After making an appointment for Danny to get himself tattooed - he's just off there now - we got in a taxi and headed up to the Luga Temple.  The road was nothing short of bare bollocked terrifying; it started  off pleasantly enough, paved, if twisty, but it soon descended - as it ascended - into a rough, rocky surface, the car bouncing around as it rode dangerously close to sheer drops and wooded hillsides.  Cars here must go through shock absorbers and gearboxes like fat kids through cake.  I don't think we got above second gear for a good few miles.  By the time we finally got out, I was shaking and pale.  I felt even worse when I realised that I'd soon have to do it all over again on the way down.  This committed atheist may well have even offered a prayer or two.

     The temple itself wasn't particularly grand or impressive, but we saw a sign pointing into the forest, promising a waterfall and "loveley views," so off we went.  Much like the road before it, the path started off gently enough, but this also soon became an assault course of climbs and descents, unstable rocky surfaces and nasty looking drops over rocks and tree roots.  It also occurred to me that this might well be tiger country, so I had another reason to shit myself.  I wanted to turn back, I really did, but Danny took the piss - quite rightly - and told me to get on with it.  Every little sound, every flutter of a birds wing, every falling leaf jacked my pulse up to dangerous levels.  But for the leaves and occasional rustles, though, there was perfect silence.  No bird song, no dogs, no people, no nothing.  It was utterly blissful.

     We eventually made it to the waterfall, almost an hour later, where a young English couple was sitting outside a small tea shack.  We said bugger all to each other except for muttered hellos and they left soon after.  We were sweaty and our ankles and thighs hurt, but sitting there, taking in the loveley view and drinking tea made it worth it, I can tell you.  A pool of perfectly clear water sparkled in the sun and if there had been any way down to it, I reckon I'd have had a dip.  Apart from the shack owner, the was another Indian man there, meditating.  He was generous enough to offer me his joint without a word, but I declined; not because I didn't want any, more that I didn't want to have to negotiate that path while woozy.

     On the way back down, the driver commented that the road was, "very dangerous, not safe."  Quite.  I wish he'd had his facing forward while he imparted this most obvious of information...  Still, we made it down - clearly - but we rushed into the nearest bar for some calming, restorative booze.

     We take the overnight bus to Delhi tonight and have booked a hotel with an outdoor pool for a bit of lounging about in an attempt to gain a bit more of a tan that either of us already have.  I'm not one for lying on a sunbed on a beach - what's all that about? - but I think tomorrow I'll be doing pretty much just that.

     This most magical of places, India.  It's a thousand countries in one.  Each state, each town has its own distinctive character.  Agra(vation) and it's never ending quest to part you from your money, the pace and fury of Varanasi, the laid back vibe of Goa, the pollution, chaos and scale of Delhi, the friendliness of Amritsar, the tranquility and peace of Himachal Pradesh.  It all adds up to an experience like no other.  Seven trips here and I've barely scratched the surface.  I love this most schizophrenic of countries; no two visits have ever been the same and I'm already anticipating the next one.  I shall miss it while I'm home and all its attendant problems and frustrations will be forgotten, or, if not forgotten, looked back upon as part of an enriching experience.

     I will return, but, in the meantime, I'm leaving part of my heart here.

SHANGRI LA

     So, we find ourselves in McLeod Ganj.  How did we get here?  Well...

     Goa was much of a muchness.  We had a great time, but did nothing of interest to anyone but ourselves.  Still, a couple of things.  The Russians are a bunch of arrogant pricks who look down their noses at the Goans, as if they're some kind of subspecies that barely deserve acknowledgement, and certainly not any display of decent manners.  They don't talk to anyone other than themselves and are a fucking pain in the arse.  The nearest we got to speaking with any of them was when a couple of big, bearded gay Russian bears flicked water at me and waved coyly, waggling their fingers.  I think that they had plans for me and had they wanted to, they wouldn't have had to take no for an answer...  The money that the Russians spend is clearly welcome, but their unfailing rudeness most certainly isn't.  And they dress appallingly, too.

     Pedro told Danny about the drugs scams the police prefer these days.  Blokes who the coppers pick up for dealing or possession or whatever are told that they can go free if they agree to sting other poor sods who are looking for a couple of joints' worth of hash.  Thus, the dozy berks are obliged to either pay a nice fat baksheesh or become embroiled in the scam themselves.  Nice.

     Cape Town Bar in Baga is the seventh circle of Hell and should be avoided at all costs.  Full of Russians ignoring everyone else and not dancing.  The Indian people we talked to were nice enough, but it didn't feel very comfortable.  We also saw the only sharks in Goa there; a pair of Cockney Wankers, button up Fred Perrys, knee length denim shorts and greased back hair were on the prowl.  I hated them on sight, more when I heard their patter; "Alright, Russian, yeah?  We love Russian birds."  They left alone and I hope that they STILL haven't got laid.  

     Still, the beers were cold and the sunsets utterly delightful, so it was far from arduous.

     An early start on Thursday to Dabolim airport, where Aeroflot have their own desk - make of that what you will; long queues of Russians, all wearing expression suggesting that they'd just been condemned tio execution - and up to Delhi.  The flights were as dull and incident free as one would hope, although on the second flight, from Mumbai, there was a blonde, female body builder at whom I couldn't stop staring.  I wasn't the only one; as we left the airport, security guys were queuing up to have their photos taken with her.

     Once out of the airport, we dropped our bags at the train station and wandered aimlessly for a bit around the local area.  We walked through a park where we were considered exotic enough to be photographed regularly by the myriad furtively kissing couples.  I reckon that locally, it's known as Fingerbang Park, but there's no way to be sure.

     My build and tattoos attracted a lot of attention on the train.  I kept banging my head on a light fitting when I climbed into my bunk, much to the amusement of an old Sikh bloke sitting below.  A prisoner, chained to two armed escorts was in the compartment opposite.  I wondered what he had done for a while until I realised that I would never know.  Still, he and his guards were chatting together amiably enough, so fuck knows.  The train was so cold that I had to break out my trousers, top and another tee shirt.  It arrived in Amritsar two and a half hours late which, all things considered, isn't too bad.

     The Hotel City Castle in Amritsar was adequate, but the super deluxe room it claimed to providing us with was complete and utter bullshit.  It was basic and not too bad, really, but not worth the cost, not by a long shot.  So, we left their almost immediately and somehow found our way to the Golden Temple.  After washing our hands and feet and adorning some very sexy bandanas, we entered.  Holy fuck.  Like the Taj Mahal, the Golden Temple does NOT disappoint.  Photos are no good, not really  In the middle of a tank of holy water, water filled with huge carp, it sits, twinkling in the sun while pilgrims queue to enter.  It's remarkably quiet, unobtrusive music plays and there's a lack of "guides" getting on your nerves every five fucking seconds.  Amritsar is a very friendly city and we found the people we spoke to to be warm and welcoming.  Not so bad, that.

     We took a taxi to the border closing ceremony, a taxi for four, at most.  There were ten of us cramped in it.  Fucking horrific.  By the time we got to where the taxi dropped us off, I could barely leave the vehicle; cramped legs and my balls have only just reassumed their normal shape...  We had to leave our bags in a cafe and then walked up towards the border crossing.  A crush at the security check was a pain in the arse, but once through, we were herded to a VIP area, one that, basically, just keeps all the foreigners together.  The noise was terrific, with music playing on both sides, children dancing and the Indian and Pakistani crowds roaring at the tops of their voices.  The dancing kids dispersed suddenly and the guards came out to begin the ceremony.  Elaborate headgear and the most incredible display of goose stepping and pomp followed.  Double time marching up to the gate and a flurry of legs from guards on both sides in front of each other.  Loud stamps, audible clicking of heels, it all became a little comical, to be honest.

     On both sides of the border, men with microphones whipped their respective audiences into a nationalistic frenzy; for all the humourousness, it's worth noting that these are two countries which hate each other and have enough nukes pointed at each others cities that if it all kicked off, there would just be blank space in future maps where they used to be.  The crowds were huge, flags being waved and the noise, as I said, was incredible.  The flags were lowered, and when they touched, a huge roar rose up from the Indian side.  Perhaps there is hope for these two nations, after all.

     Not wanting to face that bollocks in the taxi again, we got ourselves a rickshaw.  It already had passengers, of course, so we were obliged to sit on either side of the driver in the front.  Knee hanging out, I was waiting to get clipped by a passing car but, thankfully, this didn't happen.  A quick dinner and then back to the hotel to watch Punjabi TV; utterly pointless.

     The bus from Amritsar to McLeod Ganj was full of Germans and Japanese tourists and was pretty full.  Still, it was relatively comfortable and got us here in about seven and a half hours.  There were intermittent and inexplicable stops, although when I nipped off for a piss, the fucker pulled away and I had to run after it, doing up my kecks as I moved.  Ever dignified, that's me...   Suddenly, it seemed, the road began to rise and hills materialised.  Terrifying hairpin bends in a heavily listing bus, seemingly inches away from precipitous drops...  Views to die for and potential plummets with much the same attitude.  When the sun finally set, it became like a video game, almost, although one with only one life...  Sunset over rivers, towns on plateaus, drivers of all kind of manic stripes, trees, hills.  I can see why people come here and nowhere else. Once we arrived in Dharamsala, we got a cab up here for Rs. 200.  It ended up costing more than that, though, as I left my fucking phone in the car.  I won't be seeing that again.  Cock, balls, arse, tits and fuck.  It was bloody freezing last night when we went out for dinner and the McLlo Restaurant is plastered in photos of Pierce Brosnan from when he ate there a few years ago.  I've eaten in the same place as James Bond.  Cool.

     The Hotel Green is just delightful, and the view from our balcony this morning was simply breathtaking.  That prize plum we met in Varanasi, Yalli, who showed us a photo of a bloke on the Delhi tube using a tablet as a mobile, declared that to be awesome.  No, Yalli, THIS is awesome, as in inspiring awe.  The sun came up, slowly, and we have a perfect view down the valley to Dharamsala.  There will, of course, be photos to follow, but I don't have the vocabulary or skill to put across the jaw dropping beauty of this morning, I simply don't.  Below, a woman stoked a fire with a pot over it, conversation, laughter, crows, kites, quiet traffic, trees, dogs, clear blue skies, my breath misting in front of me, smoke, washing lines, Tibetan flags and nothing but wonder, wonder, wonder...

     We walked to a waterfall this morning over a roughly paved path and, again, the views were stultifyingly incredible.  We sat and had tea in a little shack on get drunk on the scenery.  Horses, cattle, mountain goats, old woman climbing mountain paths - the tranquility of this place makes it hard to believe that we're in the same country as Varanasi.  I think that we're going to stay here until it's necessary for us to go back to Delhi (yuk).  The lack of strong arm sales patter from the stall holders here is very welcome, too.

     If you've made it this far, you have my admiration.  If you DID, the word to prove it on Facebook is TWONK.

(RELATIVE) PEACE AND (RELATIVE) QUIET

     Well, here we are in Goa.  It's certainly a step down in terms of chaos, I can tell you.

     We got up early on Wednesday and went to the ghat to watch the sun come up over Varanasi and the Ganges.  The place was rammed before it was light; when do people in Varanasi sleep?  The whole city, it seemed, had been up all night, lobbing fireworks about.  The first night of Diwali was spectacular.  Kids were chucking fireworks about, going back to duds, throwing firecrackers at each other; it was all rather worrying - we were expecting dismembered digits to come flying past us at any second.  Huge bangers, loud enough to be felt in the chest were being set off at extremely regular intervals.  You lot think the Sakky Roaders like their loud noises?  They're not even born compared to this lot.  All night, all night, the noises continued and it was still kicking off in the morning.  Madness; wonderful, wonderful madness.

     Up on the rooftop restaurant, we got drunk with the lovely Polish Anna and the not so lovely Canadian Yalli.  He complained about the food, moaned that McDonald's in India doesn't taste right (silly toss rag - it tastes the same the world over; that's the point) and that Washington D.C. has perfected the burger.  Well, fuck off back to D.C. and leave the rest of the world to the rest of the world, shag wit.  And then he shot off without paying for his meal anyway.  There was a lot of monkey trouble on the rooftop, and I was given the honour of wielding the monkey stick.  It seemed to ineffective, and at one point, Danny had to brandish a chair and wave it threateningly in the direction of a particularly bolshie tamarind.  "Back!  Back, ya bastard!" All conversation had to be conducted at a roar due to the noise and by the end of the night, I was pretty pissed.

     So, up at five, yadda, yadda, yadda, and off to the airport at half eight.  Already, the roads were fucking chokka - I've no idea how anyone gets anywhere in Varanasi.  Also, where in fuck are they all going?  They can't all be to meetings and shit.  I'll never know.  The flights were painless, if delayed, and we arrived on in the evening, sun pretty much down.

     Our apartment is wonderful, but the owners got on my tits a bit.  They were an incredibly good looking couple with a beautiful child and a nice dog.  Picture fucking postcard.  The bloke was pretty well built, tall, and looked like The Rock.  Although they were very nice people, they made me sick and I do hate them.  We paid up and buggered off to Pedro's where I was greeted as Richard (fuck knows; don't ask) and given a hug.  It always feels like coming home.  The boys may have my heart but Goa has my soul.

     The roads here are so civilised!  There's traffic, sure, and plenty of it, but it mostly stays on the right side of the road and is only worrying, not balls out terrifying.  It's a pleasant change,  I can tell you.   At night, the roads are practically empty.  It almost doesn't seem right, and Danny was somewhat nonplussed by the relative lack of insanity and pants shitting horror.  Some people are never fucking happy...

     Yesterday was spent on the beach at Pedro's, doing absolutely fuck of all interest to anyone but ourselves, but having a whale of a time.  Danny had himself an interesting haircut that makes him look a little like Jimmy Somerville.  It's a good look.

     We walked along the beach last night, and tiny points of phosphorent light were washed in the waves, glowing bright green before fading away.  All along the line of the surf, the lights were glowing.  Although the beach was rather spooky at night, these different types of fireworks were beautiful.  We wandered up to a beach bar and two young women came in.  Turns out that they were Indonesian.  I don't believe that they'd drunk alcohol before.  They were smoking fags and trying to work out how to hold them properly.  They were falling about, giggling, taking drags but not inhaling. Danny demonstrated to them the proper method.  One of them tried it, coughed up a storm and left her bar stool to reel off and puke her guts up. By the time they left, three drinks later, they were a billion sheets to the wind and started to walk in the wrong direction to where they were staying.  Only the insistence of the bar staff got them off  in the right heading.  I cvan only imagine the state of their room this morning...

     Mind you, things weren't a whole lot better for us by the time we left Pedro's at about half one.  It was full of Indians on their Diwali holidays and, by God, do Hindus like a drink.  They're like dark skinned Irishmen. We only left because they were putting chairs on tables around us.  I think we'd still be there if politeness hadn't decreed that we do the right thing and fuck off out of it.  All in all, a very pleasant first day in Goa.

     I'm going to have to give up smoking all over again.  Fuck, fuck,. fuck...

     Well, now...

     After the bullshit with the taxi and bus at Heathrow, I'm amazed that I'm writing this from anywhere outside Britain at all, much less from Varanasi.  From Delhi airport, we took a taxi to the train station - handy tip; if you're deliberately driving the wrong way up a one way street, just put on your hazards and lights at full beam -  and got our tickets with no fuss at all.  When I asked the semi comatose ticket seller where we could sit, he said we could sit anywhere.  Okay...  With three hours to kill, we sat in a twenty four hour cafe, drinking tea and getting stared at.  The place was full of young people, seemingly with no destination in mind, just hanging out.  Must be the in place...

     On the train to Agra, we had no fucking seats, so sitting anywhere at all wasn't an option. We stood for three very uncomfortable hours and by the time we arrived, all I wanted to do was sit down.  Straight into another taxi and away from the grabbing, pleading hands.  Once ensconced in the Hotel Sanjay, we went out to look for somewhere to cash some cheques.  Nowhere near by.  We took a rickshaw to a money changers and next door was a travel agency.  We asked them if it would be possible to book an overnight train to Varanasi with them.  It wasn't.  They showed us the website pages and all trains were fully booked.  We tried to get one to Allahabad so we could get here by hook or by crook, but that also wasn't happening.  As it goes, after cashing a hundred quid each, and me telling Danny that it would last until Varanasi, it lasted about an hour.  We were obliged to book a car to bring us here and that cost, with a night in a hotel, over a hundred nicker.  Combined with the Taj tour, that was us wiped out.  Ah, this country...

     After we'd spent all our fucking cash, the rickshaw driver showed us around, took us to markets and whatnot and, best of all, to the bank of the Yamuna River opposite the Taj Mahal - the Taj is closed on Fridays, so this is the best one'll get.  Even from there, it's a beautiful, breathtaking building.  Once we'd feasted our eyes on it for a while, the driver asked us if he could take us to a marble shop.  Knowing the basic set up - he'll get a backhander if we buy anything - we agreed but knew that we wouldn't be spending any money.  Through the sphincter troubling traffic again, then.  It's all fumes, dust, noise, noise, noise.  The beeping of horns is incessant, but not quite enough to become white noise.  The rickshaw was shaking like it was ready to fall apart and after we got out, I felt the same.

     At the marble shop, we were obliged to smile inanely as the owner showed us his work.  I appreciated the craftsmanship, believe me, but I still didn't want to buy any of it.  We could feel his malevolent stare on our backs as we left...  When the driver dropped us off, I gave him a 500 Rupee note and waited for my change.  To my astonishment, Danny gave the cunt another one!  I tried to stop him, but once the driver had hold of it, there was no way it was coming back...  I felt so woozy that I bought some cans of Kingfisher and we went on to the roof to drink them.  The traffic's much nicer when you're above it.  You see it moving like blood through veins, bikes and rickshaws weaving in and out, moving to God knows where.  It becomes hypnotic and strangely beautiful.  Or it could have been the beer, I dunno...

     The next day, we took the tour and headed off to Fatephur Sikri, a town about twenty or so miles outside of Agra.  The driver, Babu, told us that you need three things to drive in India - good brakes, good horn and good luck.  I found the last part very unsettling.  Babu warned us of all the local scams and, duly armed with this knowledge, proceeded to tell anyone who approached us to bugger right off.  Nice.  We were endlessly harassed by "guides" who wanted to show us around.  Yeah, mate.  It's a fort, I think I can make my way around it, ta.  The mosque and the palace were just stunning.  They really built things to last in the old days.

     Back to Agra and its traffic.  My eyes felt hot and too big for their sockets, sore and full of shite I still don't want to contemplate.  The whole city is after your money and its hands are in your face, demanding, twenty four hours a day.  Still, the Taj Mahal didn't disappoint.  It's awe inspiring.  No matter how many photos you've seen of it, none of them come close to capturing its majesty.  It's a perfect thing, it really is.  It's surrounding areas and attendant touts and scam artists are, however, somewhat less than perfect.  After refusing camel rides, knives, snow globes, postcards and fuck knows what all else, we made our way to the Red Fort.  After running another gauntlet of tat, we got in and could see the Taj in the setting sun, looking, of course, beautiful and serene.  It was almost impossible to remember the clatter and mayhem outside it.  Almost...  Back at the Sanjay, more beers on the roof and a stilted and uncomfortable conversation with a couple of lads from Calcutta.

     Up and out of Agra at half six on Sunday morning, Babu again at the wheel.  The road was in pretty good condition and although we saw plenty of crashes - or, rather, the aftermath of crashes - and dead dogs, we made it in about ten hours.  The fields were full of people taking their morning shits and I tried to focus on the road.  We stopped for lunch and beer on the way, of course.  I didn't need the lunch, but the beer was essential.  The hotel in Varanasi was okay, but way too overpriced.  Still, we lobbed our bags down and headed for the river.  A rickshaw driver agreed to take us there and back for 300 rupees, but when he dropped us off, he wouldn't take any money from us, saying he'd get it when we came back.  Whoops...  The walk to the river took us through crushing crowds.  God, the heat, the smells, the claustrophobia.  We eventually got to the ghat we wanted so that we could watch the ganga aarti ceremony on the bank of the Ganges.  Five lads stand on dais', ringing bells and waving small cauldrons contain incense and then fire.  They're ringing bells and some bloke bangs a gong, there's music and chanting playing.  It's a wonderfully theatrical event, a melange of sight and sound and the steps of the ghats are filled with people.

     After the crowds has - mostly - dispersed and people were putting their lights in the water to flow downstream, we were accosted by the man with a "Shit Shop." who I bumped into eight years ago.  He told us, "if you want good things, go elsewhere, I have only shit things."  What a sweet man.  Still, I didn't tell him to shit off, as I did eight years previously.  The traffic in Varanasi is even worse than Agra's and Vagator's relative tranquility can't come quickly enough.  We got lost in it on foot and once we eventually made our way back to where the rickshaw driver dropped us, he'd fucked off.  We didn't know where the hotel was, so the driver we flagged down had to keep asking people where it was.  It didn't help matters that we didn't know the hotel's full name.  Ah, well - we made it back and only gibbering lightly, too.

     In the morning, we got across the hotel we previously booked.  It's right on the river and the restaurant area overlooks the water.  It's a great place to just sit and watch the world go by below you.  Before we checked in, we saw a man punch a monkey.  Not a light slap, mind you, but a full blown hook to the monkey's rump.  I can now say that I've seen an Indian man spank the monkey.  I thank you.

      Varanasi's full of what Danny has taken to calling "Hideous Kinkies," Westerners who are trying too hard and dressing in Indian clothes and whatnot.  They affect a self righteous sense of beatific enlightenment and look down their fucking noses at everyone else.  We went to Sarnath yesterday, a town of Buddhist temples and they were everywhere, affecting inner peace and all that shit.  Sarnath itself was beautiful and the temples and architecture were, as ever, staggering.  After the chaos of Varanasi, or the roads, anyway, the peace and quite was extremely welcome.  The rickshaw driver who brought us back to this Indian Bedlam couldn't speak any English, but it didn't stop him speaking.  Well, when he wasn't gobbing betel nut juice on to the road, that is.  He dropped us off and told us that we were ten minutes walk from the river, the lying cunt.  We ended up walking through very narrow alleyways, filled with shops, dogs and people and, incredibly, speeding fucking motorbikes trying to whizz past.  Any kinds of business you care to imagine, from electronic shops to barbers can be found in these alleys.  Madness, utter madness.  When not trying to avoid a collision with a bike, we were trying to avoid even more collisions with cow shit.  It's fucking everywhere here; of course it is - there are fucking cows everywhere here.
  
     We were obliged to sit outside in the restaurant last night due to a contingent of Kinkies booking all the tables inside.  This had us worried because the monkeys are all over the roof and we were concerned that they'd have our food.  A waiter gave us a pole and told us to hit anything that came near us.  There's also a dog at the restaurant, patrolling for monkey trouble, so were weren't bothered.  We had a few beers with Denise and Emma, an aunt and niece from Sheffield and got a little wobbly.  All in all, a pleasant evening, Kinkies or not, although the \y don't even acknowledge you as they pass you on the stairs.

     Those fucking people.  One was in the restaurant this morning, chanting and meditating.  Why couldn't he do it in his fucking room?  I don't see any of them getting in the river to bathe, do I?  He'll be back in his office next month, sanctimoniously telling his colleagues that their chakras need realigning or some such bullshit.  As Tyler Durden noted, sticking feathers up your butt doesn't make you a chicken.  Meditate on THAT, you wanker.

     We walked along the river this morning and saw the burning ghats.  Bodies wait to be burned and huge piles of wood are stacked up, ready to be lit.  No photography is allowed there, but the heat is incredible.  It's not as though it's not hot enough...  Endless offers of hash and boat rides were refused and when not being bothered, the river side is very quiet, very calming.

     That'll do for now - my hands hurt.  Freak of the day; either the woman who face looked like Baron Harkonnen from David Lynch's "Dune" or the lad with only one ear.

     Oh, and I've been smoking, but given the pollution in this city, I don't see that it makes a fucking iota of difference.  Now, where's a beer?