So here’s the full blog on India. I thought I might as well post it now, because it’s not going to mature like wine if I just leave it alone.

 

How do I write about India when you’ve gone there as a tourist for less than two weeks? How do I talk about what I’ve seen without sounding pretentious or hackneyed? There is no easy way to do it, which may be why the notebook I took with me everywhere is completely empty. Below is a reconstruction of the trip based on what I remember. It is a mix of frivolous and obvious, and I’m afraid somewhat food-centric, proving what a shallow and greedy person I am, but there you go. The best I can do. If any poems come out of it, they will have to ambush me. I didn’t have a single urge to pick up a pen.

 

Getting off the plane was fast and easy, customs not really a problem. At the arrivals exit, it was just like any other airport, and our driver was there, holding up a sign with our name on it. The walk to the car felt eventful. Directly outside the airport, men squatted in the dirt, or stood watching the planes take off and land. Some stood on the roofs of their cars observing the phenomenon of flight. Our driver, took us sightseeing to Humanan’s Tomb, a huge temple built more than a  thousand years ago, and showed us India Gate. Apart from the smell of human excrement, it was a grand experience.

 

Everywhere we went there was rubbish. Goats, cows and rubbish. Often together. Plenty of beggars too. Every time the car stopped, children came up to the windows and asked for money. One memorable small girl who looked about four years old did the most astounding acrobatics where we were at a halt in the middle of a three lane highway. The accident rate for those kids must be very high.

 

Of course since returning we’ve seen ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ which brought it all back with a different perspective.

 

Jetlagged and weary, we retired to recuperate on the comfy sofas of the Imperial Hotel, the style of which reminded me very much of our own home – must have been built in the early twentieth century. It was all very colonial, very meticulous and civilised to the extent that we were asked to leave our bags at the front desk and not keep them with us. I’m sure this was nothing to do with terrorist threats, and more to do with appearances.

 

We had dinner in their restaurant, trying to keep our eyes open and not end up with our faces in our plates, whiled away a fair amount of time in the last bit of luxury we were to see for a while.

 

The taxi driver escorted us all the way from the Imperial Hotel and onto our train. Parked in the station car park, haggled for at least ten minutes with a trio of coolees to carry our luggage. The brochure said Old Delhi Station was ‘character building’. It is. Try keeping up with the men carrying your luggage as they plough their way through the crowds.

 

 

We were met by a new taxi driver at our destination, and driven to a hotel by a lake for breakfast, where they were totally unprepared to provide food for six, and had to go out to buy supplies. It was a long, drawn out affair, punctuated by short walks in the open air. They had a number of exotic birds in cages which were very beautiful. The drive to Khali Estate, an originally colonial house, took several hours – very squashed hours – but Khali was worth it. The faded grandeur of the wood-panelled rooms, the stunning view of snowy peaks from the terrace. They have built holiday rooms in the grounds which are very well equipped, although I had to learn the art of washing with a jug and bucket. Very pleasurable once you get the hang of it.

 

That first night, we so enjoyed the food – rice, chapatti and several different types of vegetarian curries. A couple from Jersey were also about to set off on a similar hike to our own. We met Humanchu, Khali’s owner who had inherited the estate from his father. Humanchu is a dedicated and articulate man who is rightly proud of Villageways and their achievements. I think they won the Times Green Tourism Award this year.

 

Villageways is a charity and arranges hiking tours around Bintar Reserve. Some villages are several hours away from a road on foot. This is still beautiful unspoilt countryside. We were there at a perfect time of year to look at the not so distant Himalayas, snow-capped and sharply clear against the sky. The climbs were worth it too, for the birds-eye view of hills, terraces and villages. We caught some glorious sunsets and sunrises too. Being so high up is humbling.

 

The pattern was pretty much the same every day. On arrival at the guest house we’d have our chai and then do a little tour of the village, admire the vegetable gardens and sometimes be offered more tea. Which of course accepted. We were charmed by the baby goats, the kittens, the dogs and the buffaloes. Each performing a function within the home, not just pets.

 

 Each village has built a guesthouse (which they own) to accommodate six, and the villagers have been trained to look after their guests, supplying meals and hot water bottles – sorely needed in the chilly evenings. I found myself wearing four or five layers and a fleece hat every evening as we sat at dinner. Heating was not their strong point, although they were delightful and accommodating in every way. Similarly, the solar panels fitted to each roof sometimes worked. And sometimes didn’t. But the villagers are very enthusiastic; one evening, the young people of the village organised a singing and dancing session for us. Another evening, a member of the committee got out his ‘office’, a series of hardback ledgers, to show Robin. Each onion bought, and by whom, each porter carrying what and when and where to, were recorded in meticulous detail. The man went through every single page of every single book, proudly showing his record keeping. The British have a lot to answer for. Aside from our colonial history of massacre and exploitation, we have also left an unbelievably onerous beaurocratic legacy. Everywhere we went there were new forms ot fill in, mostly duplications of information we had already giving several  times elsewhere.

 

Each day we walked to a new village, our porters prancing ahead of us, each with about eighteen kilos on their heads. Usually we’d meet them when we were halfway towards the next village, on their return journey. What wiry, resilient people. It was shaming to be be puffing up hills while our hosts seemed to be expending no effort whatsoever. ‘Look’, said Deepak our guide at one point, pointing to a bunch of Delhi People who had driven most of the way to Point Zero, the highest place in that range of foothills, ‘there is somebody even fatter than you’. I don’t think he meant it as an insult, either. Just an observation.

 

There were many beautiful plants and flowers, birds, monkeys, and of course spectacular views each day. These nearly abandoned villages have had a new lease of life since they’ve embraced tourism, some of the abandoned houses have been re-occupied, so we almost felt good about ourselves.

 

Oh, it wasn’t easy. Those hills were hard to climb especially at that altitude, and the food did become somewhat monotonous (thank goodness for the bumper boxes of dairy milk and Maltesers we’d brought along). Our tiffin boxes were filled daily with potatoes and bread to eat when we stopped for lunch. We started to have long food fantasies on about day three. Pizza was a popular one, as was green salad with balsamic dressing. A bit ungrateful considering the elaborate meals that were produced for us on one wood fire, made of ingredients the villagers had grown themselves, the food itself prepared on the earth floor of the kitchen. The kids were stolid and determined (although my daughter ate nothing but chapatti, rice and chocolate for several days) and we recuperated in the evenings playing innumerable games of Cheat and drinking Chai. Hot water bottles nightly were greatly appreciated, and each morning we were offered ‘bed tea’.

 

For Tamar’s seventeenth birthday, a very kind person walked several miles to the village in which we were staying to deliver and home-made cake. Cherry-flavoured, I think. But that’s not the point. The point is that someone walked SEVERAL MILES to deliver it.

 

After six days we’d had enough though, and walked to a hill village where we were met by a taxi. What was most noticeable was that the closer we got to the road, the more rubbish littered the pathway. I don’t think they have any systems for rubbish disposal and there are piles of it everywhere. Please forgive me if I sound like my Grandma. We were thrilled to return to the comforts of Khali, only stopping on the way to visit the ancient Hindu temple at Jageshwar. This is a collection of about 125 temples actually, all in a cold valley where I am sure the sun never comes.  Ancient and awesome, yes, but you have to take your shoes off on entry and the stone floor is both freezing and damp. I thought I would die from the burning cold on the soles of my feet – oh, I’m such a softie - and couldn’t entirely get into the ceremonies inside the temples because of the exquisite pain. I can’t write about this episode without mentioning the Public Convenience which looked like the last scene in a horror movie. My daughter commented that several people must have died in there. I will not go into detail.

 

The interesting thing about India is that most buildings look as if they were once rather nice but have never been maintained and just crumble gradually. I have no idea if this is true or not.

 

After a night to recuperate with good food and hot water bottles at Khali, we were driven to Corbett Tiger Reserve. But first we had to endure a few hairpin bends in a taxi where the steering wheel would only turn the car one way. Fortunately the turn was away from the precipice, rather than towards it. After this false start, and the arrival of a new taxi, we drove the five hours to Corbett, stopping in Almera, the biggest nearby town, and visiting the market where we had lunch in a tiny restaurant; samosas and potato cakes and coffee for six cost us about £2.50. The market goes on for about two kilometres and you can buy pretty much anything there.

 

The road from Almera took us through Nainetal, a famous lakeside resort which looked as if it had once been grand, but now was full of fast food joints, traffic, rubbish and fog. How anyone could think that place is healthy, I will never know. It’s a bit like a downmarket Blackpool. But we did buy some crisps, and man, they tasted good after a week of aloo gobi and dal.

 

The next stop was the Hideaway Hotel on the edge of Corbett Reserve, which is really an Indian version of a cross between Butlins and Club Med and was a terrible culture shock. We loved the luxury of our bedrooms, but declined the offers of bingo and Karaoke and eschewed the dubious looking buffet. ‘You don’t want to stay here’ confided the chief naturalist ‘This is full of the Delhi Crowd on Xmas special offers. This place is terrible.’

 

But no matter, because the next morning we were off the Hideaway Riverside ‘camp’ which is inside the park. A chilly ride in an open Jeep, a long pause as the obligatory forms were filled in, followed by a bumpy ride down a forest track, through dense trees eventually giving way to grasslands where the vegetation was six feet tall at least. Riverside does have some souped-up tents, but they are under solid structures with wooden furniture inside, and well-equipped bathrooms at the back. Very colonial. Fantastic chef, and personal bonfires in the evenings. The Delhi Crowd were still in evidence, but not so many of them – it is a small campsite. There was no heating inside the tents, but again, hot water bottles were provided.

 

Our safaris were not particularly successful. We saw no tigers but spotted plenty of deer, birds and interesting termite hills like fairy castles. Still, the elephant ride was a joy – swishing through the high grass almost silently in the hot afternoon sun was almost mesmeric. I was amazed to see the driver steering with small taps of his feet on the elephant’s head, as well as some verbal commands which the elephant seemed to understand.

 

On the last morning, when we had planned a lie-in, we were rudely awakened by a voice outside the tent saying ‘Sir, Madam, wake up, wild elephants coming!’. ‘Oh my God’, I thought, ‘We are about to be trampled’. I’ve never got out of a tent so fast in my life. Actually it wasn’t that at all. Merely a herd of wild elephants passing very near the campsite, taking advantage of the specially built salt pond. I didn’t realise that most animals absolutely love and crave salt. Apparently the carnivores like the elusive tigers, get it mainly from blood. Not sure where the elephants get it.

 

Our journey back to to the train station calmed down after we left the open jeep on the edge of the park, having had a rollercoaster of a ride from a mad driver and encountered a huge male elephant on the edge of the road. He must have been two metres away from us.

 

On the drive to the station, we saw carts piled so high with hay, you couldn’t actually see the oxen that were pulling them. We also saw motorbikes carrying as many as five people, and of course, many more people on foot with burdens of firewood or sacks of rice. Women tend to carry things on their heads, and men carry on their shoulders.

 

 

We were greeted by the familiar face of our taxi driver, who took us to some hideously posh hotel for breakfast, where the marble was polished and the prices were like London. I saw a woman in very very short shorts and felt shocked. We hadn’t seen anyone dressed like that for about a fortnight.

 

Delhi airport was in meltdown. There had been fog the day before, and fog that morning, and many passengers were stranded. Food was running out, and tempers were a bit ragged. I have never been so glad to get on an aeroplane in my life, but I wasn’t ready to leave India. Really. Even though poetry had apparently deserted me. I hope it comes back.