India 2020: Part 4

Tags

Begging, Delhi, India, Indian train journeys, Poverty, Pushkar, solo female travel India, Solo travel, Travel, Travel writing, Traveling, Travelling

Ganesh at the hotel arranged the taxi to the train station. At five am it was still dark and quiet. When I booked my tickets there were no AC chair class and no two or three tier AC sleepers available. So I booked sleeper class, which is cheaper and can be a little more lively and crowded. You aren’t shut off like in AC, the windows are open, more people come through the train selling food or asking for money, and people from other carriages can come and sit down if there is space.

I checked with three separate people that this was the right train and got on. The bunks were three high, I had a lower bunk. Most people were men and were either asleep or had ear phones in. I lay down and covered myself completely with a blanket and tried to sleep but it was cold. I was anxious but after a while I calmed a bit, and also I heard the voices of kids, a woman; a family nearby.

I woke up around eight or nine am and sat up, hair everywhere, dishevelled. An older man with a kind face and a Rajasthani moustache was looking at me. ‘Ram Ram,’ he said, smiling. Two people, a man and a woman, were sitting at the end of my seat, I sat up and greeted them and apologised for taking up so much room. During the day the lower seats are for all three people to sit on.

From here more women and family groups got on. As there was a charging point I thought to top up the phone; the charging point wasn’t working and an older man sitting opposite me tried to get it going for me. A young man who was on the top bunk opposite and had been there the whole time, said, ‘Excuse me Ma’am, you can charge your phone,’ and offered me the use of his power pack. I didn’t need it as the phone still had plenty of battery and I had a power pack too, but I was very touched that he had offered.

I felt sorry that I’d got onto that train with the compartment full of men and felt anxious, when just as before, people were only too ready to help. On the lower seat opposite were four people, on mine were three. Someone got off mine and the woman opposite, who had seen me falling asleep sitting up, gestured to me to lie down. I was grateful, my hips were aching and my legs felt stiff.

Two young Australians I had met in Pushkar had described finding their sleeper class journey from Delhi to Pushkar quite challenging. It was their first time in India, they were both young, blonde and good looking. The man had said men had come to stare at the woman, his girlfriend, and that there had been loads of people coming through asking for money. They had found it all a bit overwhelming and said that Indian people in the carriages had had to help get rid of them. I was grateful for the warning, and started accumulating ten rupee notes to give- also good for drinks etc- whilst being aware that I might say no if I didn’t want look conspicuous e.g. if there were lots of people asking at once.

I may have missed money requests from being asleep and covered up, because the only ones were a very dignified man in white with a metal tray; a man shuffling on the floor who had no use of his legs; and, to my delight, a Hijra. The Australians said the Hijras were rude but reading online afterwards I understand this may be part of their persona. Anyway this person was not rude at all. They came in, asked everyone, at least one man gave money straight away, another when asked again. I gave without being asked. She touched the top of my head (this was a blessing I found out later) and invited me to take her photograph. She was the first Hijra I have met. I read an Indian woman online who said that her mother told her to always give as they have no other way of getting money as no one will employ them. The Indian man who had hesitated then given when asked again looked at me. I was happy, smiling. ‘India experience,’ I said, he smiled.

On the way into Delhi outside the window there was a long pile, like a raised stream, of rubbish, plastic bottles and all kinds of rubbish, not far from and running parallel with the train track. I saw huge pigs with big piglets walking in the rubbish, and an eagle swoop down and up. Just on the other side of the rubbish were a row of tiny dwellings, hovels really. Some were one room and made of concrete, some were makeshift looking shelters built from sheets of plastic. Some were one row only, some a few rows deep, and some on top of each other.

Between the hovels and the rubbish, there were children, and a woman with a baby sitting while a small group of official looking people talked to her. Behind it all were tens of apartments, or hotels maybe, under construction. It would be nice to think they were being built new homes. As well as the trains, the rubbish, the living conditions, there was all that construction dust too. A little further along there were groups of women and teenage boys moving shingle amongst the opposite train tracks. No one was wearing any masks.

Past houses, some falling down, some okay. In the nook of a blue faded building, a teenage girl dressed all in black, knees bent up, side on in profile, a little centre of peace. The scene was just like the opening lines of ‘I capture the castle,’ by Dodie Smith.

The train arrived in Old Delhi, near The Red Fort. I couldn’t get a train to New Delhi, walking distance from Main Bazar, as they all arrived very late at night. I thought there was a prepay for taxis, there wasn’t, it was only for auto rickshaws, but the man in the booth told me which ones were the official taxis, which I was grateful for. I got a good view of The Red Fort, but I didn’t feel like stopping. I could see crowds of tourists in the grounds, and the air outside the taxi was awful.

I was happy to be back at same guesthouse, feeling happy to see them and more confident returning a second time after my trip. They booked me a taxi for the morning, free of charge! I ate at the same place as last time, Gobi Manchurian, an only in India ‘Chinese’ dish of cauliflower either ‘dry’ deep fried or wet ‘with gravy.’ I had the gravy version, with veg fried rice and lemon tea.Above: the sweet little cheeping birds- at my local shop in Pushkar- you can see they’ve put food out for them on the ground 💜
In the taxi to the airport a flock of the little cheeping birds swooped and landed on the road and amongst the cars; more than I had ever seen close up like that, it felt like a farewell gift. Then a man came wandering amongst the traffic selling the lemon and green ‘bean’ evil eye talismans I love, lots of them hung in a neat carousel. I had first seen them in Varanasi in the doorway of a house with pink walls and a red stairway, and then everywhere in Pushkar this time.

I had run out of hand cream, John who was picking me up from the airport in London was bringing me some from home, along with my big coat. I went to look for a Body Shop anyway. The big store was closed, but a sign directed me to a concession near the gates not far from mine. I didn’t see it at first then asked the man, they had little tubes. He made a big thing of trying to sell me the special offer, three tubes for ten percent off. I asked if could pay in sterling, he said no, only rupees. Or by card, he suggested, but I didn’t want to do that because of the charges. I said okay I’ll just take one then. He said, ‘Sorry not now we are in handover, come back in fifteen to twenty minutes.’ I did come back, they were still not serving. ‘What if I gave you cash?’ ‘No, boarding card and passport,’ ‘Okay, when?’ ‘Fifteen to twenty minutes.’

I gave up and gave my rupees to the two women who were cleaning the toilets. Earlier I had debated getting coffee and a pastry but decided not to. I had just over five hundred rupees left, enough for one small hand cream or coffee and pastry and not much else. It probably felt like a good tip for the two women attendants though. All in all it was a lovely India ending.

Thank you very much for reading

India 2020: Part 3

Tags

anxiety, Babas, Cows, India, Indian wedding, loneliness, Monkeys, Pushkar, Rajasthan, solo female travel India, Solo travel, Travel, Travel memoir, Travel writing, Traveling, Travelling

Now and again I would suddenly feel, Oh wow, I’m here by myself, scary. Other times, I would feel, wow, make the most of it, appreciate it, soak up as much as possible. Still other times, it felt natural to be there, like a second home.

But like my month alone on the boat, two weeks was enough. I looked forward to the next adventure we could do together. I did go out one evening and have a mojito and a pizza, recreating an experience from last time, but in general it is my husband who provides the fun; I can be overly serious and work- ish.

Compared to the worst moments of our year of travel, I didn’t get super low or terribly panicky; maybe being alone I just had to keep myself together, five and a half weeks, almost six, was quite a long time. If I felt funny sometimes I still made myself get up, wash myself, wash my clothes, the bare minimum. I had a couple of minor slumps in the middle but in general I kept my mood up by having my mission, writing, and having a daily list and an overall to do list.

Often I would give myself something to do, e.g. go to a new cafe someone had recommended, go to the ATM, or a job such as get my train ticket printed. Because things in India tend to take longer and be more complicated, completing a relatively small task results in a burst of satisfaction seemingly out of all proportion to the task itself. I also rode the dialectic between being content to not do much, as always, and the fact that does anxiety stop me doing more.

Wedding season commenced, with music playing every night, and very loud brass band processions. One of the owners of the guesthouse invited us all to his daughter’s wedding (see pictures above.) I went with my Italian neighbours. As you can see, it was a beautiful experience.

I maintained good boundaries and I didn’t have any issues. But I was also aware of not saying no to everything. I did let a man, a Brahmin, take my hand and give me a very accurate mental and physical assessment. And one evening a man at a street stall stopped me, he asked me the usual questions about where I was from etc. We talked about Aloo Baba, then he said, ‘Actually I stopped you because I was going to flirt with you, but then I saw your face and that you have such good energy, you are a good person.’
‘You know what Aloo Baba says,’ I said, ‘Control looking, Every woman my mother my sister.’
‘They Aloo Baba rules,’ he said, ‘I have my own rules, ‘Beauty is for looking not for touching.’’
‘Well that works just as well,’ I said.

Late morning one day I was just getting up, I heard the sound of bins being moved and assumed it was the cleaning staff. Then I heard the sound of monkeys running about outside the rooms and a scream from my neighbour. I went out, she was standing outside her door with her skirt ripped all the way down the front, but luckily no injuries to her skin. She had come down the stairs and probably startled them and inadvertently blocked their escape route.

As before, there were always cows at the rubbish dump near the guesthouse. Towards the end of my stay cows always seemed to be licking each other, getting the bits they couldn’t reach themselves. It looked cute and I would stand there watching them. One day I was at the rubbish dump staring at the cows when one of the staff from the guesthouse came up behind me. ‘That is cow,’ he said, laughing. I never minded the way that being a foreigner meant sometimes being a source of amusement for locals.

There were always people around to chat to if I felt like it; at the rooftop restaurant at the guesthouse, at the coffee place, at the chai stall, or just out and about. Just as before, it felt like a place where people of all nationalities meet and connect with each other. I met people from Sweden, Germany, France, Italy, Argentina, Israel, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, Holland, USA, UK, Ireland, Mexico, Spain, Jordan, Georgia, and from India I met, as well as lots of people from Pushkar, a lovely family from near Hampi, and a Baba from Rishikesh, we swapped phone numbers.

One morning I was sitting in a cafe, a woman came in, there were no empty tables so I invited her to sit with me. We connected and had a good chat. She was my age, married but travelling by herself like me, from Australia. ‘It’s so good to talk,’ she said. She was going to Varanasi next so I shared some information about it. ‘See, you’re never alone, not really,’ she said.

Thank you very much for reading

More about Pushkar with photos: Pushkar blogs: Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys. Pushkar draft chapter extracts start here

About the author
I am forty nine years old, married to John Hill, we live on a narrowboat in rural Northamptonshire, UK.
In March 2018 after selling our house and giving away 95% of our possessions we embarked on a year of slow travel in India and South East Asia.
I’m writing a personal/spiritual/travel memoir of that year. This is my personal blog.
Thank you for visiting
Follow me on Instagram thisisrachelhill

India 2020: Part 2

Tags

Cows, India, Karma, Magic, Memoir, Monkeys, Pushkar, Pushkar Lake, spiritual memoir, Travel memoir, Travel writing, writing

The solitude felt exhilarating at first. Five weeks alone, no work, no responsibilities. I couldn’t sleep until the early hours and stayed up reading The Wind Up Bird Chronicle. Not only had I had my synchronicity on the train, the book contains a lot of magic. Also, I got my period just after arriving, The veil is thin, I said to myself (re magic, emotions, intuition and so on.) I’m in one of the holiest places in the world. I’m reading a magic book. I thought about all kinds of spells or rituals I could do, then realised of course, all I need to do is write the book.

At night there was the usual noise of dogs, a cacophony of howling which began around midnight. Temple chanting and bells began in the very early morning, and during the daytime there were sometimes loudspeakers outside the temple which felt deafening. A few nights there was the sound of different people being sick, or coughing badly. Once there were monkeys crashing about up and down the stairs and outside the room late at night; I got up and checked that my door was locked properly.

There were lots of monkeys around in the late afternoon, looking for food. I saw Ganesh from the hotel standing outside with his phone held up and wondered what he was doing; he was playing trance music to get them away. There seemed to be a lot more monkeys and they seemed bolder, Ganesh said they seemed extra hungry. Once one grabbed my food off my plate and grabbed at my clothes.
At first the evenings were long and cold, sometimes I put on music and did yoga, exercises and a bit of dancing in my room to warm up.

The guesthouse rooftop was just the same but at first I wasn’t very sociable, feeling shy probably, and I kept myself to myself writing. There were a lot of people in a group, drinking and getting stoned and another man alone playing guitar. But later when I spoke the people were really nice, and one came over and gave everyone Oreos, and after that we used to chat regularly.

One day I was working on the Nepal chapter, and re reading my blog about meditation and about how we heard some of our favourite music coming through from the room next door, Nick Cave, put on by Harrison, a twenty one year old Australian. At the same moment, The Pixies Where is my mind, one of my favourite songs, was playing in the rooftop restaurant, the music belonged to and had been put on by Lochie, an Australian, days away from his twenty-first birthday.

Everyday, get up, wash, dress, go out for breakfast. A full on experience just going out to get breakfast. I could chicken out and just go to the rooftop but the coffee wasn’t as good and I needed to walk before sitting and writing. I retreated there afterwards though to write and use the WiFi, which didn’t work in the rooms.

I mainly used the same shop nearby the guesthouse. There was another in the main street where I regularly bought bananas (for cows and monkeys.) One day they saw I had bought tissues from somewhere else. ‘Where from, how much, we have those here!’ ‘Next time,’ I said, feeling chastised. The other man said, ‘It’s okay.’ I remembered to take a bag out after that, fierce loyalty seemed to be expected.

As well as Ganesh and the rest of team at the guesthouse, there was also Shiva in the market to talk to. The staff at Raju restaurant remembered me from last time, we had spent Diwali there, and told me that if I needed any help, I could come to them. Sonu at the juice bar gave me advice about what to do about gifts for a wedding I had been invited to.

On holiday days especially there were lots of Indian tourists, many were dressed in jeans, and wearing clothes that were more Westernised than mine. But in general Rajasthan is a traditional area and there were many people in traditional dress, the women in colourful sarees and beautiful scarves.

People often asked what I was doing there, it was good to say I’m writing a book, even though it did seem a little extravagant.

I felt conscious of behaving correctly, both etiquette and decorum wise and ethically. I liked it when people said, Good Karma, etc, when I fed the animals, but I can’t really claim to believe properly in Karma.
The idea is appealing, of course and I couldn’t help building a hope around giving my book a good chance by maybe creating some good luck, but just being in Pushkar with the Pushkar energy and writing the book each day felt like magic and fortune enough.

Feeding the pigeons or cows or monkeys or giving a person some money was immediately and intrinsically rewarding; it gave me a warm glow, whether or not anyone was watching or whether I really thought it did anything else as well.

And Pushkar Lake provided some magical moments. One day I bought food from the little stall by the steps (Ghats) down to the lake. I fed some cows. I fed the pigeons, who swoop up and down in great clouds. I felt the wind of them. I looked at the water. From the steps two women walked down to the lake. Over their sarees they wore the traditional scarf like a veil which covered their heads and flowed over them to the ground. One woman’s veil was peachy orange, the other one’s a deep reddish pink. The shapes made by the beautiful gauze like fabric, the colours against the backdrop of the stone Ghats and the blue grey lake, it was almost too beautiful.

Later Shiva told me that he fed the animals every day, including throwing tiny pieces of chapati into the lake for the fish. ‘If I don’t do it I feel something not right inside, something missing here,’ he said, holding his chest. He told me that the wind from the pigeons flying was good. I’d felt that.

I met the poor nomadic man who lived in the desert and sold homemade instruments and CDs of his music in the street. Jonathan from Israel had bought him a goat last time we were there. He told me the goat was doing well and was now pregnant. We walked along beside the lake together, picking up string from the previous day’s kite festival as it harms birds and animals, he told me that earlier he’d picked out string from the lake using a long stick.

At the garden of a small temple near the lake I saw what looked like a monkey crèche in full swing, with baby monkeys swinging across the wires. Two trees nearby were often full of monkeys, including mothers with what looked like newborn babies.

I usually walked back the same way, and coming back to where I had started there was usually the sight of tens of pigeons sitting on a steep bank of steps as if they were at the theatre.

Opposite the steps on the other side of the street was a restaurant which served the best masala dosas in Pushkar. From the tables inside I could look out to the street and watch little birds raiding the fruit stalls and monkeys playing at the archway and steps of the Ghat. One day the restaurant was very busy and I had to sit right at the front. A very big cow came to the entrance, came right up the steps and nudged me for food. One of the staff came with a small dinner for the cow in a tin tray, made up properly with a neatly folded chapati on the top, and set it on the ground away from the entrance.

I ate at the falafel stall in the main street a few times. The meals were too big so I didn’t eat the chapatis and took them with me and gave them to cows. The second time the staff gave me a paper napkin to wrap them in. Walking away back towards the guesthouse I fed them to the first cow I saw and scrunched the napkin in my hand. I’m just too British to chuck rubbish on the floor, and the cow thought I was holding out on them and had more food. The cow was very big and wouldn’t leave me alone, determined to get the napkin which was scrunched in my hand. One of the stall holders told me, ‘Go inside,’ I went into the entrance to the temple, and they shooed the cow away with a stick. I’d tried to do a good deed and created a scene, but no one seemed to mind.

I managed to go to the Brahmin Temple without anyone speaking to me or offering to be my guide. Maybe it was because I arrived at the same time as a big group of European tourists and the guides all thought I was with them. I like to think it was because I was all prepared and strode through the crowds confidently. I’d asked Ganesh at the hotel what visitors need to do to be respectful, and arrived with flowers and sweets bought from a little stall, to hand to the Brahmin. There was a crowd of people and after waiting politely as people went in front of me eventually someone pushed me forwards. The Brahmin who was saying blessings, presumably, took people’s offerings, took some, handed some back, over and over as the people passed. His phone rang. I was surprised to see him pull out a smart phone and answer it and carry on with doing the offerings until I thought, This is India.

In the evenings many people go to the lake to watch the sunset. There were always lots of monkeys jossling around and getting ready to go to sleep. I watched baby monkeys swinging on wires outside guesthouses and thought, So that’s why the WiFi is often bad. Pigeons on the ledges of a tower flying off and on, fighting a little, sorting out where everyone was going to sleep. I met a few Indian families; lots of introductions and family photos.

Afterwards I sat at the top of the steps, near the big bell which Hindus ring as they come down towards the lake. The walls, faded colours with plaster peeling, were beautiful in the light. The monkeys were settling down to sleep. I watched a pale orange cat going about the eaves. It all looked and felt magical, and I welled up a little. A black and white dog, friendly with a smooth soft coat, came and put its nose under my arm and I stroked its head.

Thank you very much for reading!

More about Pushkar with photos: Pushkar blogs: Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys. Pushkar draft chapter extracts start here

About the author
I am forty nine years old, married to John Hill, we live on a narrowboat in rural Northamptonshire, UK.
In March 2018 after selling our house and giving away 95% of our possessions we embarked on a year of slow travel in India and South East Asia.
I’m writing a personal/spiritual/travel memoir of that year. This is my personal blog.
Thank you for visiting
Follow me on Instagram thisisrachelhill

 

India 2020: Part One

Tags

Delhi, India, Indian train journeys, Main Bazar, Pushkar, Solo travel, Travel, Travel tips, Travel tips for India, Travel writing, Traveling, Travelling

I just spent five and a half weeks by myself in India. Depending on your perspective you may say, ‘No big deal,’ ‘How brave,’ or something in between. And that’s how I felt about it too. In the run up to the trip I got a bit anxious about the journey and about the whole trip. The news certainly didn’t help, and that’s probably what made my mum extra anxious about me going on my own. Anyway, I did it!

I spoke to two Indian people on the plane who said they thought I was a writer, ‘Ah we thought so, when you said you stayed in one place for a long time!’ I was pleased. I watched two films on the plane. Diane, an interesting portrayal of older women and difficult aspects of motherhood, and Richard says goodbye: ‘You’re unusual, the world is dying for you. Don’t give into mediocrity like the rest.’ The prospect of death helps to realise the feeling of being alive…

Arriving at Delhi airport felt familiar, but even inside the airport the poor air quality, which we’d seen from the plane as a smog enveloping the high rise buildings, made people cough and made my eyes sting. There was a long queue at immigration and I got tired but I made sure I concentrated hard on what I needed to do, get my bag, change money. John had booked my place to stay, choosing a place with good reviews and popular with backpackers, and arranged for them to pick me up. It was very nice to step out and see a sign held up with my name on.

The driver was nice, we chatted about his family- he had five daughters- and he slowed down so I could get a good look at the monkeys which hang out near Parliament Gardens, and which I remember seeing on our first journey from the airport to Paharganj (Main Bazar), on arrival for me for the first time, in March 2018. My guesthouse was slightly off Main Bazar and down an alley, I was slightly disorientated, and the driver had to show me where the entrance was.

Walking in it looked a little shabby and there were lots of men standing around. I was shown up to my room which was three floors up. I shut the door behind me and wobbled for a moment, then reminded myself that John had thoroughly researched this place. I went back downstairs, they were able to sell me an Indian Sim there and set it up for me straight away, and I went out to complete the rest of my mission namely to buy a fast charger, I got one which had two USB ports which was great as often there’ll only be one point in a room. I got crisps, coca cola and nuts, just like usual (only it wasn’t hot like usual), and water, and shampoo, and managed to accumulate an impressive amount of change, always an ongoing mission in India.

I slept and then went out for dinner, I walked the length of Main Bazar and felt unable to decide on anywhere, went back to the guesthouse and the staff advised me where to eat, just around the corner. I felt comfortable in the restaurant and had tea and more tea, and again, as usual, things felt much better with a belly full of warm food. And I didn’t get sick, a first for staying in Paharganj.

In the morning I had to wake the staff to let me out, I walked down Main Bazar to the end where the train station is. It was early and dark, but there were quite a few people about, including tourists with wheely suitcases, and I didn’t feel unsafe. My driver from the airport had said to me, ‘Don’t be too friendly to people in Main Bazar.’ The hotel staff had said, ‘Don’t listen to anyone at the train station unless they are wearing a black hat and black jacket,’ i.e. the official station staff, because scammers can tell you your train is cancelled (and I suppose then try to sell you hotel rooms, drivers and so on.)

I got to the train station and was about to go to the counter to ask which platform when a man told me it was platform 2. I thought it won’t hurt to believe him, so I went in, and when I checked on the board, he was right. Then I couldn’t work out how to get to it as one stairway was closed, again a man told me the way, and it was correct. So again, although there are scammers, of course, there are also tons of people who are just helping you.

It was five am and dark. You have to get to the station an hour before in India. Because we’ve taken trains before I knew that there are letters and numbers on small displays on the platform which correspond with the carriages, so I waited in the correct area, later making sure by checking with a staff member on the platform. I waited near a family group and messaged John to let him know I was okay.

I was in chair class, in the middle, next to a man Indian born, raised in the UAE and living in the USA, we chatted a lot. On my other side was a British man, who it turned out was listening to exactly the same book I was reading, Haruki Murakami’s The Windup Bird Chronicle. I wondered if we had a message for each other or something, but in the end we ended up chatting and then getting a taxi together to Pushkar, where he was also staying.

The train stops at Ajmer, there was full on hassle re taxis and auto rickshaws, and no pre pay stand there. I hadn’t been able to arrange a pick up from the guesthouse, and potentially that was the most dangerous part of the journey, getting in to an un pre paid taxi, or at least the part I would have been most anxious about. So if that’s all that book synchronicity did, made sure I shared a taxi, felt safe and was safe, that was plenty enough. The taxi dropped me at the bottom of the guesthouse steps, I texted John to say I had arrived and went in to what felt like a home from home, I even had the same room we had in 2018!

Photos: Sunrise on New Year’s Day somewhere between Dubai and Delhi. Supplies and change in my room in Delhi.

Pushkar from previous trip with photos: Pushkar blogs: Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys.  Pushkar draft chapter extracts start here

About the author
I am forty nine years old, married to John Hill, we live on a narrowboat in rural Northamptonshire, UK.
In March 2018 after selling our house and giving away 95% of our possessions we embarked on a year of slow travel in South East Asia, mainly India.
I’m writing a personal/spiritual/travel memoir of that year. This is my personal blog.
Thank you for visiting
Follow me on Instagram thisisrachelhill

Here I go again

Tags

escape the matrix, India, Minimalism, Narrowboat, Narrowboat living, Pushkar, Rajasthan, Travel, Travel writing, Voluntary simplicity

I had originally planned to go back to India by myself; I was keen to have some alone time and time to work on my book and I thought it would be a good experience to be in India alone.  But then we just had a month apart, albeit I was on the boat in rural Northamptonshire not in India, but I had plenty of alone time and no longer felt the need to push myself to go off on a solo adventure.  So we decided John would come too.  But life happens and something has come up which means he needs to stay here.  So it looks like I am having a solo adventure after all!

I’m getting an airport pick up from the Delhi guesthouse, I’m staying in a backpacker place with a travel/info desk, we’ve booked my train out of Delhi already- a day time journey in chair class, and I’m going to spend all my time in Pushkar where we’ve been before and know people.

I’m going to do as much book editing as I can, and the rest of the time enjoy Pushkar.  The delights and wonders of Pushkar are many and include: monkeys everywhere, fantastic food*, markets, a small mountain to climb, many beautiful temples to visit, lovely cows to feed, a holy lake and Babas (holy men and possibly women) to talk with.  And nearby Rajasthan cities to visit possibly too. * masala dosas, sabje bhaji, dal, aloo jeera, rice, homemade brown bread with peanut butter, huge bowls of fresh fruit salad with soya milk, all kinds of smoothies, great coffee, there’s even a French bakery a walk out of town…

Photos by my husband Anthony John Hill: the view from our balcony onto Main Bazar Delhi; the view from the guesthouse rooftop restaurant in Pushkar; one of the dear cows of Pushkar with a little friend.

Thank you very much for reading

About the author 

In March 2018 we sold up and left behind most of our possessions to go off travelling for a year, spending most of our time in India.  I wrote a blog and began writing a memoir of the year which I am currently editing.  My husband and I live on a narrowboat in rural Northamptonshire, UK.  Our days and lives are an interesting mix of the every day and the journey of self realisation.

 

Inspiration and support

Tags

Chennai, India, Pushkar, Travel, Travel memoir, Travel writing, Travelling, writing

The working title of my travel memoir is ‘I fell in love with you and I cried,’ from Chennai. After the drafting, now comes the editing. I hope I will just fly through it, after all, surely writing the first draft is the hardest. Some bits are near as dammit perfect such as my favourite chapter so far Chennai Part Two. For photos of Chennai see here. Some chapters need a bit of reworking, such as Pushkar, home to Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys. Onwards and upwards, wish me luck!

Charles Bukowski

“there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that space
that fine relaxer
the breather
while say
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
or say
pouring a glass of water from the
spigot
while entranced by
nothing

that
gentle pure
space

it's worth

centuries of
existence

say

just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch

that space
there
before they get to us
ensures
that
when they do
they won't
get it all

ever.
--It's Ours”

― Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense

About me

Sold house, left career, gave away almost everything else. Went travelling with my husband for a year, mostly in India. Here are my India highlights. Currently in the UK, living on a narrowboat and finishing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appeared regularly on this blog, and I am returning to India 31/12/19!

Update

Tags

Incredible India, India, Life on a narrowboat, Love India, Narrowboat living, Pushkar, Rajasthan, Solo travel, spiritual memoir, Travel memoir, Travel writing, writing

Look who’s back!

We haven’t seen this family for a few weeks so I was very happy to see them this morning.

They do not want to share feeding time with the ducks though…

Life on the boat

It’s wet wet wet here (in the middle of England in ‘the summer’) and so being on a boat feels like the place to be.  No leaks, and we are warm and cosy indoors.

Life outside the boat

We have both got jobs, my husband will probably start in July and me in August.  Both as Bank Health Care Workers, the ‘Bank’ bit means as and when to give flexibilty.

Writing

So I’m still on Step One of ‘How to get an agent and get published’ which is ‘Write a wonderful book.’  I am, however, getting there.  I hope to have the draft finished in around a month and the corrections finished a couple of months after that, around the end of September.

India

I have my tickets to go back!!!  Jan-Feb 2020, a five week solo trip.  Let’s see how I am alone…  I’m planning a fairly straightforward trip, fly to Delhi, night bus to Pushkar same day if I can/want to, if not stay a night in Main Bazar.  Book a week in Pushkar, base myself there for the duration but go off for trips of a few days to Jaipur and Udaipur by train.  That will all probably seem plenty adventurous enough.  I may end up just spending the whole month in Pushkar, if I do, that’s fine too.  But if I spend the whole time holed up in Main Bazar not daring to go out then I will need a telling off.

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house, left job, gave away almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK, living on a narrowboat, and writing a book about the trip, a spiritual/travel memoir, extracts from which appear regularly on this blog.

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

Pushkar Part 3

Tags

acceptance, everything possible, Hello to the Queen, India, Music, Pushkar, Rajasthan, sab kuch milega, Self image, Travel, Travel memoir, Travelling, writing

I loved Pushkar, home to Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys.  We were in Pushkar Oct-Nov 2018 as part of a year of travel.  I am writing a personal travel memoir.  Extract from draft book chapter:

Sab kuch milega (everything possible):  Pushkar, Rajasthan, India

In the masala dosa restaurant, my husband saw two older ‘hardcore hippies,’ you could describe them as, looking disdainfully at two younger travellers, apparently judging them.  We talked about our dear friend DW, one of the coolest people we know, but who outwardly looks perfectly ordinary.  But if you underestimate him, more fool you.  He doesn’t care.  He is not interested in so-called cool people identifying him.  ‘Style is saying who you are without words,’  is an often quoted phrase.

It’s a tempting idea, but it doesn’t work for me.  ‘Saying who you are without words’ usually means just emphasising the cool aspects.  So I’d emphasise the writing, go about all in black with a sleek laptop and a cool Moleskine notebook?  Or emphasise the yoga, the meditation and the spirituality?  Why not emphasise my anxiety or OCD?  Show it all.  Or none of it.  Be plain, and more fool people if they write you off based on that?

In Pushkar I read a blog post by Adie about therapy, about the ‘places’ we inhabit.  The place where everything is bad and nothing is good.  The place where everything is good and nothing is bad; ‘unicorns farting rainbows.’  People who get into spirituality can get stuck there.  The functional place is the ‘And And place,’ not all good, not all bad.  Our friend at the guesthouse said that on the television news everything awful is reported, all the hideous crimes from all over India.  He said that he watches it all, to know that there is bad. ‘I know there is everything,’ he said.

For a couple of nights our neighbours were a young Indian couple, they played music loud at midnight, one am.  ‘They do that thing that young people do, not playing a whole song,’ as my husband said, making it more annoying.  The guesthouse staff told them to be quieter, he said to us, ‘I told them, the British, they like to go to sleep at 9.30!’  Which wasn’t true but it was quieter after that!

At the same time, Des* on WordPress wrote post about how his daughter aged twenty five had phoned up to tell him that she listened to a whole Beatles album all the way through and that she understood the context, the time, etc, from listening to the whole album rather than single songs.  Des wrote that it was unusual for a young person to listen to a whole album, and that individual songs apparently only have a 48% chance of being listened to all the way through!  I hadn’t really realised it was ‘a thing’ until then, although once I started thinking about it I realised that my stepdaughter did the same.

The next evening my husband and I went to a nice restaurant for what felt like a date night, just beyond where the women sold beaded jewellery on the pavement.  There was a green garden with lights, and unusually they had alcohol and eggs openly on the menu.  I had two mojitos and a whole pizza made in a wood oven (no cheese).  They played REM- Automatic for the people, they played it all the way through.  I used to have that album and listen to it a lot.  It has the track Everybody Hurts, which was a real life call back to Sick and Tired in Delhi.  Then they played The Beatles Help all the way through too.

Everywhere we went in India we had seen a dessert called ‘Hello to the Queen’ on the menu.  Once in Kerala we did look up what it was- biscuit, toffee, banana, cream and ice cream- but we had never succumbed to temptation.  In Kerala I had read that India said it was Israeli, Israel denied it.  I wondered, why deny such a wonderful thing, why not want to say you’d invented it, like the pavlova rivalry of Australia and New Zealand?  But it’s not in Israel, it’s only in India.  Like Gobi Manchurian, sometimes called Gobi 65, an Indian interpretation of Chinese food, not found in China, or indeed anywhere outside India.

I read two versions of the creation story, one, I’d read when we first looked up what it was in Kerala, was that an Israeli chef had been smoking marijuana and got the munchies, and invented this dessert!  The second I read in Pushkar sitting in the mojito restaurant, where it was also on the menu, and I wanted to refresh my memory.  The one I found then was slightly different, it said it was an Israeli customer who asked the chef to bring this, add this, add this and this, and ‘Hello to the Queen’ was born.  Best of all, on this version, it said it was invented in Pushkar!

By this time, we’d decided to abandon our vegan principles for one night and try it, just once.  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘how amazing, that when we finally decide to give in and try it, we are in Pushkar, where it was invented!’

I still think it was amazing that we decided to give in and try it while we were in Pushkar, but it’s perhaps not such surprise that it was invented there, given that Pushkar is very popular with Israelis and has lots of marijuana!

We ordered one Hello to the Queen and one pancake with banana and Nutella to share.  It didn’t disappoint.  On the way home I bought Dark Fantasy biscuits (our regular near-as-dammit vegan biscuits) AND a family size bar of Dairy Milk (which most certainly is not.)  When I fall off the wagon, I really fall off it.  ‘Everything’s a gateway drug for you,’ my husband said, referring to my descent from mojitos to cigarettes to chocolate…

If you are interested in India check out Broken Traveller here is a link to Incredible India Unity in Diversity with beautiful photographs

*Also check out this post by Des The beginning and end of a survival blog, inspirational and a great read

About the author

Sold house left job decluttered almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK and living on a narrowboat.  Writing a book about everything…

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

Pushkar Part Two

Tags

Caste, cultural conditioning, culture, Diwali, Homelessness, India, Indian culture, Pushkar, Rajasthan, Travel, Travelling, UK culture

I loved Pushkar, home to Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys.

Just like in Varanasi, there were a lot of bikes, and they were annoying.  They made dust clouds from the desert roads, drove too fast through the streets, and parked outside where we had breakfast, spewing fumes and blocking the entrance.  But at least there were no cars (cars are banned from the main streets).  Bikes used to be banned too, but gradually everyone stopped obeying the rules.

There was good healthy food available in Pushkar.  Juice bars sold muesli with fruit salad and soya milk, and delicious soya milk smoothies with dates, you could even add cacao shavings and spirulina.  The portions of muesli and fruit salad for breakfast were almost too big to eat (almost.)

We had a regular muesli and juice place.  There was a small seating area, which gave a great view onto the main street full of shops selling Rajasthani goods: brightly coloured cushion covers, clothes and blankets.  We used to sit and watch the shop keepers getting ready for the day; sweeping the road outside the shop with one brush- everywhere was dusty due to the desert plus motorbikes- and beating the clothes hanging up outside the shop with another brush, sprinkling water on the potholes outside the shop, and then doing a ritual with incense and a flower garland.  It was a beautiful way to start the day.   One morning an Indian man sitting opposite us at the juice place was playing recorded music.  He told us that the singer he was listening to had just died, at three am that morning.

There was so much to see: the Rajasthani women’s clothes so beautiful; thin scarves in red, pink, or green, decorated with tiny mirrors.  A monkey nonchalantly climbing across the street along tinsel put up for Diwali.  More shops sold jewellery, drums, and masks.  Away from the main streets things were quieter with fewer shops, and small stalls selling water and basic provisions.  Women sat on the pavement making and selling beaded jewellery.  Some had small children and babies sleeping in cradles.  In the market, stalls sold bags, bangles and- surprisingly to us- huge gold swords.  We saw children in heavy theatrical makeup and ornate dresses, they looked like spooky living dolls.  Beyond the market was an Indian- not touristy- area, with more shops and stalls, cheap clothing and local restaurants, and beyond that the camel area.

We ate Sabje bhaji; a local curry, which was a rich red colour, made with peas and other vegetables and served with delicious fried bread which was puffy and chewy.  They also served real Italian strong black coffee and homemade brown bread toast with peanut butter.  A portion was four slices, we accidentally ordered a set each and couldn’t eat it all.  I wrapped it up and gave it to the cows at the rubbish dump on the way home near the guesthouse.

They had the main kitchen inside but outside they served street food with the ingredients all out in the open.  Like in Varanasi they did mosquito fogging (a scooter with kind of like a leaf blower at the back, blasting out grey clouds of insecticide).  One evening the mosquito fogging scooter came and we all rushed inside covering our mouths and noses with scarves or t-shirts until the worst had passed.  We looked out at the uncovered street food, some other tourists said, I’m not going to eat that.’  We felt really sorry for the cafes and street food stalls.  We saw mosquito fogging again, they came right along the road at the bottom of where the guesthouse was; we saw kids chasing along behind it.  Staff at the guesthouse told us that the kids take selfies in it.

We got to know a man with a textile shop and wholesale business who we bought a lot of stuff from and who sent it home for us.  We often sat and chatted with him.  He said, ‘Westerners going about like Indians, with their dress, meditation and yoga, and Indians dressing in jeans and forgetting about yoga and meditation.’  It was like Osho said, what was needed was a merge of East and West.  The man did meditation each morning, ‘Up at 5.30am, and sit.’  On business he said, ‘Business always good; feel good, business good, money come, money go.’

It was an honour to experience Diwali in India and especially in Pushkar.  We bought sweets for the staff at the guesthouse, and admired the layers upon layers of sweets in the shops, like terraces, so many that men had to climb around to get to them.  We went out for dinner and heard the fireworks going off all around. Kids threw bangers down onto the street that made our ears ring.  But the poojas go on indoors, in homes and businesses, so there aren’t things outdoors to join in with, but the restaurant owner, who was explaining all this, said that the priest was coming soon and we could join their blessing for the business.  There was me and my husband, two Western women, the father, the son who ran the restaurant, and a younger boy who was trying in vain to control a tied up Dalmatian dog who wanted to say hello to everyone.  Prayers were said into the fire and then the priest tied thread around our wrists, making a bracelet, as he did so he said, ‘Happy marriage, happy life.’  (I only cut mine off very recently April 1^st; Diwali was in November)

We went back to the guesthouse, running the gauntlet of the boys with their bangers.  The street where the guesthouse was was covered in the litter of fireworks, and there was smoke everywhere.  We went up to the rooftop and listened to the fireworks.  Later lying in bed, the fireworks nearby actually shook the room a little.

The morning after Diwali, the streets were all cleaned up. That such a big party could happen and then be tidied up so fast, was yet another thing I admired about India.  We sat outside a cafe and watched people all greeting each other and giving money in street.  When we’d finished our breakfast and the man was adding up our bill, he had to break off from his task suddenly to shoo a cow away down the road, another wonderful ‘Only in India’ moment.

The waiters tried to teach us Hindi, ‘Everyday you learn a new word.’  They would test us when they saw us on the stairs or back at the restaurant. Hi, how are you, okay, fine, etc. The owner, a Brahmin (the highest caste), corrected our responses; what we were saying was not correct for us, too casual, we should say xxx instead.  Obviously we’d learned the casual version with waiters, which we were fine with.  It felt rude that he said that in front of them.  ‘We don’t observe the caste system,’ was something I used to say in private to Anthony.  Meaning, I don’t observe the caste system myself.  We just talked to whoever talked to us.  We asked our friend with the textiles, a businessman, if he knew our friend from the guesthouse.  ‘But he is staff,’ he said, looking puzzled and dismissive at the same time.  Our favourite two people didn’t mix at all.

Northamptonshire April 2019  I recently read a blog by an Indian person from Bangalore, describing the pitiful life and death of someone of a lower caste, from her childhood- so not that long ago.  I was upset and initially judgemental.  Why was he treated that way, why didn’t anyone help or seem to care? 

But then I remembered before we left the UK, in March 2018, a very cold and snowy winter, just how many people were sleeping rough in Norwich- one of the most affluent cities in the UK.  And on our return to London, how many people were on the streets just the short distance from the tube station to our hotel.  And how people walk on by, and don’t want to touch them, and how it is accepted that there are people on the street.  We have a fully functioning Government in the UK, both national and local, a small population, and money to spend on other things, and yet we don’t provide enough shelter beds, and everyone just accepts that.  Society accepts that that is the homeless person’s lot- the lack of healthcare and the low life expectancy and ongoing risk of violence.  So in a way we have our own caste system.

We did read horror stories in the paper of Dalits (lower caste people) being attacked and killed.  But India is a huge country of over a billion people, and every state is different.  Our good friend Y from Tamil Nadu who is a college teacher, said that caste makes no difference within his classroom.  Places on courses are reserved for Scheduled Castes and Tribespeople, which guarantees that his classroom is open to all castes (this follows the legislation in place).  Of his students, he said, ‘Oh yes, they fight, usually about girls, but never about caste.’

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house left job decluttered almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Now back in the UK and now living on a narrowboat.  Writing a book about everything…

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony

Pushkar Part One

Tags

Bhang Lassi, Incredible India, India, Indian culture, Indian culture and customs, Indian customs, Indian temples, Love India, Pushkar, Rajasthan, spirituality

I loved Pushkar, home to Babas, gorgeous looking cows, and fun monkeys.

Chapter extract about our time in Pushkar, Rajasthan, India, Oct-Nov 2018:

The Varanasi guesthouse had a rooftop area with amazing views, but here the rooftop was a restaurant and they had also done it up.  Indian parasols and quirky light shades hung down from the ceiling, the walls were decorated with Indian print bedspreads and round fabric rings in different colours like chunky padded bracelets, used to put between the head and the basket when carrying things on the head.

At the rooftop restaurant there were wicker tables and chairs and also day beds to sit or lounge comfortably on.  These doubled as beds for the kitchen staff.  During the day heavy blinds were lowered to keep the sun out, it came in through gaps at the edges and was anyway still too hot to hang around for too long up there in the middle of the day.  We’d go up and eat or have a drink, at least once most days:  Sprite, aloo jeera (perfectly done spiced potato), dal and rice; mushroom, olive and tomato toasted sandwiches; home made finger chips, and banana pancakes.

As in Varanassi, Bhang Lassis (a kind of weed milkshake) were legal and available everywhere, it was fun watching stoned people lounging on the beds and eating banana and Nutella pancakes one after the other…

The owner wasn’t there all the time, but most days he’d come up and talk to us for a bit.  We had an open and surprisingly easy conversation about periods, him talking about cooking, and explaining how in his house he cooks, as for five days the women don’t do any cooking.  ‘You know, on period,’ he said, in case I hadn’t understood.  ‘Good idea, I said, we should do that.’  He said to me and my husband, ‘Yes you should do in the UK in your home!’.

One evening he cooked for all the guests who were around, huge pots of food and round balls of bread cooked in tin foil in a cow dung fire, all of us sitting on floor outside, eating with our fingers, ‘My first time,’ a young Western man said, ‘I just did my best.’

One day the owner pointed out across to a small temple.  It was hard for me to see at first, there was a red shiny temple, a Hare Krishna temple nearby, two mountains with temples, and other decorative buildings all around amongst the houses.  This was a small peachy orange and white temple.  He told us that his late father had built that temple; at the time his wife and children were not happy, especially his wife, as it cost a lot of money.  But the father went ahead and did it anyway.  On his deathbed he called his son to him and said, ‘You wanted to know why I built that temple, I shall tell you.  When I die and you have the guesthouse, you are going to make a lot of money.  You may be tempted to spend it on women, gambling…  If you get tempted, you look out there and see the temple that your father built.’

The owner told us how to reach it and we went one evening.  Along the way we passed several camels pulling carts with lots of people.  I felt bad for the camels, I didn’t want to look and turned away.  ‘Don’t turn your back on them,’ my husband said, ‘They need your support.  You can give them some love, show them that you acknowledge their pain.’

Up close the temple was much bigger than we’d expected, and was painted in a similar style to the guesthouse; multi coloured, some of the paint was slightly faded which had turned the colours into delicate pastels, with arches and small shrines with Gods. It was almost completely dark by the time we got there, and the crescent moon was beautifully framed by the outside arches.

The staff were not supposed to smoke marijuana at work, one day the owner appeared, like many bosses, quiet, like cat.  I tried to distract him by asking what he’d got in his bag; he’d arrived with bag of what looked like baby lemons.  I described what I’d seen in Varanasi; a tiny lemon and green beans hung from a doorway of a house.  ‘How to explain,’ he said, ‘Say someone jealous of you and Anthony’s relationship…’  ‘Like evil eye,’ I said, ‘Yes!’ he said, high-fiving me.  In Kerala we had seen black masks with scary faces for sale in shops and hung outside properties.  We had asked the man we bought lungis and bananas from what they were for, he said, ‘Someone break in, they break leg.’

One of the guesthouse staff said that in his village they still grind their own oil from seed using a bull, they grow the seed themselves and they give the residue of the oil to the bull.  People give seed to the pigeons; he described how each day one hundred pigeons go to his house to eat, then the next house, then the next.  ‘If you get God’s gifts, extra grain, seed, you give a big percentage to birds, pigeons, cows.’

In his village, if someone commits a crime or ‘makes a mistake,’ the police are not involved, instead everyone talks, together with both families.  They decide which family is in the wrong and they make restitution, offering x kilos of grass for cows, seed for pigeons.  ‘Pigeons are not very clever,’ he said, ‘If a cat comes, they shut their eyes and think the cat has gone away.’  ‘Pigeons are loved in India.  Not cats.  But I know tourists like cats, especially British, love cats, love animals.’  The pigeon as well as the cow are holy- hence the pigeon feeding station on Chennai beach, I realised.

April 2019, Northamptonshire:  About a week ago we went to our local town to pick up some shopping (and go to Greggs for vegan sausage rolls, of course).  In the town car park was a sign forbidding people to feed the birds.  I felt sad, and momentarily confused.  It’s all conditioning; This is acceptable here, This isn’t.  I get it, but still, I’d rather be somewhere where all the animals are fed.   

Thank you very much for reading

About the author

Sold house left job decluttered almost everything else.  With husband went travelling for a year, mostly in India.   Here are my India highlights.  Recently arrived back in the UK and now living on a narrowboat.  Writing a book about everything…

For more photographs of the trip see Instagram travelswithanthony