'Fraid so... another fort town.

Can't seem to get enough of massive stone architecture. Not sure if it says anything about me. I love the sheer size of forts, the energy and the labour that went into these structures. And then of course there's the history; of battles lost and won, of riding out on a horse with a seriously illegal weapon and slaughtering the foe. Decapitation. Amputation. Laceration. We may have healthcare, refrigeration and aluminium foil, but something tells me that life as a Mughal warrior would have provided an existence more thrilling than life in the 21 century.

I love the thought of being able to kill someone who pissed you off, all under the protection of the emperor. Armed with a massive steel sword replete with gold hilt, I could make mincemeat of most Sydney shop assistants in the time it takes to print a receipt. The Queen Victoria Building could be depopulated within an hour, and I would ride triumphant on my white steed through George St, wearing a necklace hung with the severed heads of dour sales staff. Still, I digress ...
but if anyone wants to get me a Christmas present this year, I know what I want. I spotted a massive silver mace-cum-axe in the amoury of Bikaner palace, and think it's just what I'm after.
Anyway, Leah and Nick have less than two weeks remaining until they head to the land of the rising sun. They wanted to chill and head to the beach, so I alighted from the train after only two hours and bid them courage as they faced the next two twenty hour journeys to Goa. Yep, forty hours until they get to have a shower. And a swim.

I arrived in Gwalior by midday. Hot enough to melt the soles of my sandals, but only a short walk across the bridge to find a hotel. Showered and feeling slightly cleaner, I made a mental note to do some laundry at some point in the foreseeable future, and headed out on foot to the fort.

Like those in Jodhpur and Chittor, the fortifications of Gwalior literally rise up out of the rock. Towering above the town, it was a three kilometre traipse though the filth and rubbish and ruminating animals. Too many poo-munching pigs for my liking. I'm completely off pork again. Personally, I have nothing against any critter that likes to eat faeces. There must be some nutritional value, or they wouldn't indulge so frequently. In any case, most animals are a little strange on the subcontinent. Cows appear to swallow only newspaper and discarded plastic bags, dogs eat nothing at all, and the pigs find nourishment in shit. Sorry, off on another tangent again.
The fort, as per my expectations, rocked. Through the main gates lies Man Singh palace, which to my excitement was used as a state prison during the Mughal period. You don't see enough dungeons in India. Then again, as per my notes above, I'm not sure they take many prisoners. Down a couple of stone spiral staircases, I began to feel a little spooked as the poor lighting became even poorer. And began to flicker. It was cool and hard to see, but I arrived in some kind of chamber, in the middle of which was a large colonnade with tether rings suspended from columns and the ceiling. My imagination ran wild. It's easy to picture the unfortunate beings tortured while strung up, spied on through numerous peepholes positioned in the ceiling. Brilliant stuff.

Of course, fifteen minutes later, when I was lost and still somewhere in the entrails of the building, the wonderment wore off and I felt the need to resurface. At every turn I took a wrong turn. The light at the end of the tunnel was usually a cavity that looked straight down the sheer cliff onto the city below. No joy there. I finally heard a few mumbling voices and scampered off towards them, arriving upon some attendants laying down on the job. Not sure what it is about Indians, but it appears to me that if you're lucky enough to secure a job as ticket collector at a museum, bank clerk or a position at the train reservation counter, sloth is the most important qualification for the job. These guys have it in abundance.

Adjusting my vision to the glaring light of the early afternoon, I literally walked into a couple of young chaps, Ashok and Sanjay. They had made the journey to Gwalior from Bhopal ealier in the day, and were to attend wedding festivities for a Jain friend that evening. We strolled among the other ruins and chatted for over an hour. They recommended that I try marriage and children. I said I preferred the idea of eternal torture in the just-visited Man Singh palace dungeon.

After a very long and enjoyable afternoon in Gwalior, I headed wearliy to my hotel, stopping for a Pepsi and staring at the tireless poo-munching porcines. Filthy buggers. Although I stayed in a dormitory, there was no-one else in the room. I positioned the air cooler right next to my feet, and slept soundly until five fifteen in the morning, when India awoke and cleared it collective throat, and gobbed onto the street. Filthy buggers.

Will someone make one of these for me when I die? I doubt it.

If you had to select one image that conjures up the beauty of this country, what would it be?
It's huge, it's fat, it's made of an immense quantity of white marble, and it's mindblowing, as much for its size as for the sheer work required to create it. And of course, for those of you who have feelings, it must mean something too that it is a memorial built for a dead woman by his grieving husband.

The Taj Mahal is astounding, and amid the filth and degredation of India it is a majestic reminder of what this country achieved in earlier times. Twenty years in the making requiring the labour of some twenty thousand men, the scale and beauty of this monument is probably without comparison. Entering the gate is akin to walking into an oasis. Gardens. Birds singing.

Cleanliness.

It's fabulous.

The sight is serene, it gives you goosebumps and your heart almost melts. You wish you were sitting here with that special someone and enjoying the moment, instead of it being just you, your water bottle and your foul smelling sandals. Still, Lady Di came here by herself, and ... right, I'll move on from that analogy.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves, though of course no image can truly capture the intense majesty of this building. From afar it so ... white. Up close you marvel at the intricate work of coloured stones inlaid in marble, the arabic calligraphy that lines the recesses, the statuesque minarets that elegantly frame the entire scene. It's like nothing else on the planet.

Walking around it makes you feel somehow more relaxed, you indulge in a little self-reflection and you think that maybe it is possible that you could love someone so much that you too would build such a monument if you had the cash. Personally, I think I'd use Lego. Infinitely cheaper, and you can smash it to bits if you change your mind.

I love it. More so the second time around.

The back of Bourke on the back of a camel.

My camel, Victoria, had issues. And I had a fairly upset stomach as we met Tiger, our guide over the next couple of days. Without so much as an Introductory Certificate in Dromedary Husbandry, we were astride our beasts and heading out to no-where in particular. It looked barren and dusty, and I couldn't see a 711 in sight.

I felt a treat in my new outfit. Inspired by my cousin's shopping adventures in Pushkar, I had worn out the plastic on a new pair of orange pyjama draw-string trousers, wooden bracelet and long-sleeve blue hippy shirt. Completing the ensemble was a matching blue and orange headscarf to keep out the sand and flies, and which made me look unassumingly handsome and vaguely menacing at the same time.

I felt the image suffered a little when, an hour after setting off, I vomited. That kind of behaviour is best reserved for when you have a recipient into which you can spew, and secondly, it's preferable to engage in this activity at ground level. Although Tiger appeared non-plussed and my other travel companions actually giggled, I find that vomiting over oneself from atop an ambulating eight-foot camel is overrated. With a few flecks in hair and headscarf, the majority of the torrent had flowed down my trousers and the camel's rump. Yeah, laugh it up ...

But it all got better after that. It also got hotter too, until a few hours later we nestled under the shade of a tree, unharnessed the camels and allowed them to roam free and play chasy while Tiger cooked us our first gourmet meal of the safari, aloo gobi and chapati. Needless to say, I ate little, though I was very, very hungry.

On the afternoon of the second day we came to a thatched mud hut, and took much needed respite from the searing rays of the sun. A small sinewy and slightly mental man appeared, a true Rajasthani. With deep wrinkles and a half toothless grin, he was dressed in the white dhoti and koortah with a pretty glam orange turban (which would have looked quite cool with my trousers: I thought quietly about fixing a deal).

As always in India, every thing is possible - except for kindness to animals and adhering to best parctice of OH&S principles - and from the filthiest hessian sack in the history of the world, he withdrew bottles of Pepsi. With tears in my eyes I handed over whatever rupees I could grab, and gulped the manna from heaven. His name is Mr Chapati; I am going to build a shrine to him. And perhaps introduce him to both soap and toothpaste.

The next couple of days involved a lot of riding and eating, and sleeping under the stars. Tiger was quite the desert tenor, and kept us upbeat and semi-conscious with a continuous melody of Rajasthan's latest hits. We passed a handful of Marwari villages, and I profess a deep respect for those who live here under the harshest of conditions. There ain't no way I'll be getting the first homeowner's grant in this neighbourhood.

Tiger also pointed out a number of abandoned villages, their Muslim inhabitants having fled to Pakistan at the time of Partition. The buildings are beginning to crumble, and will not be lived in again since they were abandoned under ominous circumstances. The sand has begun to swallow the dwelling and the temples ... only a few peacocks and goats walk among the ruins.

It was a wonderful trip, great to get off the beaten track, to sleep on the sand dunes and see the entire universe of stars, to have someone else do all the cooking and cleaning.

I $#^@% love India!

I do the Lawrence of Arabia thing

Jaisalmer sits in the Thar desert close to the Pakistan border. It is a small town of about fifty thousand inhabitants, all of whom arrive to greet you as you fall in a dishevelled but glamorous manner out of the bus, and on to boiling tarmac heavily encrusted with cow shit. Welcome.
Indian auto-rickshaw drivers have perfected their trade. They can spot a tired Westerner when they see one, and have only to keep up their incessant and incoherent Hindish babble for a matter of minutes before a) you accede to the hotel of their choice, b) cry, or c) yell gross obscenities and curse their mothers.

Today I chose the latter, and needed a couple of Navy Cuts (my chosen cigarette brand in the subcontinent) and a bottle of Thums Up (a sickeningly sickly and orthographically challenged version of Coke) before I could entertain the idea of communicating with any of these wretched little bastards. [By the way, if anyone is looking for a niche marketing idea, India is crying out for a good tourism and hospitality school. Currently they sit in bottom place in the entire goddamn galaxy for customer service].

One of the kids could see my obvious distress and offered me some opium. In my book, anyone that ridiculous gets my vote, so his autorickshaw was my autorickshaw and we sped to the fort and to his very inappropriately titled guesthouse, 'The Himalayan'. What? I mean, we're in middle of the frickin' desert here. It's flat, it's sandy and it's not going to snow for another 300 million years.

The staff of the guesthouse were, well, puerile. We got along instantly, although my paternal instincts were aroused when the actual amount of opium consumed by them in a twenty-four hour period became known to me. Still, why not? If you're going to live in a place where the mercury hits 50 degrees regulary, it's either gotta be drugs or insanity.

My room was dirt cheap and about the size of a Rubik's cube. Interiors and lighting by someone blind, and a cooling system that made me think seriously about hiring a street kid and a large fan for a couple of days. But that would be wrong and politically incorrect. And have to say, I did like the look of my bathroom, because the idea of showering while I undertook daily ablutions (is there a verb - to ablute?) has forever appealed to my senses of hygiene and humour. And now I was able to indulge.

Jaislamer is constructed entirely from golden sandstone. It is beautiful, and if I were that way inclined, it would bring a tear to my eye. It's a veritable setting for Ali Baba and his 40 thieves. I can really picture myelf hear wearing a silver and red turban and runnning about the place with a big fat sword and dagger, but instead I settled on a banana lassi (curd), and wished I been born into a band of Arab wrong-doers.

Apart from the Maharaja's palace and some more very impressive havelis, a good reason to sojourn in this region of the planet is to take a camel safari. Nick, Leah and I opted for a three day, two night expedition that promised to be a bit of a hoot.

Provided my grumbling stomach settles down ...

A bigger, fatter fort.

The journey north from Pushkar invited a change in scenery. The temperate areas of southern Rajasthan gave way to desert, not dissimilar to the landscapes between Adelaide and Alice Springs, but with a golden colour rather than the red sands of the Australian desert.

I arrived in Jodhpur around lunchtime, and as always was approached by various touts and rickshaw drivers promising me the best hotel and free rides in their clapped-out vehicles. But a couple of groovers stood out; Darpan and Arpan. Looking ulta cool in their tight denim flares, even tighter T-shirts and Dior-inspired sunnies, their perfect but hesitant English persuaded me to head to the Singvi Haveli, the family home for the last five hundred years.

A pleasant place to be for a few days, and from the terrace rose a fort so massive that I knew I was going to like this place. The old city was not much to speak of; the usual mix of twisted and contorted lanes and alleys, defecating cows and bulls, moribund dogs, and people who all look like they could do with a few year's worth of non-Indian homecooking. [I noticed too that I have started to shed the pounds ... my once huge muscular frame has been reduced to the body of a pre-pubescent twelve year old ... Still, as a wise woman once said, you can never be too thin or too rich].

Meherengarh is the reason to visit this town - an appoximate translation, Citadel of the Sun. The fortified walls stand at least a hundred metres above the city, towering over the squalor and grime below and looking every bit like the imposing home of a very important dude.

Construction commenced in 1459 and continued right up until recent times, with each Maharaja adding to a formidably whimsical mass of havelis, towers, temples and the like.

The original site had been the abode of a hermit, who cursed the Maharaja who decided to take the plot for his own, and predicted a continuous lack of water that would stall the growth of the town and its people. The Maharaja, like all good religious persons, consulted a sage who came up with the very sensible idea to bury a volunteer live into the foundations of the fort. Seems to have worked a treat, and as I passed the plaque to the unfortunate victim, I couldn't help but be in awe at such stupidity. It surpasses even the dumbest of things that I have done to date.

Both exterior and interior take the breath away. Intricate lattice work carved in red sandstone, fabulously carved doors and archways, balconies and turrets. And the armoury is spectaular. So much fine workmanship in each piece, for an instrument designed to maim and kill. These guys must've been seriously bloodthirsty. I would love to have been able to go out and play with them on the sportsfield, mashing a few heads with my solid silver jousting sticks. Not sure what you'd pay for 'em though.

The entry price of the ticket included a set of headphones and a funky little contraption that contained recorded information on the fort's highlights. It describes the Maharaja's private rooms as 'the epitomy of European opulence' Nope, only Napoleon's apartment in the Louvre or the very worst of Italian rococco comes anyway near the amount of gaudiness that the designers achieved here. I mean, where in Europe did you ever encounter an enitre ceiling with eave to eave multicoloured Christmas baubles, a ton of gold and Guy Mitchell blue paint? And stained glass windows? And in a bedroom.

A very satisfactory visit. I was now mentally armed with a cornucopia of interior design tips for my next abode in Coogee, and wandered contentedly back to the guesthouse to shove my gob full of spicy Indian fare.

Very excited about the next destination - Jaisalmer. We're talking big fort and big desert here.

The little lake that was.

Pushkar. In Indian terms, a tiny town. A settlement of just over fifteen thousand inhabitants nestled in the hills not far from the bustling city of Ajmer. Pushkar is a holy town - no alcohol, no meat, no eggs. But dope is legal and sanctioned by the government. Funny place, the subcontinent.

The town is centred around a lake, encircled by numerous ghats, the wide concrete steps that take the pilgrim down to the holy waters. Temples are numerous but similar in style, and behind these are the guesthouses and hostels where many travellers come to while away the time.

To be honest, there's not much for the non-Hindu to do in this place. It's a place to chill out, relax, read books and get spiritual, if that's your thing. It's certainly not mine. Missing the daily activity of my Australian lifestyle, I often feel the need to take exercise of some sort - any sort - but India is one of the hardest places to stay fit. Luckily for me, there was a temple at the top of the hill visible from my guesthouse roof top. To be fair, there's always a temple atop any hill in India, but I decided this was exactly the exercise my legs were crying out for.

Armed with water and my new reading material 'India: A wounded civilisation', by V. S. Naipaul, I headed off into the heat and dust and out of town, stopping along the way to chat with the locals and play a spot of cricket with the kids. Everyone here knows Ricky Ponting. I think he must be one of our famous sportmen.

The monsoon is still at least two months away, and the parched countryside is nearing a critical stage of dehydration. Flora and fauna are limp and languid, distressed dogs lay beneath withered trees devoid of foilage. Nothing much is green, except a small patch of irrigated crops to the west of town. But the climb to the top is the exercise I needed; the temple itself is a bit of a disappointment, but after Chittorgarh it's going to take another massive impregnable fort to really impress me.

Aside from that, Pushkar was an ideal place to be on vacation. The locals are very friendly, the town has a laid-back quality, and if it takes your fancy, there is plenty of shopping to be be done. But I got over that in a few days, and was eager to be on my way again to see the sights of this country. Rajasthan is crammed with magnificent forts and citadels, and I'm still yet to visit half of them.

So we're heading north, to Jodhpur.

A fabulous fort.

Le mot du jour: 'Garh' means fort in Hindi. And today we're off to see Chittorgarh, definitely worth a visit. Unlike Chittor, the town that lays in its shadow, certainly worth a miss.

We hopped on an early train from Udaipur and arrived in Chittor around midday. I seized the opportunity to do some physical exercise, and after dumping our gear in the Railway Retiring Rooms, we went in search of bicycles. With an annoyingly overbearing and bellicose auto-rickshaw driver in tow - 'no bicycle, not possible, shop closed' - I strengthened my resolve to rent three bikes and we were soon on our way through the old town and up the steep incline that led to the entrance gate of the fort.

Young people are disappointingly unfit these days. That's all I have to say on the matter.
Arriving at the top first (there is no second place, only fisrt loser), I waited impatiently until the others arrived and then it was off to explore the ruined city that lay within 28 kms of impregnable stone walls - buildings and fanstastic constuctions that make you wonder exactly why it is that a country producing such magnificent architecture then constructs among the world's worst now. Heady stuff. Maybe funding from the Department of Planning had dwindled over the last several hundred years. Just like Health and Education under the Liberals, I guess.

In any case, the crenellated walls of the fort enclose the numerous palaces, temples and towers that were once the pride of this city. Especially enchanting is Padmini's palace, where the gardens have been restored and it's tragic story is worth recounting. It goes like this:
Maharaja is married to beautiful woman. Other man glimpses reflection of Maharaja's wife in lake. Wife now becomes obsession of the Peeping Tom. He's just got to have her. War is declared, victory evident, since the man who wants Padmini has a much stronger armed force that the man who currently owns her. But, just to piss everyone off, the Maharaja has nobly resigned to ride out to certain death before the enemy, and his chick and her mates throw themselves into the flames. Death before dishonour and all that. I like it, it's a tale with class and style and an iota of voyeurism.

We stayed until the fading rays of the sun cast a spookly glow over the orange sandstone, ponds and gardens, got speed wobble on the way down the hill and battled the congested night traffic.

Can't write any more since the hotel employee wants his computer back. Now.

Does anyone stop at a red light in India? The answer is no.

The magical lake that wasn't.

The guidebooks are in agreeance: Udaipur is the most charming and enchanting city in this heavily visited region of the country. But part of that charm is currently missing. Lake Pichola has almost dried up after several years of poor monsoon rains, and the Floating Palace looks more like wedding cake embattled in a contiuous dust storm. However, with a little imagination you can pretend the lake's there, or simply wait for the sun to go down; no-one's any the wiser.
Furthermore the guidebooks will inform you that the opening scences of Octopussy, the fabulously trashy James Bond movie circa 1978, was filmed in this fair town. How's that for kudos?

The real charm of this locale, and the reason people come to visit, is that the area breathes a kind of magic. It's the India you read about as a kid - mythical and seething with intricately decorated palaces, magnificent harems and elaborate havelis. And I delude myself for a while more, close my eyes, and pretend to the emperor, bejewelled and adored by the masses, riding my elephant across the mountains ...

... You can pretend to be the Maharaja leading a force of fearless Rajput warriors out to face the Mughal infidels, riding to a certain death but maintaining your honour. All the while knowing your wife (or wives) will commit self-immolation as the enemy knocks at the gates, throwing herself (or themselves) onto the burning pyre rather than face dishonour and pillage and all that comes with warfare in the late 15th century.

And when you wake up, you can just sit on the roof top of the guesthouse, drink sickeningly sweet tea, and chill.

I did a bit of both.

The place is chokka with palaces. Behind our little family-run hotel sits the foreboding City Palace, a construction undertaken initally by Udai Singh when he was ousted for the last time from Chittorgarh. Successive Rajput maharajas have added to the glamour of the palace, and a walk though it provides insight into the huge amounts of cash, power and labour that these guys had access to. The armoury: a collection of the meanest, deadliest killing utensils ever seen; sword, scimitars, daggers and guns a go-go, though there was one piece that looked suspiciously like an large egg whisk.

We also visited a Bakar-li-Haveli ... it must've been good to be the king. Have to say though, I wouldn't have liked to be a woman in India prior to the Raj. The idea of being stuck in the same building for most of my married life wasn't probably that much fun. Even if the building in question has 138 rooms on two levels set around a leafy courtyard.

Th rest of the town is that typical Indian labyrinth of narrow alleys filled with motorcyles, woman in saris, groups of immature and sexually repressed teenage men taunting you because there's safety in numbers, underfed and never-fed dogs, the ever-sacred cows, and excrement belonging to all of the above. But it is calmer that the India you see on Discovery channel, and certainly more serene that Bombay - we spent loads of time on the roof top balcony of the hotel, philosophising about total crap and for Leah and Nick, a chance to settle into their new world for the next few weeks.

Getting reacquainted, and getting lost.

Today I actually had something I needed to do.

I had to pick Leah and Nick up from the airport at 16h30, but realised this permitted plenty of time to do what the bank required of me; supply an address in Bombay before it would forward a shiny new Mastercard replete with PIN. I decided that the Australian Consulate might be able to help in this instance, and with a scrawled address in my hand, I headed for the public buses.
Numbering on the transport in Mumbai is a little confusing. The front of the vehicle displays the bus number in Marathi, the local lingo, but the numerals are deceptively like those we use. So after one bus took me no-where, I was kindly escorted to a second bus that took me somewhere. Specifically, a depressingly and hideously banal architectural monstrosity which would have been quicker to reach on foot (but where would the fun be in that, I ask you?). Only a building this devoid of personality could house public servants, so I assumed more or less rightly that I was at the correct place.

As the elevator spewed me onto the sixteenth floor, the faded and very shut wooden doors sporting a faded Australian coat of arms and an even more faded and yellowing piece of paper hanging off the entire ensemble informed me thus: the Consulate had moved. Bugger. I descended the staircase on foot with the newer address in hand, back out into the street and boarded another public vehicle. An hour later I was lost again but soon a very kind bunch of men in uniform, holding rifles, was laughing at me - so I thought I'd ask for some assistance. They were of no use whatsoever, but the chai-wallah next to him listened in, and gestured for me to try the next street on the right.

Got there, and after being limpidly searched and laughed at again by the four guards in the Consulate, I was admitted and finally face to face with a full time permanent employee of the Australian government. She was nice and sensible and offered lots of advice about not trusting anyone and keeping my personal belongings safe. You've just gotta love the maternal instinct, or perhaps she privodes this information gratis to every sad, pathetic traveller who can't manage to keep hold of his gear.

Joyce was happy to collect my mail for me. I liked her. And she looked great in a green and gold sari.

Next on the agenda (already four hours had elapsed: meeting my cousin et al from the International airport. Now that I held a vague impression of getting somewhere, it had to be public transport all the way. Caught the 123 to Churchgate station - think depressingly and hideously banal architectural monstrosity, this time without government offices but perhaps a hundred thousand Indians moving in every direction - and to the queue for a ticket to Andheri station.

The concept of a queueing in the subcontinent deserves an entry all of it's own, so I'll skip over the enjoyment of pushing and shoving, and in brief, throwing my rupees at a man who needed to re-dye his hair. Ticket in hand, I slotted in with several hundred passengers in a wagon that, according to the painted sign at one end, was custom built to hold 98 of us. There were a lot more, and many were staring at me. At least no-one was laughing.

Andheri platform was the end of my train journey. The next bus ride would have taken me directly to the airport, but since I boarded a bus on the opposite side of the street, I went in the wrong direction for some time. Spewin'. I managed to board the 308 in the other direction, and chanted a little mantra to Ganesh, Hanuman, Krishna, and the other one wearing the skull necklace with the blackened face - I had but thirty minutes to arrive. The Hindu deities looked down favourably ... and I greeted a couple of rather shellshocked passengers from the Qantas flight a few moments later.

I love the look on the face of a person who arrives in India for the very first time.

This time I was the one laughing. Well, chuckling really.