Home

Well, that was painful.

Couldn't risk sleeping in transit in KUL, so I sat and watched while Sarah snored.
So as soon as I got onboard our KUL AKL flight, I went to sleep. Woke up with 5 hours to go, so watched a couple of movies and had dinner, and we were there.

Now, watching movies on Malaysian is trickier than a tired white man can deal with. There are a shitload of channels, so lots of movies, but they are all running, over and over. What a pain! How old is this system?

Worse, I couldn't figure out what movies were on what channel. All it would say when you switch is how many minutes into the movie it is. You have to sit there for a minute to see if you recognize what it might be, and then decide if you want to see what's left of it. Sheesh!

I tripped over the new bond movie, and it was only a few minutes in, so I sat on that. Not a bad movie, really. Watched it restart, and all I had missed first time was the pre title sequence, kind of important to this movie, and being a Bond, was about 15 minutes long.

Then I trawled around, and Mr and Mrs Smith was starting, so that'll do.

While I was reading through the inflight magazine for a hint of what movies were on what channels, I discovered that you can ff, rw, stop and restart movies. Thanks for that!

But wait, there's more. There is obviously a range of aircraft in the fleet, and each one seems to have a different handset fot movies. You're KIDDING me!

So there's a chart of which model remote (no, not which aircraft, so you have to decode that first) does what. I still couldn't find a simple list of channels and movies.

Just too fucking hard!!!

I must be spoilt, but I was certainly missing the IFE on the Air New Zealand flights. So simple. Ish.

Sure, there are different systems, but you don't need to fight with the remote. On most aircraft, I never touch the remote at all. All touch screen, thanks.
Also, you start with a menu, choose a movie, and watch it. Colour me simple, but that works for me.
Why would you have movies permanently playing on all channels if you have the individual ability to restart a movie from the beginning, as long as you know the secret sequence of buttons to do it?

Anyway, back in newzild now. Arrived just after midnight, bags were off quickly, and we were in our hotel room by 0100.

Did I mention the Novotel? It is the new hotel they have built at Auckland International Airport, and it is LITERALLY just across the road from the terminal. Walk out of the building, use the pedestrian crossing to avoid being hit by a taxi, and you are five steps away from the hotel reception. Brilliant!

Got up early ish, because we were going to meet a friend for breakfast. Our flight is at 1200.

Check out, head off to domestic, and ring to hook up. Oh, is it today? I thought it was Saturday? Sorry, I'm at work.

Did I mention this was one of Sarah's friends? My friends wouldn't do that? They probably would, but they just wouldn't be arsed dragging themselves to the airport to meet me.

So we are sitting in the Koru Lounge. We missed the breakfast menu, so we are making do.

And that, my friends, is all she wrote.

I don't know when or where our next adventure is, so the next entry may be minutes or months away. Who can say.

Once again, I apologize to those who were hoping for graphic details of Delhi Belhi, Bombay Bum, or whatever else you may like to call it. I came away completely unscathed, except for the odd mozzy bite taken out of my arse.

I won't apologies to the weak of heart who fell into palpitations whenever an expletive crossed my page. They just need to fuck off and find an Enid Blyton book to read.

Sorry, Noddy.

Kuala Lumpur at 0400

Bloody hell!

It's fucking closed!

Sarah had these grand visions of spending the four hours between flights flitting between duty free, hush puppies store, more duty free, toblerone shopping, and back to duty free again.

After being pushed to restrictive shopping timetables on the train trip, four hours should have been just about right.

So this glorious airport, with a massive departure lounge, might have flights arriving at all hours, but there is no retail therapy till about 0700. Bugger!

Oh, there's a Burglar King open, and some other goody outlets. So you won't starve to death, you'll just get bored senseless.
If she had brought any Indian sweets, she could have eaten herself into a diabetic coma. I don't know if you've tried Indian sweets or not, but they are all made out of milk products. Condensed milk, it tastes like to my untrained palate. One of the popular ones is gulab jamuns, camel testicles marinated in syrup. There are a bunch of others that taste the same, and look kinda the same, but have completely different names. Then there is the range of dry sweets, all made from condensed milk and almonds. Again, many variations on a theme. There are even some with edible silver paper stuck to them. I HAVE NO IDEA!

My personal favourite would have to be jalebis. They are bright orange (food colouring, kiddies), and look like pretzels. But bite into one, and your mouth will explode with sugar. They are filled with, and probably made of, flavoured sugar syrup. They appear to be made by squirting the mixture into a deep fryer. Jenny Craig would just LOVE this.

But she didn't bring any. She did her PhD on them, and MAF won't let them into NZ.

So we sit. She tries to snooze while I write this drivel.

DAC/KUL

We are on our way to Kuala Lumpur. The drive from CDC took about 75 minutes, so quite busy. This is the first normal day since the strikes, so I guess people are still playing catchup. It's always sad to leave here, because the staff look after us so well. They don't speak English, and I don't speak gibberachi, so communication is always a challenge. I just need to make sure I don't piss Sarah off, or who knows what concoction I might be eating.

As we approach the terminal, Sarah reminds me again about not letting anyone touch our bags. I must say it is hard work, because there are always more crowds on the footpath than there should be. We drove up to the front of the building, just like most normal airports, except that at the beginning of this stretch of footpath is a gate with armed guards waving us through.

Not sure if I mentioned, but at the Taj hotel at Mumbai, they have three steel posts that come out of the ground, blocking your car's way onto hotel property. Shiny steel, with a ring of LED lights around the top. Standard stuff, mirrors under the car, look under the bonnet, everything you see in the movies. Hit the button, the three poles go down, and you're in. Same deal to exit. One car at a time. Complete control over their sandpit.

The same deal at the Leela in New Delhi. Mirrors, bonnet, yada yada yada. Even for their own hotel cars. Impressive.

Now, back to Dhaka. Gate, permanently half open, guy in uniform with a rifle on his shoulder.
Now these guys. The Bangladeshi army. You've seen photos of the people and the vehicles on the streets of Dhaka, right. Dirty, weather-beaten and covered in scratches and dents. And the vehicles are worse. Every time I see either soldiers in this town (and you can hardly avoid them), or one of their vehicles, the thing that strikes me is that they are clean, freshly painted, brand spanking new. And so are their vehicles. The uniforms are brand new or freshly laundered, perfectly pressed. It's as though these little soldiers come in matching sets, and you just pull them off the shelf, inflate them, and off they trot. Hut, hut, hut.

Now the other thing about them is their uniform. The freshly laundered one. It is in camouflage pattern. I was about to say camouflage colours, but that's the problem.

Camo uniforms from the days of jungle warfare were shades of green, khaki, stuff like that.
When George Bush decided he wanted a holiday home in Baghdad, his personal couturier came up with some sandy shades in a nice pastel. People were into the colour tea about then in their decorating choices, so it fit right in.

But these guys? The most obvious colour in their camo uniform is blue. Blue! Where the hell are they going to hide with bits of blue all over their clothes? Are they going to guard the waterfront from a deck chair? Jump out of the sky? I'm thinking this place has had female Prime Ministers for a little too long. Too many chiffon or silk saris floating around the corridors or power.

So, back to this guy at the gate.

If he is manning the gate, and he's the only guy with a gun, how the fuck did all these dropkicks get past to bug us on the footpath?

That's all I was going to ask.

Anyway...we get checked in. Sarah has left a bag of shoes that was inside my suitcase coming over, back at CDC, so that her shopping will fit. It's now 23 point something, and her big pink one is 26 point something. We are going to have to move a little out of that one before we check in for the Auckland/Christchurch flight tomorrow.
Oh, yes. And there is a box. A dinner set. I know! Sarah, remember. Don't worry, it's not hand luggage, so she will spend the entire trip hoping that the loaders can read the 47 fragile stickers on it. I know, I know. Good luck with that.

Money, Money, Money

I was reading today that Walmart is planning on reducing its reliance on Bangladesh. Walmart is the largest retailer in the world, and Bangladesh is the second largest supplier of garments behind China.

Apparently, Walmart is growing a conscience, because of the substandard conditions of garment workers in Bangladesh. Their pay is not flash, either. It seems that wages range from 18c to 26c. An hour! Of course that's in Amrikan dollars, so it's not as bad as it seems.

But wait, there's more. These staff work 12 hour days, 13 if you count lunch. That's all at ordinary pay, by the way.

Walmart could go to China, but the average rate there is about $1.50. Exorbitant!
It seems they quite like the look of Cambodia, where pay averages about 36c/hr, or Vietnam, where it is about 50c/hr.

Mmm. I think I'll ask for a pay rise when I get home.

View From The Top

This shot is taken from the roof of CDC, looking out the back of the property. Not sure if the pond is man made or not, but it is the source of food for many on its shores.

It's not often that you can take a photo looking directly into the sun, is it? It's a special filter we use on the iPhone. I like to call it pollution.

Diseases

I haven't mentioned diseases much. I guess that's because everybody takes them for granted over here.

What always amused me over the years, though, is the world-wide panic over things like mad cow , bird flu, HN something. The diseases themselves didn't amuse me. It's that they were never mentioned in India and Bangladesh. But I can see why.

Bird flu is like the little fat new kid with the geeky glasses. He parks himself up the front where the teacher can see him, but in the back row are the rough kids. Malaria, typhoid, cholera. You just know that the new kid is going to get his glasses broken, his lunch money stolen, and his undies pulled up over his head before the day is over.

So no. No mention of the pussy flues here, thanks. We have the industrial strength models here.

Politics

Another reason I am parked up here, is the political situation here in Bangladesh.

As you will have read, there was a recent court ruling of the death penalty for war crimes during the 1971 separation war with Pakistan. Just like at Nuremberg, sometimes it takes many years to bring people to justice.
Anyway, the political situation here is volatile at the best of times, with both main political parties constantly bickering like 12 year old girls. No different from any country, then.
The difference here, is that when one party doesn't agree with what the other has said or done, they tell the people to strike. Now, this bit really baffles me.
If in New Zealand, the opposition party told the public to stay home from work because the government said or did something they didn't like, they would be laughed out of business. Why should we do what you say? You lost the election, remember? Piss off and grow a pair, noddy!

Here, though, people listen, because they are threatened with violence if they don't. Apparently there are gangs who roam around, and cause trouble for those who ignore the order. Cars burnt, homes burnt.
So everything shuts down. People don't drive to work. Sarah says that in some places, if the staff can walk to work, they go. Don't know the logic of that. Otherwise, a complete shutdown. Society grinds to a halt.
Today it's because one faction wants this convicted guy to be released.
The current strike started at midnight and will finish at 1800 tomorrow.
So on the street outside, all we can see is baby taxis and rickshaws. No cars, no taxis, no buses, no trucks.
Apparently on the first day of the strike, a couple of people died and about 50 injured. Others died in the prematch scuffles.

Did I mention that Bangladesh is not a tourist destination. Saw on tv today, that a New Zealander just did a walk through North Korea. Aren't us kiwis so adventurous? Living on the edge. Him camping on a mountain, burning cow poo, me sitting under a ceiling fan in Dhaka drinking coke and writing this drivel

Finally, while I write this, Sarah has an app running on the iPad, and is listening to the Si and Gary morning radio show in Christchurch. Look up SAD in the dictionary, and guess whose picture you will see?

More Glamping

We are holed up in the CDC compound. When we come here, I don't tend to go out much.
Sarah may go visiting her old school friends, but I rarely go.

One reason is that I'm a crap traveller. I look at a car and start feeling motion sickness. Go out for an errand here and you may not be back for 4-6 hours.
My new magic ginger chews seem to be helping a lot.

The second reason is that Sarah is keeping me away from food and water. If you visit somebody, even for five minutes, out come the snacks and drinks, and you are there for over an hour before you can leave without giving offence.
In CDC, the staff are very thorough when it comes to hygiene and water treatment. All drinking water is boiled to death, and stored for our use. Most households drink water from the tap. That's fine for the locals, but foreign stomachs cannot deal with the cocktail of microbes populating the water in most of these countries. Considering what we saw from the train, what people are happy to do onto the ground anywhere and everywhere, it is no surprise that the water table is not the purest on the planet.

That's how Sarah has kept me alive for the past month.
Rule one: No water that doesn't come out of a bottle you opened yourself. And that includes brushing your teeth!
Rule two: No fresh or raw fruit or veg that may have been washed in unknown water. So no salads.
Rule three: No ice. You don't know where the water came from that made it.
Rule four: Don't touch your face or mouth with your fingers. It's surprising how often we unconsciously do this, so it's a hard one to self-regulate.
Rule five: Wash your hands as often as possible, and between washes, use sanitizer.

We found pen sanitizers in the states, and then a friend found them in a Chinese $2 shop in Christchurch. So I always had a couple of pens in a pocket.

I may have mentioned that my flash phone decided not to play well with the telcos, about two days after we landed in India. That day I was showing my crocs a good time at the pool, I noticed that my phone said No Service. I had automatically connected to the Idea network when we landed in Mumbai, but not any more. It stayed like that for the whole India trip. It actually doesn't matter, because I don't make calls while overseas, but I am planning to go into Telecom when I get home and get my sim replaced, because everything else worked. You have no idea how irritating it is to have Sarah bleating on about the wonders of her all-powerful brick. Bloody cheap Nokia. Anyway, we get off the plane in Dhaka, and it chirps into life with a local network. Go figure.

I actually don't mind staying at CDC. The entire top floor is the family home, so there is room to sit in a corner and read or write. I have managed to update the blog with photos. It's a little harder on the iPad than the laptop, so It has taken longer. But what else am I going to do, right?

Despite the size of the apartment, it does not really qualify as having a large initial on the roof. It was laid out to accommodate many visitors, so there are about six bedrooms. Some have ensuites, some not so much. Because this organization runs on the goodwill of sponsors and donations, they are often entertaining church groups who want to come and see where their donations are being spent.
That is the reason for both the number of bedrooms, and for the spartan fit out of the building.
This is a school, in a third world country. There is no justification to have hotel features anywhere in the building, so you won't find them in the apartment either. When Bishu designed the building, his plan was that when he and Vijaya are both gone, the top floor would become office space.

While locals from the villages might see this building as palatial, for Europeans it is more of a hostel. So we are glamping again.

A History Lesson

It's probably a good time to explain why Sarah's mum lives in Bangladesh and not India.

A century ago and beyond, India was a collection of small kingdoms (I think it might have actually been the poms that unified them). These kingdoms were of assorted sizes and strengths, and each had a Maharaja ruling it. We saw some of the palaces, and in Rajisthan there are still some living maharajas. Our tour guides often referred to our various stops in Rajisthan as the princely states for this reason.

We have heard about the caste system in Hindu society. There were the Brahman, the highest caste that provided the scholars and religious leaders. Then the warrior caste, who are now the businessmen and politicians. Then the working class, the service industry. Finally the untouchables.
Sarah's dad comes from a Hindi Brahman family. That's one down and to the left of god.
A couple of generations ago, his family were from the time of the Maharajas in the state of Bengal. Today, Bengal is split into West Bengal, where Calcutta is, and the new Bangladesh. In both of these areas, the local language is still Bengali.
When India gained independence from the British in 1947, the one thing Gandhi couldn't do was get his people to agree on an inclusive government for all religions. There are many signs of this secular nature in both the flag and the currency of India, but it wasn't going to work for who would actually run the country.
Against Gandhi's best advice, the decision was made to split the country on religious boundaries. The bulk of central India would remain Hindu, while the Muslims would take the two top corners. These would become east and west Pakistan.
Those who were trapped on the wrong side of these new borders were often compelled to flee to 'their side'. Hindus in the east side of Bengal were pushed across into West Bengal, which stayed inside the new India. All lands they left behind were claimed by either the Pakistani government, or whoever was standing at the gate waving the last owners goodbye.
This is what happened to Sarah's dads family. They actually relocated to Varanasi, or Brahman Central.

Fast forward to this generation. Sarah's dad, Bishu, was a recent university graduate working for the Indian government in some kind of nuclear facility. During a laboratory accident, Bishu inhaled some chemicals, and within 24 hours he was completely paralised from the neck down.

He spent seven years in hospitals and in rehab in both India and Australia. The first few years in India were just keeping him alive, so no attempt was made to rehabilitate his body. According to the Australians, if he had come down under a few years earlier, he would have walked out of rehab. Instead, he was destined to live out his time in a wheelchair.

During the first few months, he would ask anybody who would visit, to read to him. Anything, fact, fiction, anything. This is where he met Vijaya, a nurse from a Christian family, who was to become his wife.
After some time he was able to read for himself, but his voracious appetite for reading only grew. One work of fiction that quite entertained him was in his bedside cabinet. The Gideon Bible.

Towards the end of his time in India, he had take his reading material seriously, and decided to convert to Christianity. He had a strong sense that he had been saved from certain death for some higher purpose, so he set about finding it. Obviously his relatives were not best pleased that he abandon his Hindu upbringing, and he was ostracized from the family.
Bishu and Vijaya went to Australia for his final rehab. When he was released from hospital, he was offered a position back home with the Indian government. A desk job. He declined.
What he chose instead, was for them both to enrol in a missionary school in Australia.

When they graduated, they were offered a position with the immigrant Indians in London.

Now, Bishu has always enjoyed a challenge. He never took the road well travelled.
Rather than the "safe" option of a desk job in India, with employment and pension for life, he took the challenge of a new career with a new religion.
Rather than the "safe" option of another desk job in London with an established ministry, he took the challenge of going to the land of his forefathers, the new Bangladesh.

Remember, this is a country that has no great liking for Hindus, and has even less tolerance for the workings of Christians.
Also, those missionaries that had already come to Bangladesh, were in the villages, where the real need for education and enlightenment was to be found.
So, a newly graduated missionary, going to a country with a low tolerance for mission work, and who had no way to join the established missions in the villages because of his wheelchair.
I did say that Bishu liked a challenge, didn't I?

His solution? Start his own mission, based in the city. Bring the villagers to him, for courses ranging from the spiritual to the practical. Heath care, education, learning to teach, many subjects that would set them up to build their own ministries in their own villages. It is called church planting over here. He established his school, The Christian Descipleship Centre, in 1979.










After many years building his reputation for quality graduates, and building low level sponsorship and support from a handful of small churches in different corners of the world, he was in a position to establish a purpose-built school for his students. He found land on the outskirts of Dhaka, and The Christian Descipleship Centre had a home.

Despite his success on both his chosen path and his work for the rights and conditions for the disabled around the world, living in Bangladesh remained challenging. As a foreign missionary, he was only ever issued a visa for short periods, usually one year at a time. In later years, the government began issuing five year visas. In spite of this, however, they were always under the threat of expulsion. Missionaries must live to a strict set of conditions, and even the accusation of a breach could have the Chowdhuris expelled from the country within hours.

Even with this Damocles sword hanging over his work, Bishu never lost his love for his Bangladesh.

There have been many close calls with Bishu's health.
The damage caused by his initial accident had compromised many organs. He operated for the rest of his life on only one lung, operating at about 20% capacity.

He had been declared clinically dead after he collapsed while in Sweden for a conference. He proved them wrong, and spent many weeks there recuperating.

Another time, he was rushed to hospital in Sydney, only to recover in record time.
Each time, he had been near some of the best medical care available, and each time he survived.






In 2010, he fell sick and was admitted to a hospital in Dhaka. It was decided to airlift him to a hospital in Bangkok. During that flight, he passed away. His body was taken from Bangkok airport to the hospital by helicopter, where his family would see him later.

Apparently, there were a couple of things left on his bucket list.

• First, he didn't want to die in Bangladesh. He passed away in Burmese airspace.
• Second, he had always wanted to ride in a helicopter. It was the last thing he did.

Anyway..
Sarah's mum has done a magnificent job of continuing the work that her husband started.
Unlike too many Indian widows, she has found something to live for, and has decided that there is work that still needs doing.

And that, my friends, is why she is an Indian, living in Bangladesh.

Goodbye to India

Well I survived India. Against all odds. After breakfast, we hopped into a hotel car and off to the airport. And a very nice airport it is. HUGE. Sarah is enjoying the duty free shops, but our gate is 15 minutes away. Yes. Fifteen minutes! See why?

A painless flight and we are in Dhaka.

Back to the old buses blocking the roads. I wonder if the Delhi traffic was better because they now have a workable rail/subway system, compliments of the Commonwealth Games. If the public transport users have the choice of rail, perhaps the result is fewer busses to clog the arteries.

Remember I said that it is now illegal to travel on the roof of a bus in India? Well, obviously that memo never got to Bangladesh.

I'm sorry but saying it doesn't make it true.
Yeah? Nah!

And yes, they are touching.

There clearly is a difference between the driving in India and in Bangladesh.
Every car will have some kind of a ding in India, that's a given. But nothing like the demolition derby that these buses endure every day.
Sure, there is the train to reduce the traffic, but there is something else.
In India, they create the extra lanes, they duck and dive around without warning, but it works. The traffic moves. It's almost like some kind of a fluid dance. Ever seen a video of blood or any bodily fluid at a microscopic level? The particles wriggle past each other like rush hour at Grand Central Station. Not too many collisions, they each play their part in the dance.

Not so much in Bangladesh. I once said that a Japanese video game designer should come here and put a camera on the bonnet of their car, and just drive through town. Forget guns and explosions in the car chase games. "Driving in Dhaka" would be an adrenalin overload.

Fit in that gap, get past that bus, don't let the baby taxi cut you off, those kids will get out of the way, ignore the rickshaws to your left. Drive up on that footpath. Phew! What a rush.

The drive from the airport to Sarah's mums place takes over an hour. We do it later at midnight, 10 minutes. Yes, ten!



Now for a different subject, this is how you chicken is delivered. Fresh fresh.

But if you want your chicken from the supermarket...



No, that is not quail. That's a chicken in this part of the world. Can you see why "authentic" Indian curry always has the bone in? There would be nothing left for the pot!

Out For Dinner

Went out for dinner with the rellies. Sarah's cousin painted Sarah's hands with henna. It's a paste made from the leaves of henna trees. You can always tell when an Indian girl is a new bride by two things. First, she will have bangles up the wazoo, all the way up her arms, heading towards the elbows. Apparently, they need to wear these bangles for 40 days after the wedding. Not sure how they get away with bangles and a uniform if they have to go back to work.
Second, she will have red doodles painted all over her hands. And on their feet. That is henna.

For those into elephants, these photos are from the entrance to the hotel

And Again

.Well, we did it again. We ventured out into the real world that is New Delhi.
Sarah's mum wants some more saris. Yes I know. I've just learned to go with it.
Took a cab to another shopping area Sarah had read about.
It's supposed to open about 1000-1030, and we arrived at 1050.

And it's closed. The driver says it might be open by 1130. Might? Oh, goodie. Now what?

Sarah suggests to fill in time, the driver could take us to a few touristy spots. So off we go.
Tourists. In a taxi. In Indian traffic. In New Delhi. Second day in a row. Holy crap!

The driver also says that, while we are at it, he can take us to a good place to buy saris, without having to come back over this part of town. Sure, lets do that.

So we check out a monument or two. The first one of interest was the Baha'i temple. I couldn't help but notice the similarity with the Sydney Opera House, built about 13 years earlier.

Then off to the shopping. Three saris later and we were back on the road again.

Seeing we had swallowed up half a day for our driver, he needed to pop in for fuel. Over here, all commercial vehicles, buses, cabs, small delivery vehicles, even the little baby taxis, all are compelled to run on CNG, rather than petrol. Trying to keep pollution at bay, not a bad initiative.

We also saw India Gate, a monument kind of like the Bridge of Remembrance in Christchurch, or the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. This is in the absolute centre of a wheel and spoke arrangement of roads, that house all of the offices and homes of parliament. A beautifully laid out and maintained part of town.

At the other end of one spoke are the Government Buildings.

I don't know if I have mentioned this before. The stuff we are buying in these markets are very nice quality. You'd be hard pressed to find this quality elsewhere in the world.

But. And it's a big butt! Looking back to those shops the tour took us to, the ones that ABBA whined about? The quality of THOSE shops was head and shoulders above what is in these markets. You just need to feel the fabric in what you are told is a pashmina. Then feel the fabric of one of the pashminas that Sarah bought in one of those exclusive shops. No comparison. Oh sure, they all pass the pashmina test. Thread it through a wedding ring and its a pashmina. But the softness of those good ones.  

Sorry if this sounds a little, shall we say "Metrosexual".

On The Streets of India

Well, we did it.
We went to a local market in New Delhi. Sarah and I, her mum, and Sarah's cousin, Rupa. She was our guide.
We took a car from the hotel, and went to a market Sarah read about.
Waded through that market for a few minutes. Crafty stuff, but the ladies were on a mission. Sarah's mum needed some new saris. Rupa knew of another market nearby, so off we go in a local cab. Interesting.

Not so crafty, this was a bunch of clothing shops all packed into an old building. Some were actual shops, some just stalls, all were busy. And there were hawkers. One guy held out a watch to me. "Want to buy a RADO?" Yeah right. RADO starts at about $2k. I was looking at some in KL, and I doubt these were even very good copies.

We found a good sari shop. We go in and sit on a bench, facing a large platform. Really just full sheets of plywood end to end down the length of the shop, about a foot off the floor, covered in fabric..
This is how all fabric shops do it in this part of the world. There is a guy sitting on the platform, pulling cellophane packages off the shelf, tipping the fabric out onto their hand, and spreading it in front of the customer. I've seen both these ladies do this before, and within minutes, there is a pile of fabric building up on the platform. No different this time.

Half the stock is now in a big pile in front of us, and there is a smaller pile over there with the stuff they want. Walked out with eight saris.
Then we found a stall with shalwar kameez for Sarah. This time there is no seats, so I've got to stand there holding the parcels, while the ladies do their thing, and 40,000 of the locals squeeze past me. Ooh, ah, sorry, am I in your way? I'll just stand over...oh, sorry.

One more stop, to pick up some children's clothes for family friends in Dhaka.

So Sarah gets what she needs, and we find another cab back to the hotel. It's actually very close.

Now I must say one thing. If there was an Olympic event for bargaining, Rupa would be the captain of the Indian team. Spectacular. Once we walked away and kept walking. Every other time the retailer called us back and made the sale. Sarah was not bad either. A bit of a tag team, they were.

So that ABBA conundrum? Done it!

The pictures?
Sarah's cousin with her daughter.
Sarah got on quite well with the short one. She calls herself the baby whisperer now.

The ABBA Conundrum

It is very understandable that ABBA wanted to do their own thing on the streets of India.
Walk through the exotic bazaars like the ones you've seen in the movies.
Haggle with merchants for that unique item, and walk away with both a great bargain, and the respect of the merchant for your natural bartering skills.
Taste the exquisite fresh foods prepared before your eyes.
Inhale those fragrances from spices and perfumes at every turn.

We all want to say that we did that.

But there is something that needs to be explained about shopping in India.

India is listed as high risk by most travel authorities. You've seen the news about local girls who get raped and murdered on these streets. ABBA includes a rather pretty blonde 19 year old. I don't even want to imagine what would happen to her if she turned the wrong corner on her big adventure, accompanied only by her grandmother and her thirst for adventure. Forget rape and murder. Kidnapping doesn't just happen in the movies. It is quite common here, too.

Then there are the markets. Pickpockets, muggers. The hawkers are at you like mosquitos. Show interest in anything, and it's all on. Fresh blood.

Looking at fabric? You have no clue of quality. Precious metals or stones? Unlikely you will find anything real here.

Food? Unless you were born here, street food could literally kill you. Hygiene is a foreign concept.

Water? Don't even think about it.

After all of that, if you are still prepared to run the gauntlet, then be an FIT. A free independent traveler. Millions of backpackers do it every year. They travel cheaply, they eat cheaply, they live cheaply, and occasionally they die cheaply.
If you have a strong constitution, or don't mind losing weight the old fashioned way, then it is a rich and unforgettable experience.

But don't expect that kind of "on the edge" living when you are in a tour party. Especially one of these exclusive train tour parties. These people have a responsibility to keep us alive.
Hence the expensive hotels for expensive meals. Hence the controlled shopping environments.

A new morning in New Delhi

Just having breakfast.

This is the hotel we stayed at for one night before the train, so Sarah is happy with the choices.

Maybe it was a mistake going from this place straight to the train cabin. It was never going to stack up.

But I blame Sarah. She has been bleating on for months about how this train is on a par with the Orient Express. Having seen all of the Agatha Christie movies, I knew how retentive Hercule Poirot was. If he was happy with the detailing on the Orient, then we would be happy with the Maharaja. That was the theory, and nothing ever stacks up to theory.

But let's not be ungrateful. It's great to be back in a bed that doesn't try to rock you to sleep, although it may take a few days for our bodies to stop moving.

New Delhi

We are now parked on the roof of the Leela Palace hotel, at poolside. Nice breeze up here.
Both ladies had a snooze this morning, but they are awake now.

The hotel driver was waiting for us when we got off the train after breakfast. Five minutes later and we were pulling up the drive of the hotel. Luckily, we were able to get our rooms straight away.

While Sarah slept, I uploaded the blogs I had been writing for the last week. I will continue to edit them and add photos as I go.

End of the line

We made it back to Delhi in one piece. Sarah slept quite well, because the train got in early and parked. No shaking.

Did I enjoy the trip? Hell yes!

Were the rooms on the train a little tatty? Sure. Did it matter? Actually, no.

Was the service onboard good? It was excellent.

Were the bus tours good? They were great.

Were the restaurants for lunch and dinner good? Brilliant.

Would I advise others to do this train trip? Absolutely.

Would I do it again myself? Actually, yes I would.

Is there anything I would recommend they improve? Sure. The rooms need freshening up, and some of the power sockets were a little dodgy, but that's just first impressions.

Would I recommend any preparation before the journey? Absolutely. Make sure you can sleep on a train. This is surprisingly important. Most people took a couple of days before they got much sleep. And then there was Sarah. She told everybody that she would not get a good sleep until the last night. Apparently, she is never wrong.
Also, a minimum level of fitness is kinda essential. There is a fair bit of walking to get the most out of it. And as I said, the steps can be a little intense for a minute or two.

I'm not talking athlete fitness. A fat slug like me is fine, but it was a little much for Sarah's mum by the end. We have only recently convinced her to ask for a wheelchair in airports, because of the long distances. She always used to trot alongside Bishu's wheelchair, loaded up with more hand luggage than Sarah would ever want to see on her watch.

Shopping

We were taken to a marble store on the way back to the train.

These are one of the families employed to do repairs on the Taj. We watch a demonstration of the style of inlay work done. They chisel a recess in the marble, and then glue carved pieces of semiprecious stones into place to make detailed patterns. The particular glue used to keep these stones from falling out after 400 years, is a family secret, handed down from father to son.

Sarah is tempted to get a benchtop made out of this stuff for our kitchen. So hard, it won't scratch. Watch this space, if I start doing overtime, then she may have started doing the maths.

And of course, Sarah did some shopping in another department. Clothes, of course! Taking one for the team.

Day Six

Sarah may have mastered being able to eat her meals during a never ending earthquake. She even managed to take a shower this morning on a particularly bumpy piece of track. But sleep? Not so much.
Even getting dressed, while occasionally challenging, is eventually achievable.
Left leg first. Come on you can do this, just lift that leg. You've been able to stand on one leg all of your life. A little movement isnt going to stop you. Just pick up your foot and punch it into that trouser leg. Here we go... Crash. Oh crap, feels like we ran over a cow. Lets try again.
This could go on for some time, until you throw in the towel and lie on your back and do an impression of an upside down turtle, with your legs wriggling around in the air. I think this is the approved method that fat girls use to try on stretch jeans in the mall.
You have to wonder. Did the fat girls learn it from the break dancers, or were they the inspiration?

Sarah says she had no sleep at all. This last stretch of track has certainly been challenging in parts.

Sarah's mum has decided to cut her losses and stay on the train today. She is surprisingly good with walking, but steps knock her for a six. And boy, do these forts and palaces have steps! Sarah says that some of them are up to her mums knees. Talk about a cardio workout. Maybe that was invented here.

We are heading for Agra. Oh dear, just saw my first squatter for the morning. I don't think I will have the blinds up during breakfast.

Agra is the location of a rather famous building. It is the shrine to all husbands who spend far too much on their wives. Sometimes I feel like I deserve a wing here myself!

There's a famous photograph of Princess Di sitting in front of this place. A couple of people back home have suggested that I should get a photo in the same location. But I don't look anything like Princy Di. Oh well. I just hope I don't obliterate the view of the building. I'm still the fat white guy, remember.

I'm sorry to disappoint those in the sweepstake that guessed I would lose half of my body weight, but I don't think I've lost anything. You can blame Sarah for that. She has managed to keep me away from everything so far. Bottled water seems to be the answer.

In the morning, we visit Agra Fort, or the Red Fort. These palaces and forts have so many courtyards. Very much a his and hers theme to the layout of these places.
Then lunch, and off to the big one.

Visiting the Taj Mahal is where you can see the advantage of being on this kind of tour. All the way along the trip, we have missed queues and gone straight in. But here. There is a queue that wraps around the base of the Taj before they can get to the steps. We go straight up. Then, up on the main platform, there is another queue that wraps around the building before they can get in. We go straight in.

To be honest, there isn't a hell of a lot to see inside. You walk around a bit, see a central chamber, and go out the back entrance to see the view over the river.

But the outside?
I'm sorry but I have to say it.
FUCK!
This building is fucking awesome!
The sheer majesty of it makes all civilized words pale into insignificance.
Somebody once described it as a teardrop on the cheek of time.
The marble it's built from is the hardest in the world. It is completely non-porous, and doesn't absorb any crap from the environment. Any dust or pollution gets washed off by the rain. It stays the original colour. Forever.

Not surprisingly, there is a bit of an industry around the Princy Di photo. There are photographers here, hawking their wares, all offering to photograph you on Princy Di's bench. Some of our group did it. They will not be best pleased that they got it wrong. Seriously! They got the wrong bench!

Look at the Princy Di photo. She is on an elevated platform with a pool at her feet, and the big white building behind her.
Now, google her bench, and you will get a million hits on people striking the pose. But they all have the pool behind them. Between them and the Taj.
Don't know why. The photographers just keep getting it wrong.
You'll see in my photo, I'm on the right bench. Can you see me? Sarah took it from the other side of the pool, where all the morons were lining up to sit for the birdie.
You will also see why I don't ask her to take many photos.




I've added a photo from the net to demonstrate. The bench that the dufus from Hollywood is standing on is in front of the pool. The photo of Di that he is comparing himself to, clearly has the bench between the pool and the Taj. He even had the original photo and he STILL fucked it up!!!

Indians all around the world should be proud of two things. First, that somebody in their heritage had the artistic genius to come up with something as beautiful as this thing. The fine, closeup detail as well as the broad strokes, the big picture.

Second, that the people are looking after it so well. There is tight security. Nothing is allowed in that can cause damage or litter. Almost all previous palaces, forts, temples and monuments were once buried in semiprecious detailing. In almost every case, everything worth anything was either stolen or fell off. Or both. Not here. It is in its original condition. We even have to wear little surgical booties over our shoes to walk on the marble. Impressive.

The locals didn't get to use the booties, they have to leave their shoes on a rack. With about 20,000 visitors here per day, good luck with that. "No, mine was the white runners. Yes there were two! The white ones. Nike. No, one Adidas won't do! Yes, size 9. Oh, just give me those jandals."

I have added some other shots, to show the beauty of the place. You know the designers who make a room neutral, so that a splash of colour lifts it? Well see what a few splashes of colour does for the big white tomb.

The Ganges River

You know the joke about where do Hindus go to die? No, nor do I, but this is the place.

For every Hindu, the goal is to visit this place once in their lives, bathe in it, and drink a little of the water. Given its record pollution over the years, drinking the water should ensure you're going to die here too.

The river is an unusual sight. It is one border of the city of Varanasi, the important one. Lots of activity on the bank. Here they call the bank a ghat, and it is separated into 84 ghats along the accessible length of the river. Im not sure how long each ghat is, but it can't be more than a few buildings long. There are houses, hotels, places of business.
As we drove to the river, our guide pointed out some cowpats covering the face of a wall to dry.
Just like the ones we had seen out in the country, these were the apartment living version, making use of available space. Quite clever, really.
He went on to tell us that a group of Japanese tourists, when shown the same wall, asked "how do the cows manage to do such perfectly round pats, and on the wall?" Mmmm!

After we left the bus, we were swarmed. Other than the normal tourist kitsch, many of these kids were trying to sell us candles, to float in the river later in the evening.
Sarah said something to them in Jibberachy, and they backed off from her. But that just made it worse for me. This one particular little girl seems to be trying to get between Sarah and me. You know how the big cats in Africa try to separate the weak animal from the herd? The sickly pale wildebeest, that's me. Easy prey, apparently.

We make our way precariously onto a boat ready for our journey along one of the worlds most historic rivers.
As we go along, it is a hive of industry. I can see level after level of windows climbing up the bank. Some of the bigger buildings are perhaps eight stories. Others are stacked behind each other, to achieve the same height. Building after building, as far as the eye could see, all the way down the riverbank. There are some very old buildings. Ancient, probably.







We pass one temple that may want to sue the local council. Or whoever built their foundation!!












We head downstream, towards streams of billowing smoke. You guessed it, skippy. Funeral pyres. Quite a few. All at the same ghat. A family business, this is the most famous Hindu cremation location in the world. Together with another one down the river, they are the only Hindu crematoriums allowed to operate 24/7, up to ten at a time. A real production line.

For obvious reasons, no photography is allowed in the vicinity, so as we approach, we are advised to put our cameras away. As the boats gather, our staff get a bit terse with tourists on other boats who continued clicking away. One woman responded, "If you can't take photos, then why is it so public?" I didn't hear the response, but I can't imagine it was particularly magnanimous.

We then moved onto another area, where a huge crowd was gathering. There is a prayer called Arti, which is held every night an hour after sunset. It seems to have become a tourist attraction, so there are still lots of children hovering about, selling floral candles for floating in the river after this prayer. One young girl who was walking from boat to boat, stopped on ours. A woman in our group asked the guide if the girl goes to school. In perfect English, the girl replies "I go to school". Priceless.
We were planing to leave before the service was over. With the number of boats that had pulled in behind us, not so much.

One thing we commented on, as we returned down the river in the dark. I have described the stacked buildings all down the city side of the river, but haven't mentioned the buildings on the other side. That's because there weren't any. At all.
Barren riverbank.

Apparently, if you live and die within the city confines, you will break the cycle of reincarnation. You will achieve nirvana, and become one with god. Outside the city, not so much.

They should sell the land to the Christians. They won't give a toss.
Here's a thought. Build hotels there. Imagine the value of having Hilton, Sheraton, Venetian, Wynn, Trump, all lined up on the far bank of the Ganges. I can't believe nobody has done it yet.

I'm just thinking about the gondoliers from the Venetian taking people out onto the river. There's a joke in there somewhere, but I think it best to step away from it.