Alrighty then! I’ve been kicking myself in the arse to do this for about a year now. I’m going to South Africa on the 6th October, so wanted to preserve the memory of my adventures in north India last year. And yeah, I suck big, floppy donkey d*ck for not interacting regularly on dA and drawing more. There's a good reason; IIRC, dA had a new format and layout introduced months ago, and it appeared to reset all my watched/watchers subscriptions (informing me of new deviations, journal entries, etc), so my apologies for going quiet!

I flew into Delhi with Etihad Airways; having read bad/mixed reviews about the service, I was unsure about my travel agents choice, but the pleasant flights, decent food and friendly attendants changed my mind. From the reviews, Abu Dhabi sounded awful with poor cleanliness and seating. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the toilets were clean (hurray!), the airport well-ventilated and the sound-levels had been reduced. While not as visually impressive and with limited shops in comparison to Dubai’s airport, Abu Dhabi is reasonable.

After stepping outside the airport in Delhi, it was a real shock to walk into what felt like a blazing hot furnace. Goodbye, unpredictable British weather. Hello, merciless heat-wave. My driver picked me up to drove to the tour’s starting hotel in another district about 40 minutes away. We travelled on dusty roads with the odd monkey sat bang in the middle; saw homeless people, dark-eyed cattle and stray dogs wandering freely on bypasses and under bridges; passed buildings with colourful Bollywood posters/advertisements peeling off their crumbling walls. We eventually reached Hotel Good Palace in Karol Bagh district. Throughout the day and night, the streets outside the hotel were teeming with peddlers selling salwar kameez (Punjab suit, a type of tunic and trouser set, sometimes with a scarf), backpacker gear, colourful glittering jewellery, sequinned bags, children’s toys and religious paraphernalia such as framed pictures of deities, necklaces and incense. It was smelly from time to time, too, with what smelled like ammonia/sulphur drifting up from hot garbage and grates.

As it was so hot and humid, I became thirsty quickly. Fortunately, I’d equipped myself with bottled water sold by the hotel. There were so many people walking on the streets (the majority were men, who outnumber women by a great many in India) and peddlers/shops selling the same items, it was disorientating to walk about; nearly all the streets and buildings looked the same. Alone, I was unsure of where to go for dinner so I became a spoilt tourist and indulged in room-service. The hotel wasn’t that good, with its interior stripped to the raw foundation, the constant banging of hammers outside and the strong stink of kerosene wafting in through the ventilation shaft, (no-one in the group was expecting heavy renovation and to make things worse, the owners gave the impression that they didn’t care). However, the food was excellent. For dinner, I had a medium spicy mutton rogan josh served with two chapattis; a decent price, even with the service charge. The meat was so tender and the ingredients full of strong flavour.

Next day, accompanied by Monica (Portuguese) and Wendy (Australian), I headed to the ATM to pull out money for the local payment and have lunch. In between dodging the random torrential showers, we walked around, looking for a good restaurant. We were recommended a place called Suruchi, where the all-male staff wore gleaming white tunics and trousers with a red turban which was styled to drape loosely over their back. While they had a limited vegetarian menu, the food was high quality. For drink, I had authentic sweet lassi (which tastes very different to the bottled fruit-flavoured stuff you get from restaurant suppliers like Mumtaz) and for lunch, a dish called Gujarati Thali, which consisted of a tray with eight sauces which had ingredients in like chutney, lentil pea and mint. You dipped roti and other types of light Indian bread into the sauce. I had Gulab Jamun for dessert, a fried cheese dumpling drenched in sweet syrup, which was nice but sickly.

Later, we met up with our group; we were due to see the buildings in old Delhi, like the Red Fort and Jama Masjid (Delhi’s oldest mosque) but because of the terrorist bombings, it was safer to visit the less crowded places. We went to Raj Ghat, where Gandhi’s ashes are kept in a beautiful, well-tended square garden enclosed by walls draped with flowers; the Crafts Museum on Purana Qila Road, which was fascinating with life-size imitations of ethnic tribes’ houses/meeting buildings and a wide array of items to buy like tunics, studded belts, pashminas, textile throws, papier-mâché sculptures and folk-style paintings. We briefly visited the popular-with-backpackers district, Connaught Place and had dinner at Cross Roads restaurant, where I had a lovely Tandoori chicken with a garlic naan and masala tea (very nice drink; sweet and spicy with cardamom and other spices). When I had a shower later, it was rather gross seeing the black dirt which gathered on the shower floor… for the good or ill of your skin, Delhi makes you sweat hard.

It was an early start to the morning the next day; due to the bombings, we caught private taxis to Delhi train station. While the streets were quieter than later in the day, people were stirring from their slumber and donkey-driven carts loaded with fruit and other cargo congested the narrow roads. We got to the train station in time, and boarded the train to Kalka (our carriage was comfortable and modern), which was to be a five hour journey. As we sped through the vast city of Delhi, it was disconcerting and a wake-up call as to just how crammed and poor India is. We were informed that not all people who live in the slums of Delhi are local, that some come from further afield in the hopes of finding a better source of income. Fairly close to the train tracks I saw people squatting in the middle of a flat, garbage/raw sewage strewn yard – going to the toilet, not bothered about the lack of privacy (something we take for granted in the West); children playing near stagnant pools of water with goats and pigs grazing near them; beautifully tended flat agricultural fields with huts made of hay for storage; industrial plants, some abandoned and others bustling with activity and emitting smoke from chimneys and all kinds of contrasts of living.

Eventually, we reached Kalka where we boarded the World-Heritage listed “toy-train.” The small, narrow carriages were Spartan compared to the train we were on previously; the interior was a peeling white and the seats were cushioned for basic comfort. Our journey was estimated to take five or more hours. Ascending mighty hills covered with verdant foliage and slender trees with rough, reptile-like bark, it was a stunning view to look down ravines and into the valley, and a relief to feel the temperature lower to a pleasant, fresh coolness. It was slightly hazy, too, which gave an almost celestial feel as to where we were. The only thing that was troublesome was the toilet; a small cubicle with no source of light, the floor glistened from outside and it made me anxious. I didn’t want to feel ill so went anyway; it was so annoying whenever the train went into a long, dark tunnel as it blocked out the tell-tale glow of daylight reflected off the train-track; I paused when this happened as I didn’t want to ruin the magical toilet experience for anyone by spraying everywhere but the hole.

Our antiquated train reached Shimla and we disembarked to catch a lift on some mini-buses. It was a steep walk to get to them, especially with heavy rucksacks on our backs. Set on steep hill slopes, the buildings and roads were narrow; however unlike Delhi, the traffic was more orderly here. We stayed at Hotel Silverine, a pleasant enough place located in the centre of Shimla (which is spread out across the vast hills), overlooking a deep ravine. Troops of monkeys paced outside the hotel grounds, clambering on the long trees. We had the group dinner on the rooftop, and it was cool enough to don a sweater… I chose my mum’s snug, grey Japanese shawl – which people said they could feel warm emanating from it. I had spinach with a dish called Palace Mutton, and found out by experience that the mutton was actually goat. I love goat’s milk, but dislike the slimy texture and bland taste of goat meat. Had a slight case of Delhi belly and to reduce the possibility of stomach upset, I decided to choose vegetarian dishes and drink lassi and bottled water.

Next morning, we walked to Jakhu Temple, which is dedicated to the monkey-faced god, Hanuman, revered for his intelligence and loyalty. The trail was long, steep and twisting, taking us about forty-two minutes to reach the temple. Due to the higher altitude and steep slope, I had to stop for breath every forty metres or so. The temple was set in a lush forest with many monkeys scampering about; large males, mothers with very small (and adorable!) babies and squabbling youngsters. To my surprise, the temple was small and looked more like a shrine; the outside was tan-coloured with plaster-reliefs depicting Rama, Sita and Hanuman. Inside was lavishly decorated with vivid, red carpets and vibrant paintings depicting Hanuman’s role throughout the Ramayana (the Rama, Sita and Ravana story). Before entering the temple, as per custom, we left our shoes in a small outbuilding. There was a smaller building where devotees bowed, struck a bell and paid their respects. I chose not to go inside this shrine, instead standing guard over my comrades’ shoes with Tracey, a Brit-turned-Kiwi and former travel-agent now travelling around the world on a career-break. Down-to-earth and vivacious, we got on really well and laughed a lot; I came to see her like an older, worldlier version of me, different but complementary, and that was so satisfying. Moving away from the soul-searching, the young monkeys and adult males were eyeing us curiously, expecting food. A youngster lunged for my foot, I instinctively flinched back and it hissed at me, so I puffed myself up and glared at it, making it whimper a strange, cooing noise of uncertainty. Looking very much the kick-ass adventurer, Tracey was armed with a pointed, gnarly stick, which she swung calmly at two aggressive, large males. “Don’t come any closer, you little shits!” LOL. Unsurprisingly, they backed off.

I would have loved to take a picture of a mother with her babies playing, but these monkeys, used to humans and having their way, are too bold and aggressive to risk pulling out your camera. While they do forcefully take stuff from people and bare their fangs, we were told they don’t bite. Kind of funny how some of us are afraid of smaller (usually harmless) creatures, but I guess our fear is based on pain and fear of the unknown; say they have rabies or some other nasty contagious disease. Later in the day, we walked through Shimla and it was fascinating. The town centre resembles a set from Disney, with perfect-looking old-style houses, cobbled flat-paved walkways and tidiness. Shimla is the shortened form of Shyamala, another name of the ignorance-destroying goddess, Kali Ma, who is venerated greatly in this area of India. My sweet-tooth, as strong as ever, goaded me to acquire a few lovely if sickly Indian sweets, made from milk, spices and nuts. The sweets are fine from proper sweet-centres, as they use mineral water.

We headed to the Viceregal Lodge, which was built in the 1800s by the British. They ruled the entire Indian subcontinent from Shimla, and governors and officials used it as their summer headquarters as the rest of India would have been scorching. It was very misty and the walk was longer than expected; the gothic-style, sprawling architecture surrounded by curling fog would have made a fine setting for a horror film. Inside was slightly dim, and beautifully furnished with wooden panels of Burmese teak wood. Unfortunately, due to preserving the building’s features and original colours, photographs were prohibited. Also, as the building is used as a library and learning institute, we remained quiet throughout the guided tour. In the various rooms, they had old-style wooden furniture decorated with lattices and photographs showing when partition was drawn. Afterwards, Wendy and I went browsing as well as to fulfil our daily goals; I went to a tailors and had a long-sleeved salwar-kameez commissioned for myself; a vibrant peacock-green, the cotton fabric had multi-coloured blossoms embroidered on it. I was anxious as to what the end result would be like and whether the clothing would be delivered to my hotel (the shops closed at 9pm) or if would magically disappear. That would have meant losing about thirty pounds. It was nearing 8:30PM and I was on the verge of ranting to Wendy about never trusting any tailor again, when a phone-call let me know my delivery had arrived. I was pleased with it, though the baggy pants had no tie-string…

It was a long drive to Mandi by private, air-conditioned taxis the next morning. The scenery was amazing, with thick forest carpeting the rolling hills and stark blue skies above… though the roads weren’t at all endearing. They were so windy and had sharp bends, so most of us felt rather nauseous throughout the journey. Fortunately, we stopped for a break at a nice enough restaurant; as we had another few hours ahead, we had something light such as a glass of lassi. I felt slightly better afterwards, though my bum was aching due to sitting for such a long duration. Located on the Beas River and once part of the salt route to Tibet, Mandi is a small, bustling town. Due to the close-knit buildings and quaint cobbled roads, it has been dubbed the Venice of India. After depositing our belongings at the Raj Mahal hotel, we had a guided tour around the town, visiting the small temples dedicated to Krishna, Rama and Shiva. The layouts were spacious and attractive, though some of the figurines looked a bit tacky in their garish glory.

My favourite temple was located further out the town near a bridge; unlike the contemporary temples in town, this one was built similar in style to the ruins at Angkor Wat (in Cambodia). The stone carving was impressive, with voluptuous statuettes and decorative walls. It was amusing when we walked onto the bridge as Tony, a New Zealander who had his glasses forcefully taken by a monkey in Shimla, noticed a large monkey sitting on a pillar above our heads. Wanting to go on the offensive, Tony pointed his umbrella at the creature and it immediately tensed and glared at him. Roughly fifteen minutes later, when we returned across the bridge, the monkey remembered him as it just stared at him for a long time afterwards. Down a set of chunky, white steps which led down to the river, there was a bathing ghat with a few monkeys hanging about. We passed a cremation ground which consisted of a plain concrete platform standing six metres high with two body-sized slabs on top. Usually, one body is burned at a time and a Brahmin priest must be present. The ashes, or whatever remains, are placed into the river to join God. Anand, our tour leader, told us more about the unpleasant and outlawed practice of sati (widow-burning). The widow was made to lie down first, then wooden logs would be placed atop of her (to prevent escape), followed by the husband’s body and then the pyre would be lit. Fortunately the British outlawed it, though the practise is still done in rural areas. We enjoyed dinner with our host (the former Raj) at our hotel’s restaurant, and it was excellent value for money. The old man was very charming and was fond of testing us with illusory tricks on paper and a variety of word-plays.

It took us six hours to reach Dharamsala, home of the Dalai Lama, the next day. We travelled by private taxi, driving on narrow, winding roads flanked by quaint wood-panelled houses and passed wandering dogs and cows and people wearing colourful garments. There was the bombardment of smells such as hot garbage, diesel and fresh bursts of mountain air as our scenery fluctuated between waterfalls tumbling between lush foliage and over jagged slopes to busy streets crammed back-to-back with shops and vendors selling what looked like plain bread rolls. We ascended to Mcleod Ganj, where the altitude took us above the lesser clouds. Dharamsala is a very relaxed place, popular with tourists – especially of the Westerner variety. Despite the new-agey fluff, it retains a pleasant, strong Tibetan cultural influence and the people are generally very friendly and welcoming. We stayed at Hotel Natraj, the latter another name for Shiva’s Lord of the Dance aspect, Nataraja. The hotel was conveniently next to shops and stalls selling colourful, beaded pashminas; heavily embroidered wall-hangings and cushion-covers; bracelets made from jade and yak bone; chunky Tibetan silver jewellery with inlaid turquoise and semi-precious stones; gemstone wands for healing chakras, to books about Tibetan Buddhism’s teachings. Delhi belly insisted on accompanying me, so for lunch, I had sweet-corn soup.

Later, we went on a guided tour around the local monastery to see the Tibetan Buddhist scripture archive; it was beautifully laid-out in the main room. Kind-faced deities with many arms sat in serene contemplation, and the walls were painted in soothing tones of blue and green, depicting hundreds of golden-skinned sitting Buddhas. While the exterior of the monastery was generally plain, the trees growing through the spaces in the concrete platforms lent it a softer atmosphere, and the saffron/maroon robed monks walked quietly through the complex grounds, some stoking the prayer wheels into motion. That place had magnificent views of the surrounding hills and lush valleys. The day after, we were free to explore and I brought two average-sized wall tapestries, decorated with beads, sequins and unique threading, for 850 rupees (about £5.50 each at the time) and two pendants. Monica, Tracey and I were up for a pampering and headed into Synergy for a full body Ayurvedic massage. It was awkward having to strip off nearly everything before a complete stranger; much more so having them put their hands on me. I was giggling in embarrassment and the attendant seemed to find it funny, too. Ah, well. After we headed out, the tell-tale symptoms were evident; glowing faces, stiff movements and oiled hair. Nearly everyone stared at us in the streets. Argh! It was difficult to remove all that oil, even with multiple shampoo rinses. I really enjoyed the Tibetan food I had, from momo (they’re like fried Chinese pastry-dumplings) to noodle with mutton soup. Mmm! I love food rich with subtle flavours and plenty of moisture.

During our time in Dharamsala, we visited the Norbulingka Institute, which encourages and trains Tibetan refugees to continue the traditional arts and crafts of their homeland. The layout of the Institute was attractive with a Zen-like garden with channels carved into rock to stream water through greenery, and the grounds also housed a temple and shop (which had many beautiful, expensive items). It was fascinating to see the process of thangka painting, too. We also paid a visit to the Tibetan Institute of Permorming Arts to see a traditional folk-style dance with powerful, heavy percussion accompanied by clear, high voices. The dancing was equally as impressive, with very smooth if demanding movements. When we came out, the sky was magnificently dark, illuminated by hundreds of glowing blue stars. For me, it was an unforgettable sight and humbling.

We headed to Dalhousie the next day, and it took roughly five to six hours. We drove past vibrant green valleys with immaculate terraced fields, small huts, white-marble shrines and open-air primary schools full of children. There was the familiar, impressive sight of the snow-capped mountains (which we saw in Dharamsala) and they appeared closer as we neared Dalhousie. We drove around tight bends (very scary, considering that most Indian drivers drive fast and recklessly) in-between looming red rock and over hills; the red cliffs were beautifully rugged, and a stark contrast against the bright green of the pine trees. There were troops of monkeys scattered about, and men ushering on herds of solid water-buffalo and shaggy-haired goats on the roads. On our travels, there were no toilet facilities available so our driver stopped, got out and walked a distance away as we went to the loo at the road-side. My fellow lady travellers formed a barrier in case any passing car got a glimpse of bottom. It was hilarious having to stand in a line, going to the loo; it all felt so school-boyish and contrived. Dalhousie was like a quieter, less populated and more remote version of Shimla. We had lunch at Napoli Restaurant, and I had some delicious chicken momo. The altitude was high again, and it was colder, darker and mistier than Dharamsala. When we went on an orientation walk, there were many people standing about in the town-square and a man was wailing to a woman. Anand told us that a young boy and his father had died; as a result, the few shops would be closing early. We brought snacks and drink for our trek to Khajjiar the next day, and we were warned of the temperamental weather in the mountains. We stayed at Hotel Spring which like the starting point hotel, was undergoing extensive renovation… people were starting to get very unhappy as the tour-notes didn’t say anything about renovation going on after the monsoon season. There was a thick layer of grey dust nearly everywhere and slabs of rock were being hauled about. Tony, having suffered enough, confronted Anand in front of everyone. He had a point, but I think it would have been better to talk with him in private rather than in the lobby. Much later on, a few others as well as I asked Anand if he was going to be okay; he looked so sad, like he was going to crack under the pressure of travelling with an increasingly disillusioned group. He appreciated our gesture and cheered up afterwards, so that felt good. It was at this time I caught a cold, so I was wheezing and sneezing a lot. Urgh… people asked me if I still wanted to do the trek, and while I felt like crap, I came on the trip for trekking, and that’s what I was going to do.

We got up early the next morning and those people who were doing the main trek made sure our daypacks contained bottled water and basic necessities, like tissue paper. We sent our rucksacks in the jeeps and drove to our picturesque trekking point, starting in a slightly hilly area with alpine forest and a few locals’ wooden houses. After Tracey and the others who weren’t participating in the trek wished us well, we marched into the forest. Walking ahead of us there was a small group of short, weathered-looking women clad in dark-dyed aprons, wielding machetes and small scythes; they eventually vanished down another path away from us. The trail was gentle at first, meandering over grassy knolls with majestic pines looming over us. Eventually, the path began to ascend and became narrower; if it had rained, our trek would have been much harder and possibly been cancelled. While the conditions were favourable (dry, sunny and clear), the trek was still demanding. Having a cold made me extremely thirsty and weakened, particularly when going uphill. While they weighed down my daypack, I’m glad I took three bottles of water… even if it was embarrassing having to frequently stop for breath and gulp down a mouthful or two. Fortunately, everyone was patient and understanding, and appreciated that I was feeling rough. If my cold had been worse, I would have caught the jeep onto Khajjiar. Our trekking guide was quiet but very helpful. We went up and down (which was a strain on our kneecaps) on steep, crumbling slopes strewn with dry dead grass; a pretty, but small farming settlement with terraced fields near a bubbling river, and uphill again – over the Lakhar Mandi pass.

It was fantastic being out in the calm, forest-clad mountains and under the unpolluted, azure sky. So peaceful, though I regret to say I didn’t fully absorb my surroundings as I was concentrating on my footing and regulating my breathing, to avoid fatigue. The others said we’d made good speed, and Helen (a very sweet, young British student who’d finished uni) turned round to face me and said that despite me being ill, I showed real will-power to do the trek. Quite a compliment! We stopped for lunch near a bulky, concrete bridge over the river and sat down on the rocks to munch away at our packed lunches, eyed by our new friend – a healthy-looking, friendly stray dog. Our trek resumed afterwards, and it took two hours to reach Khajjiar, dubbed the Swiss Alps of India. The path eventually changed from a fun challenge to flat and laid-back. An expansive green meadow, with free-roaming cows, dogs and Zorbing balls, greeted us as we emerged out the forest. It was at Hotel Mini-Swiss that we were reunited with the others. While I was tired from the walking, I felt strangely good. After we got cleaned up in the shower, we sat down for dinner in the restaurant and looked out the window towards the distant peaks. Pink-gold clouds dusted the tops of the mountains in a pale sky; it was beautiful and almost unreal. Sadly, my camera battery was flat and needed recharging, so no photo of the sunset. After dining and having languid conversation, I headed up early to the room I shared with Tracey. We just got on so well that Anand noticed and paired us together. As I had a cold, my sleep was disturbed. During the night, Tracey made a sheepish sounding “Ahem,” and I assumed my Darth-Vaderesque breathing was keeping her up. Indeed, I was snoring (she told me the following morning, but assured me I didn't normally snore). Consequently, I changed sleeping position on our honeymooners’ bed, and then she did a belly-flop onto my side, making me snigger and roll the other way. Turns out that I was also tugging away her share of the blanket during my brief spells of sleep. Oops.

We got up early to make the trek from Khajjiar to Chamba Valley. However, this walk was on generally flatter ground (though it was rough and uneven in parts, and pebble-strewn). The pace was relaxed and fun as we went through a small village and passed a school in which these young children peered over the balcony and some rushed to the closed gate, enthusiastically greeting us, before being ushered back to their seats by their unimpressed teachers. We reached a town where we caught two buses (leaving our friendly stray dog behind) to our farm-stay accommodation. Stopping off by the roadside, we looked up to Orchard Hut, an attractive wood/mud lodge set on a steep slope overlooking the green valley. It was a steep walk on the thin, winding path which was crumbling in parts. We passed fields buzzing with cicadas, and long-haired goats munching on plants. Our lodge’s location was not near to the road and would be unsuitable for a disabled traveller.

After thirty or so minutes, we came to a flat garden where the others from our group and a plump, kindly faced Indian gentleman, Prakash Dhami, and his daughter awaited us. Beckoning us to sit down, his daughter carried a tray, waving a burning candle in an ornate lamp before our faces before painting a scarlet teekha down our foreheads. A traditional pahadi greeting done for thousands of years, the welcome ceremony was shortened for our convenience. We were then given a handful of dried coconut flakes (mixed with spice) to eat, which was nice, but I prefer rasmalai/khoya barfi. Our rooms were basic (no TV, radio, etc) but beautifully furnished in a rustic style. While the beds were attractive, they were frickin’ hard; when you’ve done hours of trekking, a hard bed makes your worn-limbs feel bruised. Ack! Our host and his family were so friendly and accommodating; they grow their own produce in the surrounding hills, and Orchard Hut is ideal for a retreat from the bustle and noise of society. We had purely vegetarian food, which was crisp, tasty and usually healthy, with the exception of the oily crepe-like bread which was served at breakfast. There was a fresh spring-water pool and taps which you can drink directly from without contracting some nasty stomach-bug. Having drunk bottled water for nearly all the duration we’d been in India, we were unsure about suddenly switching to water straight from the tap, but our fears were unfounded as it was fine.

Our time in Chamba Valley was for a session of relaxation; I was so worn, but satisfied, having done the two major treks. I hung out on the veranda, admired the scenic rolling hills of the Himalayas and chatted to friends while rocking gently on the hammock (until my ankles were trickling with blood from pesky sand flies; why can’t they leave tidy bites like mosquitoes!?). For fun, I had henna patterns on both hands done by our host’s daughter and while Helen hated her result (they weren’t fine, delicate lines but blocky marks), I wasn’t expecting it to be a masterpiece. For S&G, I had palmistry done, which featured the usual cold-reading tactic of being asked a question then having the obvious confirmed back to me. During my time at the lodge, I went on a walk with a few others on a narrow path around the outlying fields, and we edged around from time to time, avoiding falling into the deep pits (about four metres deep) used for crops, to see a small shrine dedicated to Shiva. Sitting on a quiet grassy hill, it was lovely to overlook the valley, the town, and feel time pass by. Mr Dhami told us a few stories which were amusing and witty, but they seemed more like a mixture of fact and fiction. It was interesting when it came to having a shower; I had to ask for a bucket of hot water to be boiled from the kitchen to be brought down. The outdoor toilets (Western-style!) and shower cubicles were basic and decent enough, until night came. The lights attracted huge moths and spiders, which would scuttle in when possible. This sounds silly, but I was reluctant to use the toilets at night when people were sleeping as there were dense bushes near the toilets (which were metres away)… you see all these horror movies where someone goes alone to the washroom, then they die horribly. Fortunately, neither masked killers nor tigers came charging out the undergrowth.

On the final morning of our stay at Orchard Hut, we exchanged farewells before catching jeeps; one to take people directly to the train-station and the other to go straight to the city of Amritsar, located in the Punjab. It was at this point that someone on the tour had caused a rift within the group with her negativity and rude attitude, so most of my fellow travellers ignored her (when possible). I wanted to be with the fun bunch, so went in a jeep. We stopped for lunch at a restaurant by a bridge, and had another variation of the vegetarian Thali, which was very nice. Then Tracey and I felt like using the toilet, a small cubicle on a higher slope; Helen came out, wrinkling her pretty face, advising us it was useable, and to avoid slipping. We didn’t fancy dodging slop, so instead dropped our pants behind the restaurant wall for a wee… two teenaged schoolgirls marched past, their eyes bulging in disbelief as we pulled back our pants in time. One of them stammered “There’s no toilet there!” Normally, I would use the public toilet, but the ground beneath was bare and strewn with some litter. We drove on a scenic route, beyond flat plains cut into the foot of lofty green hills and snow-capped mountains, seeing more open-air schools with children studying hard in the shade.

We reached Amritsar, and I was unsure whether I’d like it; it was like a watered down version of Delhi. When looking at the horizon, the sky was a dull grey and a few metres above ground-level, a blurred thick line of grey seemed to dissect the smoggy grey from the bright blue. A bit disconcerting, to think of the pollution trapped where you breathe the air from. Later in the day, we reunited with the others and proceeded to the Sikh Golden Temple to observe the book ceremony (where they lay it to rest for the night). We paired up; hitching a ride in a cycle-rickshaw, and it was exciting and hilarious. The journey was crazy, with us hurtling around the roads and roundabouts, people greeted us with big smiles. Tracey and I were looking respectably glamorous, with her donning a pink silk pashmina around her head and me wearing my green salwar kameez complete with turquoise scarf. We had a real laugh and heart-to-heart as we dodged traffic and exchanged greetings. Arriving at the Golden Temple, we left our shoes with the wardens and walked beneath the glistening white archways, submerging our feet in the shallow pools of water (which were starting to look slightly muddy; but hey, I still had healthy feet). There were many people about, and while there was no suffocating bad BO, there was the clammy smell of many hot bodies. The Golden Temple was stunning, with beautiful white marble walkways and Islamic-style latticed arches and balconies. The people were very friendly and the vibe of the place was overwhelmingly positive and welcoming; children and their families came up to greet me, smiling, and asked if I could take their photo. I found the people of Amritsar, like Dharamsala, to be generally lovely. Much later in the evening at the hotel, I sat with Monica and Tracey, and we noticed that Anand had been rather quiet, and somewhat unsociable, over the past few days. We talked to him and he said he’d felt like packing in being a tour guide, with how unhappy he’d felt at facing an annoyed Tony and rather negative Kate. Once again, he thanked us for being supportive and consoling him.

On our second day in Amritsar, we visited temples which were very impressive and beautifully decorated; one was even like a set from Indiana Jones with man-made tunnels, which had us wading through ankle-deep water, and the next section was like a maze, flanked by sequinned walls shimmering with mirrors (cut in the form of hundreds of swastikas) and colourful murals depicting gentle-featured gods and goddesses. I brought a black-and-gold poster depicting Kali Ma, Durga and Devi, loving it for the symbolism and what they represent. While Hinduism, like other faiths, does have bad elements, I like its pluralistic (i.e. open-minded) outlook and philosophical aspect. Their artwork and sculpture is amazing, too. Later, we headed out to Jallianwallah Bagh, site of a massacre in 1919, which was at the same time fascinating but very sad. It made me feel ashamed to be British. While some Indians retaliated against the British in equally despicable ways, the massacre was considered to be heavy-handed and it turned moderate Indians into nationalists. A garden had been set around the still-standing pinkish buildings which had bullets embedded in the brick, and there was a main pillar in the centre constructed as a memorial, as well as a small outbuilding with the portraits and descriptions of individuals who had a prominent role at Jallianwallah Bagh.

In the evening, we journeyed to the India-Pakistan border to witness the daily flag ceremony. Unexpectedly, it was great fun with a light atmosphere and loud, Indian pop and national music. The men and women were separated on different sides (for both social and safety reasons) and we sat on the concrete rows to see colourfully-dressed Indian girls dancing to the music on the main alley. As their commander bellowed long-sounding orders, tall soldiers wearing smart khaki attire marched up to the gate where the dark-robed Pakistan border guards stood waiting, and there was a sharp exchange of gestures and stiff postures. While the show came across as humorous, it’s used to illustrate the aggression/tension between India and Pakistan. After the show had finished, we headed back to the city and caught the overnight train to Delhi. I went top-bunk; there’s just a feeling of security up there and I like clambering up rails, too. There was lots of laughter and wild joking in our carriage, though eventually we were told to quiet down… people wanted to sleep around 9pm. It seemed to take ages to fall asleep as I’m used to bunking off around midnight or shortly after. While the train toilet was fine, the basin was in a disgusting state with phlegm spattered against the sides… it made me feel somewhat ill. Bet you it was a man who left it there.

Our train was delayed slightly as we arrived before noon in Delhi; I felt groggy and we had a final, team-meal breakfast at a brilliant Western-style café. The food and drink was excellent. We said our goodbyes to Anand (who went riding off under the midday sun in a cycle-rickshaw) and I hung around the city quarter with Monica and Tracey as the others used my room (which surprisingly was mine at the start of the tour) to wash up and get ready to leave. When I returned, there was an unpleasant smell of sweat and damp, dirty towels. What pissed me off later in the day was that after everyone had left, I asked the management if someone could clean up the room… no-one came up, even after I reminded them and asked if it was possible to move into an unused room, to which they said no. Nobheads. Anyway, after Tracey left to meet her new group, Monica and I went for lunch at McDonalds, browsed the markets then headed back. After Monica left a few hours later, I felt a kind of emptiness as the camaraderie and laughing was now absent. I haven’t had so much fun on a holiday, ever. Eventually, I snapped out of my reverie and began repacking my belongings for my flight out the next day.

Before I caught my flight in the late afternoon, I revisited the Crafts Museum on Purana Qila Road, brought an Indian textiles design book and an ornate belt inlaid with coloured stones… and had a verbal scuffle with my rickshaw-driver. I made it explicitly clear I only wanted to visit the Museum and then head back to the hotel – for 160 rupees. On the way back, he stopped at some fancy looking store with what looked like expensive vases in the window. He said it was free, and I must have told him fifteen times (not an exaggeration!) that I wasn’t interested and to return me to the hotel, as originally agreed. After much bickering and parroting my request, we returned to the hotel and I paid him the original fee plus 20 rupees as a tip. Then he passed the notes back, frowning, saying that there was a problem and he’d taken me to see two sights; 320 rupees was the total payment. I passed the payment back, pissed off now, and got out the rickshaw, leaving him with a frustrated look on his face. I know they’re trying to make a living, but it really annoys me when people play games and try to scam you out of money.

Overall, while my tour itinerary was quiet in parts (which I was aware of), I had one of the best holidays of my life out there; not just because of the sights, but the people I came to know. It’s one of the few times in which I’ve felt whole and happy; the best thing was that when we socialized, it wasn’t under the effect of alcohol or any other “substance.” People were themselves, and that's what I enjoyed the most. Oh, and I would definitely recommend India as a place to visit; while the poverty and pollution are distressing, it's best to go with a sense of humour and easy-going attittude. And now I can rest knowing that last year’s holiday journal is finally complete. Can’t wait to see more of South Africa and gorge myself on tender steak and seafood from Tuesday 6th October. Aaahhh.