The Accidental Indian

They say, "In India...anything is possible!"

...although, this seems to exclude cleanliness, social etiquette, personal space, honesty, sexual equality, and a healthy stomach

Wednesday 27th May
We were relieved when the pilot informed us that the current local temperature in Delhi International Airport was 33C, until we realised that it was only 2am! By midday, the mercury would rise another ten degrees - that's Fahrenheit for fucking hot!

We were amazed to find that our airport collection had actually arrived - although, we were less surprised to be taken to a different hotel to the one in the brochure, and charged for the priviledge. All I was concerned about was finding a room with cable to watch tonight's Champions League final. In hindsight, I should have given the bathroom a greater inspection.

After a few hours sleep, we were introduced to Delhi. Even for seasoned travellers, first impressions were overwhelming - searing heat, polluted air and streets paved in poverty...

We walked through the main street in Paharganj, fighting against a constant tide of human traffic like pink fish out of water. The dusty, rubbled road is teeming with pedestrians, pedalled rickshaws, psychotic motorcyclists - and the occasional holy cow praying its next meal lies somewhere in the plastic waste. Street children, addicted to solvents that have left them with ageing faces, competed for our attention with disfigured beggars, shop sellers and over insistent auto-taxi touts. And, it smells of concentrated piss festering in the open sewers!

Since my only previous experiences of India were restricted to the sanguine beaches of the south, this was an X-rated awakening.

Our first mistake was to try and explore the city on foot. We managed to walk into New Delhi, the British imperial capital featuring neoclassical architecture and open spaces that resemble parts of West London on an unprecedently sunny day. This is home to Delhi's affluent elite who live like princes surrounded by a slum of paupers. Eventually, we got lost in the ever-decreasing circles of Connaught Place and made our second mistake - asking an Indian for directions.

Since road names and numbers are irrelevant, you can explain an Indian his own address without him being able to direct you the way. However, instead of admitting his ignorance, he will prefer to offer you an imaginary set of directions - while inanely wagging his head. After asking three locals and being given three different directions, each accompanied by the same head wag, we decided that auto taxi was the only way to travel.

We met an old gentlemen who offered to drive us through the broad boulevards of the Rajpath, leading from India Gate to a Presidential Palace shrouded in smog, to a restaurant. We ate a delicious vegatable thali - having decided to avoid meat and the potential parasites it carries - while attempting to use only one hand; Indian culture, despite otherwise absent standards of hygeine, decrees that you shouldn't touch food with your left hand as this is the 'toilet hand'. This makes eating awkward, especially if you try tearing a naan bread with one hand. Ironically, I wipe with my right!

Our driver had waited, "At no extra expense, sir" - and predictably offered to take us back to the hotel via detours to handicraft emporiums and unofficial tourist offices. Since he had been entertaining, and explained even our entering these places would grant him a small commision, we spent a few minutes impersonating ethnic art dealers before returning - stunned but still standing.

While relaxing in the room, a porter called at the door and whispered, "Cold beer for you, sir?". It's the only decent offer I've had all day and he returned minutes later with a tepid Kingfisher wrapped in newspaper. Alcohol isn't readily promoted here and the exchange was made with all the clandestine secrecy of an act of espionage. And, when we later ordered a beer at a roof terrace restaurant , it arrived 'speakeasy style' in a china teapot. The worst head I've ever had.

The reason we had decided to stay in this supposedly decent hotel was to guarantee watching the Champions League final. It was all worth the extra expense...for ten minutes before Barcelona scored and opened a can of whup ass on United. Today could be best described as a nightmare.

Thursday 26th May
Having seen the new, we turned our attention to Old Delhi - which dates back to the Islamic Mughal empire and is steeped in a history of warring maharajas. The remains of medieval walls struggle to contain a congested mass of crowds bustling between some of the city's most imposing ancient monuments. It's like stepping back in time and a stark contrast to the modern metropolis lined with designer stores of nearby New Delhi - a measure of the disparity of wealth that co-exists throughout India.

The only constant was the chaos.

While walking through the crowded bazaars of Chandi Chowk, I became increasingly aware of the attention we were attracting. In fact, we've travelled through Amazonian outposts without courting this much curiosity. And, it soon became clear, that not all the attention was innocently inquisitive.

Flo seems to be the object of every Indian male's raging affection. Judging by their reactions, she may as well be wandering the streets wearing nothing but a smile. And the testosterone-fuelled locals aren't content with simply stealing glances - they conspicuously followed us with open mouths in a state of perverted dementia. It's unnerving to say the least.

I had presumed that my appearance would afford us more respect. But, seeing a white girl with a brown boy, only acts as an open invitation to the wannabe Romeos cruising the streets with (Bolly) wood in their trousers. Young men with slicked hair and shiny shirts consistently stopped traffic to speak to Flo, while men old enough to know better unsubtley undressed her with their eyes.

Occasionally, I was also stared at by groups of youngsters. I found it confusing, until I re-al-ize/that I'm a champion in their eyes - living the dream of a million adolescent Indians. Some even stopped to congratulate me on my 'luck'!

When the unabashed leering became too irritating we sought refuge in a holy place, Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque - although, the staring continued for entirely different reasons...

Despite our efforts to dress modestly, our attire was deemed unacceptable and we were provided with an alternative wardrobe. I wasn't impressed at having to wear a skirt to cover my knees - but, in Flo's words, they cast a 'fashion jihad' on her ass! She is wrapped in an oversized mu mu dress decorated in a psychedelic wallpaper pattern, leaving only her lower face exposed beneath sunglasses and a clashing head scarf. Even devout Muslims in mid-prayer were unable to stifle their laughter. Not so hot now, my sweet:)

We returned to the old city in the evening for a sound and light show at the Red Fort - northern India's sites seem to come colour-coded and we will see cities of gold (Jaisalmer), pink (Jaipur) and blue (Jodhpur) while we are here. The audio tour was surprisingly captivating as a distinguished narrative tells his-story of Persian invasion, playboy princes and the banishment of the British while coloured lights illuminate the buildings and ambient sound effects surrounded us from hidden speakers.

In a decision that's likely to upset the entire male population of the city, we decided to leave Delhi in the morning.

Friday 27th May
Since we had successfully managed to reserve train tickets to Agra, without being deceived by any of the many scams operating at the station, we were confident that the four-hour journey towards the Taj Mahal would be fuss free...

However, New Delhi Train Station is epitome of disorganised chaos - the main concourse is manically crowded with clattering locals, oversized parcels and chai sellers taking up every available inch of space. The floor was littered with bodies in various states of slumber, usually settled in the most inopportune places - entire families deciding to eat impromptu picnics on busy stairwells!

When we couldn't find our train on the outdated display board, we were forced to ask someone. Once again, it's impossible to get a straight answer from an Indian. In between simply agreeing with everything I say, amid much head wagging, we were directed to three different platforms - breast-stroking through crowds with our rucksacks weighing more and more heavily in the heat.

Eventually, we learned that our train was delayed...by four hours! After repeatedly hearing an annoucement of how 'India Rail deeply regrets this inconvenience', spoken by a lady with an irritatingly calm voice, we decided to leave and return later. When we do, India Rail deeply regrets to inform us that the train has been delayed a further three hours. As this announcement was being made, a passing porter knocked the drink in my hand, spilling the entire contents over me. The angry sharks are swimming in my head!

While waiting, my only solace was the flashing display confirming that we were, at least, at the right platform. This display promptly disappeared within minutes of the train's expected arrival, forcing me to return to the fray and seek assistance from a league of unlikely sources. When an insolent guard shrugs, "Gone!', and then refused to acknowledge my existence - I temporarily lost it!

The infuriation of missing a train I'd been waiting seven hours for overwhelmed me and I was driven to acting an unlikely racist - shouting, "What is the fuck is wrong with you people!?". I'm sure this is a question that true Indians and distant descendants like myself must ask frequently, although perhaps not to such a large audience.

Fortunately, when all seemed lost, the train unexpectedly arrived - at which point, everyone on the platform tried to board at the same time. My faltering relationship with the locals wasn't strenghtened during the journey as our supposedly reserved 2nd-class seats were beseiged by non-paying passengers from the lower-class carriages. Three men crammed into our compartment and promptly organised a card school around us that lasted until we arrived in Agra.

My patience has worn thin in only three days. I find the Indian people intrinsically annoying - the constant staring, strained communication, questionable morals, double standards and disregard for personal hygeine have overcome me. While we've had interesting conversations with individuals, as a collective - they simply have no sense of sensibility! Excuse me/while I pessimist the sky.

Saturday 28th May
My cynicism was comforted by sleep - although, as we climbed to the roof terrace in the morning, I was still dubious of the spectacular views being promoted by the hotel. But, rising from the tin roofed squalor is the most glorious sight India has to offer - the Taj Mahal.

Agra itself, could be what's commonly referred to as a shithole (even by Indian standards). The streets are plagued with parasitic auto-taxi drivers and souvenir sellers drawn to the ethereal light of the Taj's flame. With temperatures of 45C, we waited until the afternoon before arriving at the entrance. Unashamedly, Indians are charged 20RPS for entry - while foreigners are forced to pay a tourist tax of 750RPS! I contemplated learning the Hindi for, "One please", and trying my luck as a local.

It wouldn't have worked as I seem to have lost my identity somewhere between acting like a foreigner and looking like a local - neither group can quite place me. I'm treated warily by westerners while locals ironically dismiss my relatively unruly appearance as being low-caste scum! The Accidental Indian.

Ultimately, the Taj Mahal was a priceless experience . The building is the ultimate architectural expression of love - built by an emporer as a mausoleum to hold his beloved second wife who died during childbirth.

Five facts
- The emporer's hair is said to have turned white overnight after hearing of his wife's death
- The mason's hand was cut off after completion to ensure he could never produce such beauty again
- The emporer envisioned a black mausolem replica on the other side of the river for himself
- His son eventually overthrew him and the emporer's body is placed next to his wife in the only unsymetrical feature of the inner mausolem
- It took 20 years to build

Entering through the enormous sandstone gateway enscribed with verses from the Quran is like stepping into a dream. The pearlesque marble inlaid with semi-precious stones shines irridescently in the light, subtley changing in tone throughout the day. The precision of symmetry is extraordinary with lined ornamental gardens paving the way to the elegantly domed building with identical sandstone mosques on either side. A mirage of its beauty would have been reflected in a central watercourse, except the dry season has evaporated the water.

Without question, the Taj deserves its place as one of the seven wonders of the world - although, we didn't expect to be regarded as the eighth by practically all of the Indian visitors...

I say 'we' - but mine was a supporting role to the star attraction that is my girlfriend.

Fortunately, the largely family audience meant the attention was more respectful than before (aside from the occasional candid cameraman pretending to take pictures of imaginary friends). Entire families invited Flo to take part in their group photos, while embarrassed young children were repeatedly thrust into her arms. Two teenage boys, seemingly on the verge of proposing, followed us everywhere until we traded a picture for their disappearance. I imagine Flo's face is adorning mantlepieces all over India, and probably a few bedroom walls.

I was occasionally also invited into the first picture, before being ushered out of the frame and no doubt deleted later. It was almost a relief when a group of young girls beckoned me over - but it was only a request for me take a picture of them sharing the company of my 'beautiful girlfriend'. Lesbians.

I feel like a Guy named Ritchy living in the shadow of Madonna. When the attention reached paparazzi-like proportions, it was time to leave. She's a celebrity, get me outta here!

Sunday 29th May
The ten hour bus to Jaipur passed through an arid landscape thirsting for the rains to arrive - children played cricket in the dusty spaces while buffalos with curled horns scavenged for food in the waste. For practically the entire journey, the man seated behind us leaned forward and just gaped at Flo - creating a sort of Mexican stare off with me looking at him, looking at her looking at me. He eventually learned some choice new words in English and slinked back into his seat.

On arrival, we met an auto-taxi driver with self-styled Bollywood pretentions who conveniently finds us a place to stay and offered to take us to the Monkey Temple and then a restaurant - insisting that we could decide the price on return.

We were accompanied by his friend, who is obviously infatuated with him. They took us to the foot of a hill and we walked up a trail to the temple resting at the top - passing dischevelled children, snake charmers, holy men and scores of Macaque monkeys. I've had previous experience with these animals, having been scared shitless by a particularly evil monkey in Japan. This time, I remembered the golden rule to never look a Macaque in the eye - which relates the experience to walking through a pub in the wrong part of town.

The temple's view of the city may have been more impressive, had the scenery not been shrouded by a mist of pollution. And, without the distraction of a small girl torturing her kitten. When we returned to the auto-taxi our two guides were waiting...holding hands. While public displays of hetero affection are generally frowned upon in India, physical contact between men is a common sight - that never fails to look hilariously gay, especially if you've seen two policeman walking hand in hand at sunset.

The evening ended with an authentic meal - where the guide attempted to 'recommend' the most expensive meals on the menu before trying to abscond us into a bazaar, closely avoided several near death collisions and finally returned us home. Of course, the price I was earlier invited to suggest is too low and the inevitable haggling was only delayed until after the excursion. We decided not to accept his services for the next day - when I said, "C U Next Tuesday mate," he actually tried to arrange a time!

Monday 30th May
Jaipur is known as the Pink City, which could also be used to describe Brighton - although, instead of piers, queers and souvenirs, Jaipur takes its name from the supposed skin tone of most of the city's sandstone buildings. In reality, the colour is more like meat that's passed its sell-by date.

The city is a jarring juxtaposition of a majestic past and modern mayhem - the walled old city is bursting at the seams with jostling crowds and touts trying to snare unsuspecting tourists. Since the City Palace is overpriced, we wandered around the royal observatory of Jantar Mantar, which features a garden of massive astronomical measuring devices that look like sculptures inspired from an Escher sketch. It was only a temporary respite from the maddening crowds waiting outside.

Walking the streets in the melting heat while trying to ignore an all-inclusive audience eventually became unbearable. Sometimes it's hard being this really, really, ridiculously good looking:) The attention we are attracting still mystifies me, especially since Flo is wrapped in layers of clothing and the locals must have seen thousands of Western women before. I blame an ancient repressive religion and a new age of pornographic streaming technology. Could everyone please, 'Just get over it!'.

By now, I'm at the frayed edges of my tether. In less than a week we have trawled through three frantic cities without pause for breath. Ritchy needs to take time out and we're hoping that the hippiness and holiness of Pushkar will provide us with some hapiness.

Tuesday 31st May
When we arrived in Pushkar and were greeted by only a single tout, it seemed the relatively small scale of the holy place will offer us the sanctuary we've been praying for.

Pushkar is revered as one of India's most sacred sites with a timeless history of Hindu legend. The desert landscape is broken by an improbable lake surrounded by hundreds of whitewashed temples and bathing ghats - pilgrims travel from all over India to wash away their sins in the supposedly cleansing waters.

Unfortunately, the late monsoon has reduced the centrepiece lake to an arid basin that more resembles a building site - with bulldozers working to clear the unwanted sediment before the rains arrive, while pilgrims paying their respects have been forced to a last remaining pool of fecal brown water. It's still picturesque, but its true beauty is left to the imagination.

We stayed in a relaxing guest house built around a tree that reaches up from an inner courtyard to a chilled roof terrace. The owner is surprisingly one of the few Indian men who doesn't get a semi at the sight of Flo - although, it later transpires that I'm more his type! He loves my hair...like, even more than I do.

For the first time in India, we wandered around the market streets without feeling like recently arrived aliens. We're still beckoned into shops and occasionally followed by street urchins but without the same hassle and hustle we've endured until now - and, relax:) We enjoy the sights of ladies beautifully dressed in neon coloured saris, the smells of fresh spices and the sounds of sitar led music.

This novel sense of security was enhanced when we walked through a small alley and met a lonely sadhu (holy man) who asked us to sit with him and share in an ancient ritual involving a chillum. Obviously, not wanting to offend his culture, we took two tokes and then passed.

Of course, any day wouldn't be complete without a scam. While walking past one of the many ghats, a dude forced a pile of petals in my hand that are used for the Pushkar Pujar ceremony - where local priests lead you to the water and bless your family while you scatter the petals into the water...and then promptly ask for a donation.

If my escort was a priest, then I'm the pope. But, throwing the petals to the floor in such a holy place would no doubt be regarded as sacreligous by the surrounding locals - and he knew it. So, I was begrudgingly led to the waterfront where he repeated several incantations for all the members of family while washing my feet in the rancid water and smudging my forehead with a bindi. The words 'happy donation' started entering his so-called prayers with increasing regularity until the ceremony ended and he asked me to pay an exhorbitant sum - multiplied by the number of people in my family! I gave him less than he had bargained for and told him to go buy himself a clue.

Meanwhile, Flo had been harrassed by another religious charlatan who threatened to curse her entire family unless she made a donation. This is the lowest of the low - using religion and our good nature to coerce money with threats to our family has to be the least spiritual of acts.

However, the night ended on a high when we got 'bhanged up' sampling special lassis from the solitude of our roof terrace. And, fade to sleep - dreaming of a return home with fondness for the first time.


Post Script
Today, I was attacked by a monkey!

We were just sitting on the roof terrace of our guest house in Pushkar watching a group of Langur monkeys congregate around the tower of a Hindu temple, laughing at the primitive displays of social interaction being played out between these seemingly affectionate and almost human creatures.

Just then, a large monkey the size of a labradour crossed the balcony behind us and swaggered towards the kitchens. Still in a monkey loving frame of mind, we smiled while watching it attempt to open the kitchen doors with opposable thumbs that are the envy of the animal world. After a few moments, I thought I should scare it away by shouting. The fun ended there.

The monkey turned around revealing, not the expected black face of a Langur but, the angry red features of an alpha male Macaque. As mentioned, I have previous with Macaques - and facing my nemesis for a second time caused me to forget the rule and stare directly into its eyes. In Japan, this had provoked a frightening display of screaming and intimidating teeth bearing. In India, there are no such formalities.

Without hesitation, the beast ferociously reared up and raced towards me at a speed that fear contorts into slow motion. I had a moment to stand, take a chair and swing it in time to knock it off its final stride. Flo, more femininely opted to scream and run!

I have no doubt that the monkey considered chasing her but, within seconds, men with sticks appeared and the Macaque disgrudingly accepted being outnumbered - although he thought twice about it before disappearing from the balcony.

The owner then explained that this was a particularly 'bad monkey'. He proceeded to describe a history of encounters, including a time when, after chasing the monkey away with a stick, it returned and pushed him down the stairs! We now spend most of our time in the lower courtyard away from the terrace and other possible Rabies infections.

Welcome to India!

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