The train to Jaisalmer had all the ingredients to be a disaster. As I mentioned yesterday, we were given side berths (supposedly shorter than the ones in the compartments we had been assigned so far) and the berths in front of ours were occupied by six loud Indian girls and one poor old woman, who at one point desperately muttered “it’s time to sleep!”. The first part was actually okay, as I just about managed to squeeze into my spot and had a decent night’s sleep - until I got woken up by the girls playing Ed Sheeran out load (Shape of You, in case you are wondering).
As we arrived in Jaisalmer after midday and the desert trip we wanted to do started at 3.30pm, we did not actually get to see much of the city before jumping on a 4x4. On the way, we stopped at a deserted village, whose inhabitants ran away after the Maharaj asked to marry one of their young ladies - if I ever propose and get rejected can someone please use this story to remind me that it could be worse? Anyways, we then briefly stopped at a gipsy village, where kids found it very amusing to throw a bicycle tyre at me and catching it when I threw it back at them.
All along, we were accompanied by a group of four dutch backpackers, who were staying at the desert overnight. The two guys and the two girls were travelling separately but had met in Delhi and happened to be on their way to the same few places. The two girls also did not know each other before this trip, and met after one of them posted the question “Does anyone want to travel with me?” in a group and the other replied “Okay”. I have an American friend who would think this is absolute insanity and that one of them will kill all the others with an axe before the end of the week. I hope she is not reading this.
Camel riding in the desert was not particularly inspiring, especially since it was the greenest desert I have ever seen, as it rained quite heavily over the last month. The sunset and the incredibly starry sky, on the other hand, were a pretty cool way to end a busy but mostly uneventful day. Now onto another one of our trademark 5am starts to check out Jaisalmer before boarding an epic 18-hour train back to Delhi...
Cheers,
João
A probably futile attempt at keeping a daily journal of a trip that will hopefully span 360 days and ideally go around the World.
The language will alternate between Portuguese and English so I do not forget how to use either...
Saturday, 12 August 2017
Dia 8 - Muneem
Se a Varanasi tudo se perdoava por ser imperfeitamente perfeita, Jaipur não tem que pedir desculpas. Dois sítios que, não podendo ser mais diferentes, são igualmente essenciais para quem quer conhecer um país com vinte e duas línguas oficiais e outras cem consideradas significantes. Enquanto que Varanasi é quase exclusivamente Hindu e uma amostra do que é a Índia “real”, a tradição e arquitectura Muçulmana são dominantes em Jaipur, e as duas religiões conseguem conviver em relativa harmonia (40% Muçulmanos, 40% Hindus). Como a primeira cidade planeada da Índia, construída quando o Maharaja Jai Singh II decidiu no início do século XVIII que a cidade de Amber não chegava para as suas ambições, o estado de conservação e a organização das estradas e ruas na Pink City são ímpares entre os sítios que visitámos até agora. Já os condutores continuam a fazer questão de ignorar qualquer tipo de sinalização, relembrando-nos que ainda estamos na Índia.
Muneem, o nosso condutor de tuk tuk, faz o mesmo que todos os seus colegas - conduz por onde quer que haja espaço, quase colide com cerca de três veículos ou pessoas a cada cem metros e, com a excepção de semáforos, parece nunca parar por completo. No entanto, a história do Muneem é fascinante - foi adoptado por um casal de turistas Suíços aos quinze anos, viveu em Genebra daí até aos vinte, quando decidiu deixar para trás uma vida fácil e confortável para voltar para Jaipur. Fundou, há vinte anos, uma organização de apoio a crianças desfavorecidas com a namorada Belga, que hoje em dia tem quatro escolas e um hospital, e da qual se afastou para dar o lugar a alguém com mais influência política. Todo o dinheiro que ganhou foi para organização, o que o leva a fazer o que faz hoje. Nunca foi à escola e não sabe ler nem escrever. O seu Inglês é excelente, e suponho que o Francês seja melhor. Senhoras e senhores, o Muneem.
Logo de manhã veio buscar-nos ao hotel e levou-nos à Pink City, onde riscámos o City Palace e o Jantar Mantar da lista de sítios a ver. Enquanto que o primeiro era a residência do Maharaja de Jaipur até Indira Gandhi o substituir por um governador eleito democraticamente, o segundo é um conjunto de instrumentos de astronomia desenhados pelo fundador da cidade, com o intuito de desenvolver os seus estudos na matéria. Ambos combinam arquitectura e conhecimentos Hindus e Europeus com a arte e tradição Muçulmana, mas a combinação de conhecimentos e princípios oriundos de todos os cantos da Índia que deu origem a dezanove instrumentos astronómicos (um dos quais o maior relógio de Sol do Mundo, com uma precisão de dois segundos!) tinha claramente de deixar um geek como eu todo contente…
De seguida fomos ao Amber Palace, o antigo palácio do Maharaj de Amber, a cidade substituída por Jaipur no episódio descrito no início deste post. Tanto o palácio como a muralha que o cerca, aproveitando o terreno acidentado para criar uma barreira quase intransponível para exércitos inimigos, são dos sítios mais incríveis onde já estive. O edifício que servia de corte principal estava, como é hábito em Jaipur, cheio de macacos que eram bastante atrevidos e saltavam à volta das crianças que se aproximavam. Subir ao topo da muralha foi um exercício que me fez suar quase tanto como no forte de Agra, mas que valeu a pena pela vista absolutamente ridícula da área. Foi pena termos de descer antes do pôr do Sol, mas vou tentar rectificar esta falha quando voltar com a minha irmã daqui a quinze dias…
Apesar de tudo, o ponto alto da minha tarde foram os petizes que vieram ter connosco a pedir que lhes tirássemos uma fotografia. Ao início eram três, mas daí a poucos segundos tinha basicamente a família inteira no visor da minha câmara e ao mostrar-lhes o resultado exclamaram “it’s so beautiful!”, mas infelizmente não falavam muito mais Inglês que isso. Se o vosso coração não derreter com a fotografia abaixo é porque é feito de gelo…
O resto da tarde foi passado a jantar e a visitar um alfaiate, onde o Ben tinha encomendado três camisas de linho no dia anterior. Os rapazes que lá trabalhavam viram a minha máquina fotográfica e pediram que lhes tirasse fotografias, primeiro com poses tiradas de um anúncio da Hugo Boss e depois sentados na capota do carro de um deles, o que me fez achar que estava num episódio de uma qualquer série de High School muito fraquinha, mas que teve a sua piada e os deixou todos contentes com material para novas fotos de perfil no WhatsApp, Facebook, Tinder, etc…
O comboio para Jaisalmer promete ser uma experiência. Para começar ficámos nos beliches laterais, que supostamente são ainda mais curtos do que as cabines em que ficámos até agora, onde eu já ficava com os pés de fora. A festa fica completa com as seis catraias que estão a partilhar três camas na cabine ao lado das nossas camas, que prometem passar a noite em claro a cochichar a um metro de um gigante a tentar dormir numa caixa de fósforos. Desejem-me sorte.
Beijos e abraços,
Ginete
Muneem, o nosso condutor de tuk tuk, faz o mesmo que todos os seus colegas - conduz por onde quer que haja espaço, quase colide com cerca de três veículos ou pessoas a cada cem metros e, com a excepção de semáforos, parece nunca parar por completo. No entanto, a história do Muneem é fascinante - foi adoptado por um casal de turistas Suíços aos quinze anos, viveu em Genebra daí até aos vinte, quando decidiu deixar para trás uma vida fácil e confortável para voltar para Jaipur. Fundou, há vinte anos, uma organização de apoio a crianças desfavorecidas com a namorada Belga, que hoje em dia tem quatro escolas e um hospital, e da qual se afastou para dar o lugar a alguém com mais influência política. Todo o dinheiro que ganhou foi para organização, o que o leva a fazer o que faz hoje. Nunca foi à escola e não sabe ler nem escrever. O seu Inglês é excelente, e suponho que o Francês seja melhor. Senhoras e senhores, o Muneem.
Logo de manhã veio buscar-nos ao hotel e levou-nos à Pink City, onde riscámos o City Palace e o Jantar Mantar da lista de sítios a ver. Enquanto que o primeiro era a residência do Maharaja de Jaipur até Indira Gandhi o substituir por um governador eleito democraticamente, o segundo é um conjunto de instrumentos de astronomia desenhados pelo fundador da cidade, com o intuito de desenvolver os seus estudos na matéria. Ambos combinam arquitectura e conhecimentos Hindus e Europeus com a arte e tradição Muçulmana, mas a combinação de conhecimentos e princípios oriundos de todos os cantos da Índia que deu origem a dezanove instrumentos astronómicos (um dos quais o maior relógio de Sol do Mundo, com uma precisão de dois segundos!) tinha claramente de deixar um geek como eu todo contente…
De seguida fomos ao Amber Palace, o antigo palácio do Maharaj de Amber, a cidade substituída por Jaipur no episódio descrito no início deste post. Tanto o palácio como a muralha que o cerca, aproveitando o terreno acidentado para criar uma barreira quase intransponível para exércitos inimigos, são dos sítios mais incríveis onde já estive. O edifício que servia de corte principal estava, como é hábito em Jaipur, cheio de macacos que eram bastante atrevidos e saltavam à volta das crianças que se aproximavam. Subir ao topo da muralha foi um exercício que me fez suar quase tanto como no forte de Agra, mas que valeu a pena pela vista absolutamente ridícula da área. Foi pena termos de descer antes do pôr do Sol, mas vou tentar rectificar esta falha quando voltar com a minha irmã daqui a quinze dias…
Apesar de tudo, o ponto alto da minha tarde foram os petizes que vieram ter connosco a pedir que lhes tirássemos uma fotografia. Ao início eram três, mas daí a poucos segundos tinha basicamente a família inteira no visor da minha câmara e ao mostrar-lhes o resultado exclamaram “it’s so beautiful!”, mas infelizmente não falavam muito mais Inglês que isso. Se o vosso coração não derreter com a fotografia abaixo é porque é feito de gelo…
O resto da tarde foi passado a jantar e a visitar um alfaiate, onde o Ben tinha encomendado três camisas de linho no dia anterior. Os rapazes que lá trabalhavam viram a minha máquina fotográfica e pediram que lhes tirasse fotografias, primeiro com poses tiradas de um anúncio da Hugo Boss e depois sentados na capota do carro de um deles, o que me fez achar que estava num episódio de uma qualquer série de High School muito fraquinha, mas que teve a sua piada e os deixou todos contentes com material para novas fotos de perfil no WhatsApp, Facebook, Tinder, etc…
O comboio para Jaisalmer promete ser uma experiência. Para começar ficámos nos beliches laterais, que supostamente são ainda mais curtos do que as cabines em que ficámos até agora, onde eu já ficava com os pés de fora. A festa fica completa com as seis catraias que estão a partilhar três camas na cabine ao lado das nossas camas, que prometem passar a noite em claro a cochichar a um metro de um gigante a tentar dormir numa caixa de fósforos. Desejem-me sorte.
Beijos e abraços,
Ginete
Thursday, 10 August 2017
Day 7 - Monkeys!
I am officially the only tourist in the history of tourism to come to Agra and not visit the Taj Mahal. With a solid plan of being at the door at 5.30am (the alleged opening time), getting in and out in three quarters of an hour, back to the hotel and onto the train station for our 7.05am train, things started going south when it became obvious they did not actually open until the official sunrise time, which in this case was 5.49am. Further delays then occurred when they decided tripods were a severe security risk and did not let us through without storing them in a locker, which would have probably delayed us by an extra half hour or so, as nothing in India seems to take less than that. For this reason, and as I had had enough of the whole ordeal by this point, I took Ben’s backpack and waited outside while he got his Taj fix. It was only as I entertained myself taking bad pictures of monkeys that I realised I would be back in a couple of weeks with my sister, so I was extra glad to have taken the bullet on this occasion.
I would love to tell you all about the train to Jaipur but, as I was slept straight through it, all I know is that it was more than an hour late and that we got off at the wrong station. Apparently Gandhinagar Jaipur and Jaipur are drastically different locations and, as it turns out, the French couple on the berth next to ours was not clued up enough to deserve our trust, so following their lead was a mistake. In the end we worked out we were at least in the right city and a twenty-minute rickshaw ride away from our hotel. This was a pleasant surprise - on one hand it is clean and pretty funky; on the other it has been voted as the most romantic hotel in India, which Ben and I obviously value dearly. Ironically, I must say I have only encountered couples that seem consistently either pissed off or just indifferent to each other. I guess that is the kind of couple that books a room at “the most romantic hotel in India” in an effort to relight the flame, not two dudes backpacking across Rajasthan. I guess I should not be the one judging here.
Jaipur is delightful. By far the tidiest place we have seen in India (although Varanasi set a fairly low bar in this regard), with pleasant architecture and the feel of a small city that happens to have four million inhabitants (roughly two Lisbons). Due to our late arrival and the need to replenish our stomachs before doing anything else, we did not get to see much of the city. We did get the opportunity to get lost trying to find the Hawa Mahal, spending half an hour walking around what looked like a playground before eventually running into the beautiful façade of the Palace of the Winds, built to allow the royal ladies to observe the street life without being seen by the plebs.
From then our very friendly tuk tuk driver took us to the Monkey Temple, but unfortunately also pointed us in the direction of a gentleman who called himself a “guide” and essentially annoyed us for the duration of our stay there in exchange for an unspecified amount of money. It was especially ironic that the driver apologised for his English (which was impeccable), while our self-proclaimed “guide” was so hard to understand that a randomer who happened to be standing next to us felt compelled to provide us with simultaneous translation during a particularly challenging explanation.
Fortunately this place was so incredible even he could not ruin it for us, so we happily spent over an hour hanging out with with monkeys (over five thousand, as our “guide” repeated about twelve times) and goats while looking at the sunset over the whole of Jaipur, laid out at our feet. Probably my favourite place in India so far.
Suggesting that it may be a small World after all, the Peacock Rooftop (our hotel restaurant) had been recommended by a friend who was here recently, so we decided to give it a go. It was as funky as the rest of the hotel and the food was great, but the couples who do not look like they are enjoying each other’s company were still an integral part of the experience. I wish them all the best, and may Jaipur turn their relationships around forever.
Cheers,
João
I would love to tell you all about the train to Jaipur but, as I was slept straight through it, all I know is that it was more than an hour late and that we got off at the wrong station. Apparently Gandhinagar Jaipur and Jaipur are drastically different locations and, as it turns out, the French couple on the berth next to ours was not clued up enough to deserve our trust, so following their lead was a mistake. In the end we worked out we were at least in the right city and a twenty-minute rickshaw ride away from our hotel. This was a pleasant surprise - on one hand it is clean and pretty funky; on the other it has been voted as the most romantic hotel in India, which Ben and I obviously value dearly. Ironically, I must say I have only encountered couples that seem consistently either pissed off or just indifferent to each other. I guess that is the kind of couple that books a room at “the most romantic hotel in India” in an effort to relight the flame, not two dudes backpacking across Rajasthan. I guess I should not be the one judging here.
Jaipur is delightful. By far the tidiest place we have seen in India (although Varanasi set a fairly low bar in this regard), with pleasant architecture and the feel of a small city that happens to have four million inhabitants (roughly two Lisbons). Due to our late arrival and the need to replenish our stomachs before doing anything else, we did not get to see much of the city. We did get the opportunity to get lost trying to find the Hawa Mahal, spending half an hour walking around what looked like a playground before eventually running into the beautiful façade of the Palace of the Winds, built to allow the royal ladies to observe the street life without being seen by the plebs.
From then our very friendly tuk tuk driver took us to the Monkey Temple, but unfortunately also pointed us in the direction of a gentleman who called himself a “guide” and essentially annoyed us for the duration of our stay there in exchange for an unspecified amount of money. It was especially ironic that the driver apologised for his English (which was impeccable), while our self-proclaimed “guide” was so hard to understand that a randomer who happened to be standing next to us felt compelled to provide us with simultaneous translation during a particularly challenging explanation.
Fortunately this place was so incredible even he could not ruin it for us, so we happily spent over an hour hanging out with with monkeys (over five thousand, as our “guide” repeated about twelve times) and goats while looking at the sunset over the whole of Jaipur, laid out at our feet. Probably my favourite place in India so far.
Suggesting that it may be a small World after all, the Peacock Rooftop (our hotel restaurant) had been recommended by a friend who was here recently, so we decided to give it a go. It was as funky as the rest of the hotel and the food was great, but the couples who do not look like they are enjoying each other’s company were still an integral part of the experience. I wish them all the best, and may Jaipur turn their relationships around forever.
Cheers,
João
Wednesday, 9 August 2017
Dia 6 - Túmulos
Lembram-se do meu comentário sobre os comboios indianos, que afinal não eram tão maus como me tinham dito? Pois o nosso comboio de hoje chegou mais de três horas atrasado. Devia aprender a não falar antes do tempo, e parece-me óbvio que uma viagem é a definição de “antes do tempo”… Felizmente acabámos com um simpático casal de portugueses no beliche do lado, com quem eu mantive uma animada conversa que deixou o Ben triste e solitário no seu beliche de cima. É chato, mas estava com saudades de falar Português!
Agra é basicamente como me descreveram - o Taj Mahal e pouco mais. Lá fomos outra vez recrutados por um condutor de Tuk Tuk, que até ao fim do dia foi bastante prestável mas que, depois de nos levar aos jardins de onde se vê o Taj ao pôr-do-sol, nos levou à loja de mármores um amigo, nos tentou levar à loja de bijutarias de outro e nos cobrou claramente mais do que devia. Eu percebo que os senhores tenham de fazer dinheiro à conta de turistas como nós, mas quem olhasse para nós à saída do comboio deveria perceber imediatamente que não íamos levar um elefante de mármore em tamanho real às costas o resto da viagem…
O forte de Agra tinha uma vista engraçadota do Taj e uns jardins agradáveis, mas estava um calor insuportável e após meia hora estava mortinho para me ir embora. Felizmente começou a chuviscar, o que tornou a coisa mais suportável para o Baby Taj, construído vinte e cinco anos antes do Taj Mahal e tido como um “esboço” do mesmo. O túmulo de I'timād-ud-Daulah, pequeno apenas em comparação com o irmão mais velho, é uma visita tranquila e agradável, com uma proporção de turistas indianos para ocidentais muito maior do que esperamos encontrar no Taj Mahal, que só vamos visitar de manhã para evitar as multidões.
Já os jardins Mehtab Bagh, situados na margem do rio oposta à do Taj Mahal e construídos de propósito para proporcionar a vista perfeita para o Taj ao luar e ao pôr-do-sol, serão imperdíveis assim que os trabalhos de reconstrução estiverem completos (pelo que percebemos, por enquanto só existem no papel). Os jardins em si são geometricamente perfeitos, com um tanque octogonal desenhado para projectar o reflexo do Taj e filas de árvores aparentemente intermináveis e perfeitamente alinhadas, conferindo ao sítio um ar de calma e simetria. A vista, mesmo com nuvens a estragar a pintura, também é mais ou menos.
Antes de dormir caímos numa armadilha do Google e fomos beber um whisky a um bar que supostamente tinha uma vista surreal para o Taj. À primeira bebida forçaram-nos a ficar sentados dentro do bar por não sermos hóspedes do hotel, mas à segunda lá nos deixaram sentar no terraço. Não havia lua, por isso não havia Taj. E agora temos umas míseras três horas de sono antes de estarmos a pé para mais uma dose de túmulos brancos…
Beijos e abraços,
Ginete
Agra é basicamente como me descreveram - o Taj Mahal e pouco mais. Lá fomos outra vez recrutados por um condutor de Tuk Tuk, que até ao fim do dia foi bastante prestável mas que, depois de nos levar aos jardins de onde se vê o Taj ao pôr-do-sol, nos levou à loja de mármores um amigo, nos tentou levar à loja de bijutarias de outro e nos cobrou claramente mais do que devia. Eu percebo que os senhores tenham de fazer dinheiro à conta de turistas como nós, mas quem olhasse para nós à saída do comboio deveria perceber imediatamente que não íamos levar um elefante de mármore em tamanho real às costas o resto da viagem…
O forte de Agra tinha uma vista engraçadota do Taj e uns jardins agradáveis, mas estava um calor insuportável e após meia hora estava mortinho para me ir embora. Felizmente começou a chuviscar, o que tornou a coisa mais suportável para o Baby Taj, construído vinte e cinco anos antes do Taj Mahal e tido como um “esboço” do mesmo. O túmulo de I'timād-ud-Daulah, pequeno apenas em comparação com o irmão mais velho, é uma visita tranquila e agradável, com uma proporção de turistas indianos para ocidentais muito maior do que esperamos encontrar no Taj Mahal, que só vamos visitar de manhã para evitar as multidões.
Já os jardins Mehtab Bagh, situados na margem do rio oposta à do Taj Mahal e construídos de propósito para proporcionar a vista perfeita para o Taj ao luar e ao pôr-do-sol, serão imperdíveis assim que os trabalhos de reconstrução estiverem completos (pelo que percebemos, por enquanto só existem no papel). Os jardins em si são geometricamente perfeitos, com um tanque octogonal desenhado para projectar o reflexo do Taj e filas de árvores aparentemente intermináveis e perfeitamente alinhadas, conferindo ao sítio um ar de calma e simetria. A vista, mesmo com nuvens a estragar a pintura, também é mais ou menos.
Antes de dormir caímos numa armadilha do Google e fomos beber um whisky a um bar que supostamente tinha uma vista surreal para o Taj. À primeira bebida forçaram-nos a ficar sentados dentro do bar por não sermos hóspedes do hotel, mas à segunda lá nos deixaram sentar no terraço. Não havia lua, por isso não havia Taj. E agora temos umas míseras três horas de sono antes de estarmos a pé para mais uma dose de túmulos brancos…
Beijos e abraços,
Ginete
Tuesday, 8 August 2017
Day 5 - Nirvana
Varanasi is India’s firstborn, a city founded by god and one of the oldest settlements in the World. As is the case with most firstborns, everything seems to be forgiven and forgotten. The hundreds of believers queuing for hours for the opportunity to enter the Golden Temple, the mad rush to participate in the rituals and the urgency surrounding every religious celebration are only hints that Varanasi is a city different from any other in India, and probably beyond.
When talking to Ben about the previous night, where a guy took us jumping from balcony to wall on the way to Manikarnika Ghat, I re-iterated how surprised I was by the serenity of it all. There was not a hint of sadness in the eyes of the families standing by the river watching their deceased relatives burn, which Ben explained with their profound belief that the very ritual they were witnessing would bring their loved ones eternal peace. I retorted that Catholics believe the same - that life on Earth is nothing but a journey on the way to Heaven - but funerals are still inherently sad events, often desperately so. I do not have a definitive answer for the difference in attitudes, but I cannot help but feel the sheer intensity of their spiritual existence has something to do with it.
We got the chance to have another look at the celebrations, this time from a distance, as we rose before the sun to take a short trip up and down the Ganges. We were quite lucky to leave from a small dock near the hostel at 5am, about half an hour before dozens of boats packed with tourists started pouring out of the main Ghat. As lucky as we were, this still meant getting up at 4.30am, so a post-boat nap was required before the hostel breakfast was served…
The only other item on our to-do list in Varanasi was to visit the main temple to Lord Shiva, which we had failed to do the day before. This involved leaving all our possessions and shoes in a locker next to the entrance, then walking barefoot towards the temple and getting our passports checked. In the time it took us to do this, the queue of actual Hindu visitors hardly moved, so I think we got a pretty good deal. In all fairness, neither of us really understood the ritual but it looked like it involved a lot of people rushing into a small room carrying flowers, pots of water and other unrecognisable objects, then getting thrown out by police officers who we were not sure were on duty or just taking part in the celebrations, as they appeared to be similarly involved in both activities.
The rest of the day was spent gathering snacks for the long train ride I am writing you from, grabbing some lunch and generally people-watching. While this may sound like fairly effortless tasks, I am not sure I have ever sweated as much as I did today in my entire life. Temperature statistics: 32 degrees, feels like 44. A pleasant opportunity to catch our breath came when we ran into a police officer we had briefly chatted to the day before, and who this time asked us to take his picture. As many others, he was curious about where we were from and had already asked us how much our airfare was the day before. Today, he asked us if our parents sent us money or if we sent money home. This had me worried for a minute that he worked for the tax man and was just trying to con us into a heavy tax bill, but the picture below and the smirk that is otherwise always on his face made it clear - he’s just a boss.
The tuk-tuk ride to the station was probably the scariest of the journey so far. The guy grabbed us as we joined the main street, then essentially made us walk for another ten minutes (sweat dripping profusely down our necks) to the spot where he had parked his vehicle. It was all worth it in the end, as the Ferrari stickers on his windscreen were only a hint of what was about to happen - we almost had about eighty-three pretty serious accidents, from contact with other tuk-tuks to running over children on push-bikes or simply trying to cross the road. In the end, not only we survived but our own Kimi Rajkkonen never stopped smiling, sometimes joking around with other tuk-tuk drivers shortly after narrowly avoiding a nasty collision. As the Portuguese guy who happens to be sitting across from us in this train said - if we have all these rules and have shunts all the time while they live in a motoring anarchy and don’t seem to have any issues, it is safe to assume Indians are the best drivers in the World!
Currently on our way to Agra and the train dinner was the first time this trip I cried because of a curry. I am as amazed as anyone who has ever been to an Indian restaurant with me that it has taken five whole days for this to happen, so I wiped my tears with a sense of pride and accomplishment. The Indian dude sleeping on the top bunk across from us just laughed. I guess my feelings were misplaced.
Cheers
J-Wowww
When talking to Ben about the previous night, where a guy took us jumping from balcony to wall on the way to Manikarnika Ghat, I re-iterated how surprised I was by the serenity of it all. There was not a hint of sadness in the eyes of the families standing by the river watching their deceased relatives burn, which Ben explained with their profound belief that the very ritual they were witnessing would bring their loved ones eternal peace. I retorted that Catholics believe the same - that life on Earth is nothing but a journey on the way to Heaven - but funerals are still inherently sad events, often desperately so. I do not have a definitive answer for the difference in attitudes, but I cannot help but feel the sheer intensity of their spiritual existence has something to do with it.
We got the chance to have another look at the celebrations, this time from a distance, as we rose before the sun to take a short trip up and down the Ganges. We were quite lucky to leave from a small dock near the hostel at 5am, about half an hour before dozens of boats packed with tourists started pouring out of the main Ghat. As lucky as we were, this still meant getting up at 4.30am, so a post-boat nap was required before the hostel breakfast was served…
The only other item on our to-do list in Varanasi was to visit the main temple to Lord Shiva, which we had failed to do the day before. This involved leaving all our possessions and shoes in a locker next to the entrance, then walking barefoot towards the temple and getting our passports checked. In the time it took us to do this, the queue of actual Hindu visitors hardly moved, so I think we got a pretty good deal. In all fairness, neither of us really understood the ritual but it looked like it involved a lot of people rushing into a small room carrying flowers, pots of water and other unrecognisable objects, then getting thrown out by police officers who we were not sure were on duty or just taking part in the celebrations, as they appeared to be similarly involved in both activities.
The rest of the day was spent gathering snacks for the long train ride I am writing you from, grabbing some lunch and generally people-watching. While this may sound like fairly effortless tasks, I am not sure I have ever sweated as much as I did today in my entire life. Temperature statistics: 32 degrees, feels like 44. A pleasant opportunity to catch our breath came when we ran into a police officer we had briefly chatted to the day before, and who this time asked us to take his picture. As many others, he was curious about where we were from and had already asked us how much our airfare was the day before. Today, he asked us if our parents sent us money or if we sent money home. This had me worried for a minute that he worked for the tax man and was just trying to con us into a heavy tax bill, but the picture below and the smirk that is otherwise always on his face made it clear - he’s just a boss.
The tuk-tuk ride to the station was probably the scariest of the journey so far. The guy grabbed us as we joined the main street, then essentially made us walk for another ten minutes (sweat dripping profusely down our necks) to the spot where he had parked his vehicle. It was all worth it in the end, as the Ferrari stickers on his windscreen were only a hint of what was about to happen - we almost had about eighty-three pretty serious accidents, from contact with other tuk-tuks to running over children on push-bikes or simply trying to cross the road. In the end, not only we survived but our own Kimi Rajkkonen never stopped smiling, sometimes joking around with other tuk-tuk drivers shortly after narrowly avoiding a nasty collision. As the Portuguese guy who happens to be sitting across from us in this train said - if we have all these rules and have shunts all the time while they live in a motoring anarchy and don’t seem to have any issues, it is safe to assume Indians are the best drivers in the World!
Cheers
J-Wowww
Monday, 7 August 2017
Dia 4 - Fogo
Apesar dos repetidos avisos de amigos e conhecidos sobre os comboios indianos, a nossa primeira viagem nocturna acabou por não ser nada de outro mundo. Ok - as casas de banho não se aconselhavam, o ar condicionado fez-me ter de vestir uma camisola durante a noite e a chegada foi uma hora e pouco depois do previsto. Se a maioria dos comboios até ao fim da viagem tiverem apenas estes problemas, os filmes de terror que nos descreveram talvez tenham sido um tanto ou quanto exagerados! (Nota do autor: tenho a perfeita noção de que estou mesmo a pedir que as próximas viagens tenham atrasos de dias e/ou acabem num descarrilamento, mas não há de ser nada…)
Como um bónus, o atraso de manhã permitiu-me encontrar uma porta aberta entre duas carruagens, perfeita para apreciar a paisagem e perceber facilmente que estávamos bastante longe de Deli.
À chegada a Varanasi começou a saga sobre a qual já tínhamos sido prevenidos - pessoas a tentar vender-nos coisas/levar-nos a sítios/cobrar-nos dinheiro a mais pelo que quer que seja. Assim que saímos do comboio tivemos um senhor a perseguir-nos que não descansou enquanto não nos sentámos no tuk-tuk dele e depois ficou chateado por termos negociado o preço até a um ponto em que só estávamos a ser ligeiramente roubados. Daqui para a frente ganhámos alergia a pessoas que andam à nossa frente sem lhes pedirmos...
Enquanto que Deli, como disse há um par de posts, me pareceu uma versão mais caótica de Marrakech, Varanasi não tem comparação com nenhum sítio em que já estive. O mais perto que consigo chegar é pegar na Medina de Fez e enchê-la de motociclos cujas buzinas estão presas em modo intermitente, assim como vacas de todos os tamanhos e feitios e os seus respectivos excrementos. Giro, hein?
A festa mensal de Shiva enche a cidade de gente vestida de cores vibrantes, que passam o dia e a noite a rezar junto ao sagrado rio Ganges. As celebrações diárias de cremação dos mortos são hoje suspensas em todas as Ghats com a excepção de Manikarnika Ghat, até onde fomos guiados (lá está) por um rapaz que nos fez questão de levar mais ou menos contra a nossa vontade. Neste caso até lhe ficámos relativamente gratos, já que estas celebrações são a imagem de marca da cidade. Observá-las e ouvir a explicação sobre o significado daquele ritual foi uma experiência estranha - por um lado estávamos perfeitamente cientes de estar a ver corpos a arder, mas por outro a ideia de que os defuntos que participam nestas celebrações atingem o Nirvana torna-as incrivelmente pacíficas e, por estranho que pareça, felizes.
Amanhã o dia começará cedo e acabará com a maior viagem de comboio desta viagem - quinze horas até Agra. Felizmente isso significa que terei tempo para descrever melhor as trinta e seis horas que passaremos em Varanasi, já que tenho de admitir ainda estar um tanto ou quanto atarantado com as primeiras dezoito…
Beijos e abraços,
Ginete
Como um bónus, o atraso de manhã permitiu-me encontrar uma porta aberta entre duas carruagens, perfeita para apreciar a paisagem e perceber facilmente que estávamos bastante longe de Deli.
À chegada a Varanasi começou a saga sobre a qual já tínhamos sido prevenidos - pessoas a tentar vender-nos coisas/levar-nos a sítios/cobrar-nos dinheiro a mais pelo que quer que seja. Assim que saímos do comboio tivemos um senhor a perseguir-nos que não descansou enquanto não nos sentámos no tuk-tuk dele e depois ficou chateado por termos negociado o preço até a um ponto em que só estávamos a ser ligeiramente roubados. Daqui para a frente ganhámos alergia a pessoas que andam à nossa frente sem lhes pedirmos...
A festa mensal de Shiva enche a cidade de gente vestida de cores vibrantes, que passam o dia e a noite a rezar junto ao sagrado rio Ganges. As celebrações diárias de cremação dos mortos são hoje suspensas em todas as Ghats com a excepção de Manikarnika Ghat, até onde fomos guiados (lá está) por um rapaz que nos fez questão de levar mais ou menos contra a nossa vontade. Neste caso até lhe ficámos relativamente gratos, já que estas celebrações são a imagem de marca da cidade. Observá-las e ouvir a explicação sobre o significado daquele ritual foi uma experiência estranha - por um lado estávamos perfeitamente cientes de estar a ver corpos a arder, mas por outro a ideia de que os defuntos que participam nestas celebrações atingem o Nirvana torna-as incrivelmente pacíficas e, por estranho que pareça, felizes.
Beijos e abraços,
Ginete
Sunday, 6 August 2017
Day 3 - Experiencing
Someone described Delhi to me as “less about the sights, more about experiencing the city” and, after a mere fourty-eight hours, that sounds both spot on and a bit of an understatement. “Experiencing the city” can range between the chaos of Dariyaganj and the serenity of the Rajpath, the wealth surrounding the British-commissioned Connaught Place and the poverty evident in Old Delhi or the traditionalism surrounding the sacred sites and the hipness of Hauz Khas. Long story short, there is quite a bit to experience.
We took the subway for the first time today. It is modern, air-conditioned and pretty fast, but unconditionally Indian. A few stops after we got on, a small crowd insisted that they should enter our carriage at exactly the same time as another small crowd was coming out. Had they stood still for ten seconds, the whole transaction would have been pretty straightforward, but this country does not like straightforward - which, at least for a tourist, is more amusing than annoying. A few moments after this, an older gentleman (with an impeccably groomed beard) asked a young child to make room in the priority seats so he could sit down. The kid’s mum immediately began shouting some sort of complaint across and to the rest of the carriage, which lasted the rest of the trip and definitely far beyond the attention span of either the old man or the young child. This episode had me wondering briefly whether my own mother has Indian genes…
Once we got to Central Secretariat, where the main government buildings and the President’s residence are laid out along an impeccably kept boulevard, we were greeted by a group of small children asking us to take their photos. After overcoming our initial surprise at the request (a product of every child born in Europe after 2000 being an expert at handling an iPhone or iPad and probably taking better pictures than me) it was pretty cool to see they were genuinely excited about the simple prospect of us taking a couple of pictures of them splashing around in a lake - posing as what looked like Ronaldo celebrating a goal, probably unrelated to the fact I was wearing a Portugal national team shirt but pretty funny nonetheless.
A visit to Bangla Sahib, the main Sikh house of worship in the city, and a few annoying tuk-tuk rides later (of the sort where the final price doubles relative to the quote and/or you don’t get to where you want to go) we found ourselves having a late lunch at a rooftop bar in the middle of the Hauz Khas village, a young and hip area near a deer park that definitely left me wanting to go back next time we are in Delhi. As the food was delicious and a few cold Kingfishers were the ideal remedy for the insane temperatures, we got lucky it started raining or we might have missed our 8.30pm train to Varanasi!
Before a mad dash through the early evening traffic to make our train, partly motivated by our intense desire for a cold shower before leaving the hostel, we made it to the Jama Masjid mosque. We went after hearing about the breathtaking view of Old Delhi and ended up having to wear a skirt while walking barefoot in the rain and up the substantial amount of steps required to get to the top of the tower, where there were definitely more people hanging out than floor space available. On the way up, more people and even entire families asked to have their picture taken with us, clearly exotic specimens over here. The view was certainly worth it, especially the angle that shows where Old Delhi meets its New counterpart, but the walk to the mosque ended up being the highlight of the afternoon. Streets bustling with tuk-tuks and rickshaws carrying entire families, fruit stalls being pushed around in the rain, electrical cables everywhere - basically just a lot going on.
I will save a description of this train ride for tomorrow as I am in desperate need of some half-decent sleep, which I do not think the rocking movements of this carriage will facilitate. Wish me luck!
Cheers,
J-Wowww
We took the subway for the first time today. It is modern, air-conditioned and pretty fast, but unconditionally Indian. A few stops after we got on, a small crowd insisted that they should enter our carriage at exactly the same time as another small crowd was coming out. Had they stood still for ten seconds, the whole transaction would have been pretty straightforward, but this country does not like straightforward - which, at least for a tourist, is more amusing than annoying. A few moments after this, an older gentleman (with an impeccably groomed beard) asked a young child to make room in the priority seats so he could sit down. The kid’s mum immediately began shouting some sort of complaint across and to the rest of the carriage, which lasted the rest of the trip and definitely far beyond the attention span of either the old man or the young child. This episode had me wondering briefly whether my own mother has Indian genes…
Once we got to Central Secretariat, where the main government buildings and the President’s residence are laid out along an impeccably kept boulevard, we were greeted by a group of small children asking us to take their photos. After overcoming our initial surprise at the request (a product of every child born in Europe after 2000 being an expert at handling an iPhone or iPad and probably taking better pictures than me) it was pretty cool to see they were genuinely excited about the simple prospect of us taking a couple of pictures of them splashing around in a lake - posing as what looked like Ronaldo celebrating a goal, probably unrelated to the fact I was wearing a Portugal national team shirt but pretty funny nonetheless.
A visit to Bangla Sahib, the main Sikh house of worship in the city, and a few annoying tuk-tuk rides later (of the sort where the final price doubles relative to the quote and/or you don’t get to where you want to go) we found ourselves having a late lunch at a rooftop bar in the middle of the Hauz Khas village, a young and hip area near a deer park that definitely left me wanting to go back next time we are in Delhi. As the food was delicious and a few cold Kingfishers were the ideal remedy for the insane temperatures, we got lucky it started raining or we might have missed our 8.30pm train to Varanasi!
Before a mad dash through the early evening traffic to make our train, partly motivated by our intense desire for a cold shower before leaving the hostel, we made it to the Jama Masjid mosque. We went after hearing about the breathtaking view of Old Delhi and ended up having to wear a skirt while walking barefoot in the rain and up the substantial amount of steps required to get to the top of the tower, where there were definitely more people hanging out than floor space available. On the way up, more people and even entire families asked to have their picture taken with us, clearly exotic specimens over here. The view was certainly worth it, especially the angle that shows where Old Delhi meets its New counterpart, but the walk to the mosque ended up being the highlight of the afternoon. Streets bustling with tuk-tuks and rickshaws carrying entire families, fruit stalls being pushed around in the rain, electrical cables everywhere - basically just a lot going on.
I will save a description of this train ride for tomorrow as I am in desperate need of some half-decent sleep, which I do not think the rocking movements of this carriage will facilitate. Wish me luck!
Cheers,
J-Wowww
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