India part 28a: Puri, Konark, Bhubaneswar

The overnight train from Calcutta exhausted us both; I hardly slept, even though my fellow passengers were relatively quiet. Having said that, a noisy chai-wallah did come round at around midnight - not an ideal time to take tea, imo - and half an hour later, a man was hocking up phlegm so noisily it sounded like he was vomiting a shoe.

Within three hours of arriving in Puri, Orissa - east coast, yo - we wandered to the garden lushness of Golden Green Restaurant, where the menu temptingly dangled the offer of a "jam burger" in front of us for just 15 Rupees. We walked in to Arcade Fire's 'Keep the Car Running', the title of which could have been code for "get out, quick", I suppose, but is also a Good Song, so I took this as a Good Sign. And it was: both the restaurant, which we returned to several times, and Puri were lovely. Each traveller ghetto has its own peculiarities, and this one's was the abundance of restaurants and cafes with amazing leafy gardens.

Puri's other quiddity is that everyone here is obsessed with this strange little god called Jagannath. Here's what he looks like:

Not really your average Hindu god, right? Cute, though. He has his own eponymous temple, in town, and an enormous festival dedicated to him; also, his big round eyes stare out from every other wall.

In Puri, we met Paul, a Scot with a voice like Ivor Cutler and a face like Iggy Pop. We asked him how long he'd been travelling for: "Twenty years." He declared himself disappointed with the "smoking scene" in Puri and suggested we stay "out" for another year, citing the recession as a good reason not to go home. I suspected his suggestion was less out of concern for our well-being than to add two more drifters to the world's pile to keep him company. He said he'd advise any young person these days to take out a loan "from anyone stupid enough to give them one", spend it all, and declare bankrupcy. I'd just read the much-shared BBC article Twenty reasons why it's kicking off everywhere and I guess what he was saying tallied with point one: "At the heart if it all is a new sociological type: the graduate with no future." Interesting fellow.

There were other interesting fellows in the same restaurant; the next day, while I scoffed the biggest pile of fruit, muesli and curd ever seen by human eyes, I tried to block out the voices of an American, an Italian and an Australian talking about bloody Shantaram, the American's "like"s getting more and more noticeable, reaching an insane level when he started talking about people who, like, like Shantaram and those who, like, don't like it... Later he went a bit nuts, apparently suggesting the Aussie was comparable to those who commit genocide because he made a few observations about "Indian people"; this guy seemed to be suggesting, with classic rising inflections, that just to use the word "Indian" was racist, because India is, like, so diverse? And grouping people together like that is really narrow-minded? The Aussie fairly reasonably explained that what he understood by the fairly well-recognised term "Indian" was "people who live here in the country of India". The American, who didn't really respond to this defense, did a "Jerry Springer's final thought" type thing at the end, sounding very superior: "You're just saying this is your perception and not necessarily the ultimate reality? And that's fine, I'm sure you mean no harm by it, but for so many people it is the only truth..." Blatantly a Eng. Lit. student (with modules in structuralism and post-colonial studies).

India part 27: Siliguri

We spent a tragic six days in Siliguri, an utterly unremarkable city, waiting to see if the strike would end. It didn't. At first we stayed in a hotel where they'd forgotten to take the cellophane off the ceiling decoration.

After two nights, we downgraded to somewhere that didn't have ceiling decorations. Sarah went on a secret assignment and I stayed inside and did some writing. Then at some stage - the chronology of it all has defeated me - we saw some kids in a parade, and thought it might be Holi, one of India's most famous festivals (the one where everyone throws powder at each other). But it wasn't - this was some kind of big-up to Saraswati, the Hindu goddess of wisdom. Word.

If you ever get stuck in this city, though, I'd strongly recommend eating all your meals in the Vinayak Hotel, where we had two of the best feasts of our whole trip. Here's the most joyous picture of all, though. So long, suckers!

Signs I have seen #401

At least you're honest.

India part 26b: Darjeeling

The next day we bought a paper - pretty much the only cash transaction on offer, apart from buying bandages and mineral water - and found out that two protestors had been killed by the police in Sibchu. Pondering this, we went on a long walk up to the northern end of the town passing, on the way back, a smouldering building, which we soon found out was the charred remains of the tourist office. Okay, then.

Within a couple of hours of arriving back at the hotel, we got word that the police were evacuating all foreign tourists from Darjeeling. With the good wishes of our worried hotel manager ringing in our ears, we checked out and joined about 10 other backpacked foreigners outside, where we were marched down to the police lines a kilometre and a half off, passing on the way a woman burning a shoe, presumably in homage to the Charlie Chaplin movie The Gold Rush. On arrival, we found a sizable gathering of cops in camouflage gear. Many had rifles, but some just had wooden lathis and charming wicker riot shields. It was amusing, amid the helmets and berets to see the odd police wearing one of those woollen Tibetan hats, usually seen on old women and stoned Westerners.

For some reason, given the apparent seriousness of the situation, I thought we'd be on the move quickly. But we were still working to Indian time and sat around for an hour until a police van drove us back up the hill we'd just walked down. We then sat in the van outside the Foreigners' Registration Office for over two hours, apparently waiting for more transports for the other tourists so we could drive in convoy (there were about 30 or 40 of us by this stage). And Sarah and I had thought we were the only ones left in town.

Passing the time, an Australian girl related to us how she and her friend had gone for a walk the day of the protests and, heading past the Magistrate's residence, she had taken a picture of a car, a White Ambassador. "For no reason," she said. "It was just a random photo, really." She showed us the snap on her digital camera. "And the next day," she said, "This was in the paper." She pulled out a clipping from the Times of India. It was the exact same photograph - same car, same angle, same size - except in this picture, the car was on fire, having been torched by protestors. We were all flabbergasted and wondered whether her camera had magic powers. I asked her not to take any more pictures of the van we were sitting in.

Just before we left, the man who'd taken our passport numbers for the embassies popped his head through the back door of the van and asked, "Finished?" This question was greeted with no small degree of hilarity, since we'd been sitting there doing nothing for two hours. "I think the question is, are you finished?" quipped the hairy Australian sitting next to me. After a long, bumpy drive, we got to the city of Siliguri at about 11.30pm, the police dropping us all at the roadside.

Although the afternoon's events had implied a certain gravity in the situation, the atmosphere in the town hadn't seemed that edgy. There were lots of people strolling around (usually in the opposite direction to me and Sarah), kids playing cricket and badminton in the empty streets, teens opting for hacky sack using what looked like rolled-up pan scourers, the benches of Chowrasta (the central square) filled with the usual bunch of old men, perhaps reading their newspapers more intently than usual, and the shutters down absolutely everywhere. Even the protestors' gathering point, which we'd visited the previous day, hadn't exactly been animated, with lots of people staring up wistfully at the Gorkhaland sign and a small line of women holding up the movement's distinctive green, white and yellow flag.

The next morning, we'd peeked out the window to see a hundred or so protestors filing past, though we had been warned not to do this by our anxious hotel manager. "They get very emotional," he said, shaking his head.

India part 26a: Darjeeling

Or do I? The plan was to spend a few days in the hill station of Darjeeling, then head on east to the obscure village of Mungpu, where Sarah was set to do some teaching. The plan was thwarted by the echoing repercussions of history and race, as usual.

The views in Darjeeling are breathtaking, though we couldn't actually see any of them, due to clouds. Instead, we saw St Andrew's Church, which could've done with a scrub...

...and visited the two-in-one zoo and mountaineering institute:

Then, on the evening of the third day of our stay, things got interesting, and we were forced to begin preparations for a siege. It was announced the town would be shutting down to show their solidarity in favour of the creation of the independent state of Gorkhaland. I shouldn't have made that joke about 127 Hours in Calcutta.

"When you said Darjeeling was a striking place, I didn't think you meant this!!11!!1!" As a result of the action, everything and everyone was closed, with pharmacies and hotels the only exceptions (and even they started locking the doors behind you).

As it became clear that the strike would be indefinite, the tourists started fleeing and we watched from our hotel room window as a long line of jeeps headed down the mountain. Sarah and I thought on it, and decided to sit it out. I felt like the guy in the movies who passes up his place on the last chopper out of the embassy to stay behind and help the people - although our plan was actually to eat biscuits and watch Burn Notice on TV. Our reasons for staying were fairly prosaic and practical: Mungpu is only 35km away, and the trip back down to the plains long and sick-inducing.

To be continued...

Signs I have seen #394

Hmmm, bit vague, I think you're making this up.

That was at Darjeeling zoo, by the way. I do wonder if this bear-fighting dog might have taken its inspiration from Star Wars bad guy Jabba the Hut, and Han Solo-ed this poor grizzly:

India part 25d: back in Calcutta

After attempting and failing to go to a Botanical Gardens in a variety of cities, and also managing to not get a decent picture of a butterfly a number of times - the fiends kept flying off - in Calcutta, fresh from our Sundarbans trip, I managed to achieve both.

The gardens also featured the delights of India's biggest Banyan tree. So massive, I couldn't fit it all in.

Banyan trees are a pretty scary idea as it is - this one had spread its 2800-odd offshoots over a ridiculously large area and looked like something out of HR Geiger.

Some of the roots are thick enough to resemble trees in their own right; some are spindly and propped up by wooden crutches, as if Salvador Dali had done a turn as a park ranger. The only drawback of the gardens was that the ticket people confiscated our bottles of mineral water on the way in, which meant we could only stay as long as thirst allowed. As I noted in my diary, this turn of events was startlingly reminiscent of the protagonist's predicament in 127 Hours, which we'd seen at the cinema the previous day. Thankfully no arms were sawn off during our frolicking amongst the foliage.

The other memorable thing about Calcutta was that it was the city in which I finally finished reading Roberto Bolano's monster masterwork 2666. Let us celebrate with one of my favourite quotes from the book:

That night Reiter wasn't tired and the full moon filtered through the fabric of the tent like boiling coffee through a sock.

India part 25c: The Sundarbans

On day two, it was all aboard the boat, which appeared to be named after a blunderbuss-toting red moustache-wearing cartoon character (unless you spoke Spanish, of course).

In summary: no tigers, but plenty of saltwater crocodiles, wild boar, deer, Brahmin kites, Kingfishers, curfews and egrets. I wish we hadn't seen any of the latter, so I could write: "Oh well, no egrets," - but never mind. There were also tons of Indian tourists ignoring the wildlife and instead taking pictures of the three of us, many without asking first, which is rare. Say cheese, guys!

Ajay, Mowgli's young cousin who was looking after us for the day was very disdainful of them. He turned out to be a delightful raconteur, telling us a good anecdote about being ambushed by his family on Holi, and a more worrying one about a British-Gujurati girl who was, to all intents and purposes, stalking him from afar. He did have occasional moments when he seemed sullen, as if Sarah and I were his parents who he has embarrassed to be seen with, but then this impression would vanish and he'd start on another enthusiastic story. Later in the evening we walked a few kilometres with him to a cafe for chai and sweets, getting another bicycle cart back, with the road flickeringly illuminated by the naked flame the driver was using in lieu if a headlight, and the stars seemed brighter than ever.

The next day we wended our way back, via a number of tea shops, before getting a lift to Calcutta with Mowgli, getting to experience his pimped stereo. It cost a sixth of the price of the car itself, he told us proudly. Unfortunately he had a fondness for substandard house music and skipped over any promising-sounding hip hop, presumably in case P was offended by the language. More irony, since when we arrived back in Calcutta, she made a comment about Jews which made me wonder if my verdict on her - "Daily Mail reader" - had been a bit mild. Oh dear.

India part 25b: The Sundarbans

We decided to dip into our wedding gift money and pay for an organised trip to the Sundarbans  - pronounced "underpants" - since it's rather complicated to get to without help from someone who knows what the hell they're doing. Also, if you want a meal in that neck of the woods, you have to go and ask a villager in Bengali.

I vaguely remembered hearing about the Sundarbans from reading Amitav Ghosh's The Hungry Tide (my edition had a rather similar cover to the boat's painting above, a coincidence, I'm sure), which had baffled me in parts; I think I must have drifted off during the bit when he explained what a mangrove was. The Sundarbans are a set of ever-changing islands set amid a load of tidal mud deltas. It has lots of mangroves, which, it turns out, are sort of muddy orchards. The thing everyone asks you when you get back from a boat ride through the Sundarbans is "Did you see a tiger?" to which you reply "No" and pretend not to be disappointed, perhaps listing other wildlife you did see.

After a few hours in the car out of Calcutta, we boarded a ferry, which was actually more reminiscent of a wooden longboat with a motor, then, in one of the coolest bits of our whole India trip, had a half-hour ride across the peaceful and remote island of Gosaba on the back of a bicycle-powered cart.

We arrived at our hotel, which truly had the hardest beds we'd ever experienced - "like sleeping on a table," was Sarah's verdict. In an Indian trope we'd encountered before, the immaculate garden was a thousand times more impressive than the inside, decorated as it was with luscious white, pink and purple Cosmos.

At this stage, my diary says this:

A goat just farted.

In the afternoon, we went for a walk through the village with the other person on the tour, an adventurous older lady from Devon, who I assumed would be called Margaret or Alison, but wasn't, and here will be referred to as P - and our guide, who was nicknamed Mowgli after a run-in a few years ago with a French girl who had dubious levels of political correctness. He seemed quite a serious young man, although he was perhaps disgruntled at P's earlier unsubtle suggestions that his father was a slave-owning pimp (I'm actually serious, though she didn't use those exact words).

After our stroll through the village, which was disrupted by two mad dogs, one of whom got its teeth round my calf, thankfully not tearing the skin or my trousers, we got on a small wooden boat...

...and an iron-armed gondolier rowed us up the silent river.

The waterways here are about three billion percent cleaner than the Ganges at Varanasi, and as we gazed at the birds, the grey swampy riverbanks like sludgy concrete and the passing fishermen, all you could hear was the creak of the boat and the water sloshing gently. Then Mowgli's mobile rang. Though he has the trappings of a city boy - haircut, goatee, souped-up soundsystem in car - when we asked, he professed a love of the countryside. "The more technologies and options, the more puzzle," he said of urban life. Too true, though this prompted P to tell him about the British phenomenon of happy-slapping, calling it "very common"; Mowgli's eyes widened. She then threw an anecdote about a man (black, of course) who stabbed someone after they objected to him throwing chips at them and rounded off with a quick dig at benefit cheats. Littlejohn alert! Ironically, she referred to the happy-slappers as "feral children" - a phrase Mowgli should certainly have recognised given his moniker!

Later that night, we ate at one of the villagers' houses and saw a concert by local Baul musicians. It would've been interesting to find out what they were singing about - "life and culture", according to Mowgli, so it could've been Bengali translations of Coldplay singles for all I know. Between songs, the vocalist, whose voice was hypnotic, and strangely feminine, had the look of a man being stalked by a tiger. During songs, he looked like an Indian Hugh Dennis with bad teeth.

India part 25a: Calcutta

We arrived into Calcutta on the Vibhuti Express, which was lacking in both the vegetable biryani I'd ordered on board and punctual ticket inspectors (the guy turned up in the middle of the night, while everyone was sleeping, and promptly switched the light on). The train made up for these shortcomings in grime and mice, which were in abundance, the latter making cameo appearances dashing between the areas under the seats and the former liberally coating our beds higher up. I cleaned mine by dripping mineral water onto the bed's plastic surface and scrubbing away with already-read pages of Private Eye. These then went out the window, as subcontinental litter rules dictate. While I was trying to sleep, I pictured a villager chancing on the filthy pages while performing his trackside excretions in the morning: figurative dirt on British politicians and literal dirt from the passing Vibhuti Express.

Compulsory Calcutta touristy pictures, then: