not tell you the truth?”

So we enter into conversation about good Indians, bad George Bush and other such topics as befit a quest to buy two train tickets to Chandigarh.

I get bored and wander off, leaving Amanda being extolled the virtues of taking a taxi to Chandigarh for a few zillion rupees. Two seconds later I find an official-looking building with an elephant-sized sign stating: Indian Tourist and Transport Development Corporation. Ah, I sigh with relief. “I would like to buy two train tickets to Chandigarh, please.”

“No, you cannot buy tickets here. One day, yes, you will be able to do so, but at the moment we do not offer that service. You must go to the first floor of the New Delhi train station. To the International Tourist Bureau. There you can buy a train ticket to Chandigarh.”

“But I’ve just come from there. The first floor is being demolished. The man said we should come here.” “No, that man is a tout. The first floor of the back of the station is being demolished. You must go to the main entrance of the station, as if you’re walking onto platform one, then go up the stairs on the right to the first floor.”

I return to Amanda, still having a chat with man who clearly hates women and feel that we are prejudiced against Indians who give false information. “I have found the ITTDC.” Politely we say goodbye and profusely thank man who doesn’t like women for his help. He doesn’t get the irony.

Govinder doesn’t blink when we say: “Back to New Delhi Station. To the MAIN entrance, not the back. You know, on Chelmsford Rd.” “No problem.”

Lesson Three
At the station (main entrance) an official-looking man with a pen tells us the International Tourist Bureau is on the other side of the road, grabs me by the arm and starts marching me in the opposite direction of where we know we should be going. He looks so official, I feel I should believe him (Lesson 3: Just because man looks official doesn’t mean he is official), but mutter under my breath something like “Does nobody tell the truth in this effing country”.

Indignantly, man with pen and very good hearing shouts: “I am Indian, how can you effing my country? I am official, I tell you the truth, the International Tourist Bureau is on the other side of the road, not at the station.” For the next 5 minutes I apologise for effing his country, explaining that I’m a little frustrated.

Amanda grabs me by the arm and marches me off, while man with pen and a small crowd, who have now gathered on hearing the raised voices and abject apologies, all agree that the International Tourist Bureau is on the other side of the street from the train station.

And the final lesson
Resolutely, Amanda steers me towards platform one and up the stairs on the right, following the elephant-sized signs to the air-conditioned, tranquil International Tourist Bureau. (Lesson 4: Albeit not always obvious, always look for the elephant-sized signs.)

Post-script
Entry in Lonely Planet (p106,) read a few hours after the elation of ticket success has worn off: "Train stations also attract rapacious tricksters who feed off the tourist traffic. At the New Delhi train stations, touts may try to stop you from booking tickets at the upstairs (1st floor)International Tourist Bureau and divert you to one of the (overpriced and often unreliable) travel agencies over the road. Make the assumption that the office is never closed outside of normal office hours, isn't being renovated and hasn't shifted."