Uncategorised

The TaJ Mahal is really beautiful. It’s heart breakingly beautiful. A tear drop on the face of humanity. A marble affirmation of one mans love for his wife. The ultimate one-upmanship for male romance. I thought a bunch of flowers would do but after finding out she bore the Raja 13 children and died pushing out the last one it all seems worth it.

Being one of the most famous buildings in the world I thought I knew what to expect.. I’ve never had a building evoke such a strong emotional response as the Taj. On seeing it in the flesh I wanted to hug it, love it, be part of it. I’ve seen it’s image 100’s of times but you can’t beat the real thing. We got up at sunrise to watch the sun bath the white marble in a pinkish hew and also to beat the rest of the tourists to this wonder. Every part of the building is designed to look beautiful to the eye. From your first glimpse from afar to the jewel encrusted details on closer inspection. It’s all in the details and this place was faultless. Sue and I spent the morning there just watching this building. The place gets packed by about 9:00am but there is plenty for all to see.

From Agra we headed to the deserts of Jaselmere near the Pakistan border for a 3 day desert festival and some buttock testing camel rides. Although a desert it was not that hot. During the day would reach only 25c and the night would be cold. One of the festival days was to be held at some sand dunes out side the town so we decided to take two days travel on the back of a camel to get there.

Some think Michel Jackson to be the dubiously child friendly king of pop but sue and I will always remember him as a horny old camel who would run after any lone female despite Sues protests. Sue’s camel was named as such and mine was called Raja Amistanie, a young racing camel who entered one of the many races the day before, got spooked and never made it to the end. We were a unlikely coupling but part from M.J’s bouts of lust and Rajas habit of stand up before I was seated, we had a good two days. If not a little hard on the arse.

The Jeselmere desert festival was fun. Some of the events were Mr. desert, tug of war, the woman’s race, Mrs. Desert,

best dressed camel and a whole world of camel related things. I was hoping to enter the Mr. Desert competition but my lack of beard, mustache and fancy desert clothes left me out of the running. They know how to through a colorful festival out in the desert and every one from all over the area come to join the fun.

Up and into the Himalayas. We were expecting cold and we were rewarded with freezing temperatures. The journey to Darjeeling was taken on what they call the toy train. A old steam engine with a narrow gauge that ambles it's way to the most famous hill station in India. So slow in fact that one of the perks of riding it is that you can jump out at any time, as long at you are not on one of the many cliff edges, run along side it, and jump back aboard. If you do the same journey by jeep it will only take three hours but as you may have read in almost all of our previous entries we love to take slow and laborious public transport. It takes 7 hours if nothing breaks down or 12, like our journey, if it does.
The views along the way are incredible . From sea level to almost 3000 meters above, passing small towns who's very roads accommodate the trains tracks. Watching an old steam train snake through what looks like the towns high street is a marvel in it's self then ploughing onwards and upwards through pristine hill ranges blanketed with tea plantations.
Darjeeling is a wonder of a town. Built on plunging hills, surrounded by glorious vistas, the houses and buildings are staked on top of each other clasped onto the face of mountains holding on of dear life.
Darjeeling has a very different feel to the rest of India that we had visited. The people are a heady mix of Tibetans, Nepalese, and North Indians. This and the winter weather make for a very relaxed place. Gone is the ferocious hard sell of goods, even the hustle and bustle of the main part of town is somehow still less hectic even if the crowds are of the same volume.
It was the wrong time of year to see the tea factories so our time was spent wondering around town. We did meet a old lady who was willing to let us sample her 3 second tea (that's how long it takes to brew it) and talk us through the history of the Happy Valley tea plantation from where the tea is grown. You can only buy this tea in Harrods in London or her shop...Or so we are told. And why is Happy Valley tea better than all of the other 80 tea plantations in Darjeeling? Because it's happy. We loved the explanation and the logic so we bought four bags.
The British. Suckers for tea.
Satisfied with tea it was time to move on to something harder. We had heard of a drink that was made from millet and served in a bamboo cup but asking around the tourist parts of town only drew blanks. Until we were lead down one of Darjeeling's many dark alleyways, one of the darkest and mugger friendly ones that I have seem in a while, and sat in what looked like someones kitchen. It was someones kitchen but it also doubled up as a bar for locals only. Were sat with the said locals who were surprised that a couple of tourists had found this den of iniquity. They turned out to be very friendly, if not a little drunk and stoned, and helped us through ordering and drinking this bizarre local drink. Fermented millet is piled into the bamboo cup then you poor hot water over it, leave it to soke and then drink it thought a metal straw. You can get about three hits from the same millet. Small tips like, "don't stir it or you'll get a very bad headache" , and, "we only know of a few people who went blind drinking it", were helpful and just the encouragement needed to finish up. I don't know how we always manage to do it but just finding out what the locals drink can lead to some interesting situations. Not all of them am I willing to detail on this blog.
Darjeeling has become one of our favorite places, not just for the tea and booze, but for the ambiance, the spectacle and friendliness of this cold but emotionally warm town. It was our first taste of the Himalayas and it's people and it's left us wanting more.

"Are you carrying any liquids or drugs and do you happen to be an Arsenal supporter"
"No", I said. "I support Portsmouth."
I then had a 10 minute conversation about how well my team are doing this season with the very freindly customs officer in Malaysia. He waved me through with a quick stamp of my passport not realizing that I had not answered the first two questions. I was leaving the country so I suppose it didn't matter.
The arrival into Indonesia was a different matter. Gone were the casual football questions, only a surly customs officer who pored over my passport looking for the page where I admitted to being a terrorist or diamond smuggler. He even went to another officer in a more official shinier uniform who gave it just as much attention. May be I should have answered those questions in Malaysia. Just as I was preparing to see latex gloves snapped on and being asked to bend over, he waved me through with another quick stamp of my passport. Sue got no such attention and could have waved a brick at the guy and he would have stamped it. Welcome to Indonesia.
After these last last few months in S.E Asia, Indonesia welcomed us like a Uncle who you'd only ever known as a child and are now meeting him for the first time as an adult. The same recognizable edge but starkly different from what you already knew. Not as frantic as the Philippines and not so straight forward as Malaysia Indonesia at a first glance held a familiarity to us.
Jakarta is a bustling city. The capital of Indonesia on the island of Java. 120million people share and somehow coexist on a plot of land about the size of England. Not all of Indonesia is as heavily populated as Java but it still holds a population of over 200million.
The first order of business was to try and get a Indian visa from the Indian Embassy in Jakarta. Bureaucracy rules in India and the Embassy takes it cues from the homeland so getting a visa would require filling out a few forms, hours of queuing and a five days of processing time. We left our passports in the hands of the Embassy and prayed to the numerous Hindu Gods that we would see them again with Visas attached.
We took a local economy train to Jogjakarta. A town 9 hours away from the capital with an incredible Buddhist temple and a few old palaces thrown in for good measure. The train took 12 hours in the end. It was cramped, stuffed full all of Jakarta and just as many people walking up and down the isles trying to sell you something. You could buy anything. Food, books, toys, statues, hats and kitchen equipment were all being peddled up and down the train. This went on with no respite for the full 12 hours. Sue tried to get some sleep but was woken by one of the many singers who strap a speaker to there person, blasting out some Indonesian pop tune while they sing through a muffled microphone to gain a few notes from the seated punters. If you tried to sleep through it you would get a poke with their free hand to depart you from your money. It was hard work. The ladyboy singers were a highlight adding at bit more peppery spice to this already hot mixing pot.

We made to Nazca to view the incredible lines. We booked a small 3 seater light aircraft to fly over the lines. You go up at about 300 feet so you get a very good view of these ancient lines. The pilot also liked to tip the plane on it´s side to get a beter view. We were told that a lot of people didn´t hold on to their lunch during the flights.

The lines them selves are a real spectacle. Massive triangles dug into the ground looking just like runways and massive images of animals that could only really be seen from about 300 feet. Dogs, monkeys, birds and even a astronaught all etched into the desert ground.

Sue and I made it without revealing our breakfast to the pilot, although Sue did admit that she had a funny five minutes half way through the flight. We only spent the one night in Nasca and then made our way into high altitude. The first stop being Arequipa. At a mere 2500 metres, surrounded by mountains and on the foot of a active volcano Arequipa is something to behold. We didn´t have time to see the second deepest canyon in the word, the first being just next door and only 100 metres deeper, so we went wight water rafting. Neither of us had done this before but were very excited at the prospect. The guide said that we would be running 1 to 4 graded rapids. 5 being the highest and 6 being unrunnable. He also told us that if you run a grade 6 rapid and come out alive then it goes down to a 5!

The experience was very exciting and a lot more dangerous than we first thought. We were on the raft with three americans. You really have to work hard to get down rapids, paddling hard when the guide shouts you orders and diving from one side of the raft to the other to avoid flipping the raft. We were told that there was only one place that it was likely we would flip but it hadn´t happened to anyone for about 4 months....Guess what. We flipped the raft. We came careering into what looked like a smallish boulder sending the nose of the boat up and to it´s side. I held on for as long as possible and watched the American, who was up front with me, fall in followed by me on top of him. Sue and the other two swiftly followed into the freezing, rocky, mountain rapids. I saw the American kick free just as the raft fell back on top of me trapping me between a rock and it´s hull for what seemed like a eternity. It was only a matter of seconds before I was free but the a headline “four tragically die in Peruvian rapids” did flash through my mind . The fun wasn´t over yet. We were still in the rapids. The river swept us on. Sue, managing to find most of the rocks and boulders, in the river bounced down to calmer waters where we were rescued by another raft and the safety kayaker. I got off lightly regarding hitting rocks on the way down but Sue was covered in bruises the next day.

We still had more river to run and we completed it bruised and drenched. It was still very fun and I would like to do it again but without the near drowning.

Moving further North towards the great Amazonas. Jumping from town to town with mind mumbingly long bus journeys in between. One night in Fortaleza and then in Sao Luis. Neither town particularly remarkable by Brazilian standards but nice enough for for a well earned rest after so much bus travel.
Looking for somewhere to stay in Sao Luis we stumbled across what has to be one of the grottiest little hotels I have had the displeasure to set eyes on. When looking at the room the landlord took us first behind a busy restaurant then into what looked like a dungeon. Half plastered stone walls that were damper than the mangrove swamp we went to see the next day. You didn’t feel that you wanted to breath the air it was so musty. We have stayed in pretty terrible rooms in our time and I don’t like to bash humble abodes but when the shower bleeds insects and mud when turned on, you know that this is not the room for you. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it were dirt (literally) cheap but it turned out to be a lot more expensive than the other, cleaner hostel we ended up staying in.
The next day we took a trip to a small village called Raposa. It was set just outside a beautiful mangrove swamp that were lined with giant sand dunes. We took a trip by boat, watching the sea eagles and other wildlife fly and scurry about. After a bit of dune jumping we headed home to catch another bus to Belem. We got caught in the biggest thuderstorm on the way to the bus. We were so wet that the taxi driver who took us to the bus station asked us if we'd mind sitting on the floor mats rather than directly on the seats.
We set off on Friday for our 5 day Amazon boat trip where hammocks will be our beds and insect repellent our constant companion!