Goan Days

Goa is cocooned from the rest of India and if it wasn't for the Indian menus in the restaurants then you could forget you're in India at all. The arched beach of Palolem sweeps around from Island at one end to rocky outcrop on the other and palm trees fringe the golden sand leaning in towards the bronzing bodies as if to provide some shade from the intense sun. Huts on stilts fashioned from coconut palm trees nestle into the trees and music billows gently from the beachfront restaurants with enticing smells of fresh mango, watermelons and papaya. Ten, maybe twenty, fishing boats line the beach with their nets stretching wide to dry from the morning's catch. The handsome Goans are used to foreigners invading paradise and their gazes are not as penetrating and uncomfortably long as in the rest of India. The sea itself is so warm that little relief is found from the tropical heat of off-season Goa but the cooling sea breeze is blissful and we floated on our backs for hours squinting up at the waving palms silhouetted by the sun.

The package holiday resorts are further north up the Goan coast and Palolem is more of a backpackers place. The coco huts are only 1.80GBP a night and very basic - a bed, fan, mosquito net if you're lucky and a hose in an outhouse for a shower - but most people spend more time on the beach and in the bars anyway.

On Sundays Indian families arrive by the busload to enjoy the paradise of Palolem. Groups of children play tag; adults play a version of our 'pass the parcel' in time to the banging of a drum and shrieks of laughter ring out when the object stops with one of them. Boys play cricket and football on the sand whilst others form human pyramids in the sea waiting for the next wave to wash over them in a jumble of arms and legs. We didn't wear bathing suits that day, feeling conscious of our scantily clad bodies next to the women bathing in sarees but we were sorry to see them go and missed the unselfconscious laughter that contrasts so sharply to some of the drug-euphoria seeking, sun worshiping westerners.

As the evenings draw in, people play Frisbee and handball under the pink and violet stained sky. Catches of the day are promoted in the beachfront restaurants; kingfish, red snapper, lobster, tiger prawns and the smell of grilled, sizzled and tandoori fish lace the sultry air. We ate the fish, drank like fish, supped cold kingfisher beer (spotting a theme here?) and watched the surf thunder against the beach.

The monsoon nights are just as fantastical as Goan days. The sky darkens dramatically and the air becomes oppressive, heavy and close. The wind whips the sand into frenzied whirlwinds and rain lashes the dried palm leaf roofs. Forked lightening splits the sky and blots out the twinkling stars as ominous thunder rumbles behind the clouds. Sheltered in our beach hut we were spectators of an angry mother nature demonstrating her awesome force in the shape of a Goan storm.

We treated our time on Palolem like a holiday; little budgeting (no shopping around for everything from mosquito spray to the cheapest place for dinner); no lugging our increasingly heavy backpacks daily from one place to another; no denying ourselves anything within reason. We had a couple of nights out at the 'Laughing Buddha' bar just behind 'Blue Juice' coco huts where we stayed. According to the English guy who runs the place, the nights have a "blend of ambient music and trance with a fusion of house, hiphop and live lyricists". We had absolutely no idea what that meant but we had some great nights there listening to live MCs, although when we requested a bit of Abba and Kylie we were met with blank faces and some very determined jungle music as if to cleanse themselves of the very idea! The late night parties were seriously loud though and after a while we moved to the more sedate 'Brandon's' coco huts that overlooked the sea for the ultimate in relaxation. Unfortunately we had a room mate for our three nights there - a gusset-munching rat who lived in the rafters and ate through three pairs of Beth's knickers, two skirts and bikini bottoms. Its daily offerings of rat poo were not appreciated either but our standards must have dropped so much that we opted to live with it until we caught the train, reluctantly, to India's southern state of Kerala.

The train to the south was pretty much full so we had to pay extra for the air-conditioned sleeper class. As we lay in the luxury of cool air and more comfortable benches we raised the tiny spiral shells, collected as souvenirs from the beach, to our ears hoping to recapture the sound of the surf breaking onto the golden sands of Palolem once more.

Bombay Mix

As Auckland is to Wellington, Sydney to Canberra and Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia, it's Mumbai (formerly know as Bombay) not Delhi, that is the cultural pulse of modern India.

We stayed in Colaba, the main traveller area and spent hours just strolling up and down the causeway taking in the different stalls that pull together handiwork from throughout India. The streets are tarmaced and whilst the traffic is still crazy, it is controlled by traffic lights and there are no auto-rickshaws (cue kerolene fumes). One afternoon we walked to the north of the city which revealed interesting architecture and impromptu cricket games on the Oval Maiden - a favourite past-time for Indians in the grip of the Indian vs. Pakistan test series.

The art deco regal cinema in Mumbai provides much of the Mumbaiite entertainment and at only 70 rupees (1GBP) we took full advantage of the air conditioned theatre. The decor was pure 1940 glamour with a dress circle and red velvet curtains framing the screen that opened to reveal a myriad adverts promoting everything from the rabies threat, how to fool pickpockets and the best course of action in case of an explosion during the film. We were not sitting comfortably.

The Indian cinema experience is very different from that anywhere else in the world. The audience are almost childlike in their involvement; booing at the villains, cheering the heroes and clapping at the end. They also stand to attention when the national anthem is played at the beginning. They certainly don't obey the no mobile rule however as the Nokia ring tune and muted conversations haunt the film dialogue.

'Phantom of the Opera' and 'Lemony Snicket' were appreciated by us if only to escape the humid heat of Mumbai. We also watched 'Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi' in the hope of seeing a Bollywood musical however we missed the claims that billed it as India's first political film. We are not entirely sure what made it political and why because it was half in English and half in Hindi but it was very violent and very sad...we think.

Mumbai is expensive by Indian standards but after a few days we started to really enjoy the cosmopolitan metropolis - a city that is perhaps a good indicator of how the rest of India will develop.

Browns go to Bollywood

Bollywood is bigger than Hollywood churning out 900 productions a year. For some reason that we haven't fathomed yet, associating with cacasians seem to carry some sort of status for the Indian people - almost like reverse racism - and as a result often feature as extras in the movies. Beth being the vain wannabe that she is was determined to be asked. Parading around Mumbai in a tshirt revealing her...gulp...shoulders and dramatically flicking her hair in an attempt to look glamorous, her ministrations had to date been fruitless. Abandoning hope she stopped forcing Steve to don a cap to disguise the bald patch she had accidently shaved off in her last attempt at giving him a croppy top (more like a toppy crop) and adopted her standard baggy tunic look again. Then we were approached by a 'foreign model coordinator' who asked us to be an extra in 'Chocolate' (yes, that is the name of the Bollywood movie) and would pay us 500 rupees each (only 6GBP but in Mumbai that is one night's accomodation!). We didn't mention that we would have paid them to visit the set and appear as an extra but we groomed ourselves within an inch of our life the night before and held in our curry engorged stomachs as best as we could.

Waiting for the bus to collect us we got chatting to a Scotish couple of extras, Charina and Neil, and compared srategies to be upgraded to speaking parts!

Three hours later after driving through some of Mumbai's slums that are amongst the largest in Asia and thoroughly seeing the outlaying areas, we pulled into a dusty entrance guarded by three sleepy looking security officials. Bollywood was not what we had imagined. We were greeted with tumbling down buildings badly in need of a paint and we couldn't imagine the likes of Harrison Ford putting up with the conditions in Hollywood! The 30 men and 10 women extras were whisked away for make-up. Bright pink was applied to Beth's eyelids then rimmed with thick black and completed with bright red blusher and lipstick. Satisfied she looked like a transvestite they hauled out the costumes. Not the glamourous dress Beth had been led to believe but to her horror a white bra top with an orange ribbon, a tiny white and orange ra-ra skirt so short that orange cycling shorts had to be worn underneath and a white and orange hat. The wardrobe department brought out a selection of the oldest dirtiest looking black court shoes we had ever seen and the group of girls, already reeling in shock from the cheerleader/easyjet uniform we were being forced to wear had to squeeze their feet into shoes three sizes too small. One of the Indian wardrobe men looked at Beth's feet and stated 'big, big feet'. How rude. Beth was given men's brogues to wear with the ensemble. Not a good look and even Kate Moss couldn't have carried off the disasterous costume. The girls were paraded outside much to the enjoyment of the Indian workers on site and we realised that perhaps we were contributing to the stereo type of western women. Fortunately at that stage the boys came back out donned from head to foot in navy polyester suits and Beth hid behind Steve as the girls were briefed on their roles. We were to be waitresses in a bar somewhere in Europe. Of course. Obviously all waitresses in Euorpean bars wear cheerleader uniforms in the corporate colours of Easyjet. Stupid us. The boys were supposed to drink beer whilst watching the Bollywood dancers. The feminist movement would have had a field day.

We were just so excited to be part of the Bollywood action though that we waited in the holding room for our 15 minutes of fame...or shame. We waited and waited. Morning passed and moved into lunch time and game after game of cards kept us sane through the afternoon. At 8pm - 12 hours after we had been picked up and 10 hours after make-up and costume changes we were called on. It was worth the wait to see the beautiful Bollywood star in a diamond encrusted dress (much more covered up than the western girls it has to be said) shimmering her way through dance routines with handsome Indian men in DJs. Steve's moment of glory arrived when the male extras got to dance around the actress with glasses of fake beer. The waitresses were not even featured. Beth and Charina by this time were relieved - they just wanted to get out of the stupid costume and cover themselves up from the army of lecherous production staff. Honestly, cut from the film before even getting in front of the camera.

We got back to Colaba at midnight and went to Leopold's club for well deserved beers with Charina and Neil. After four beers each we convinced ourselves that we were superstars anyway and until the hangovers kicked in we remained Bollywood legends in our own lifetime!

Poor, Polluted Ahmedabad

Cricket delivered us to the city reported by Rough Guide as ranked amongst the world's top 10 most polluted. Pakistan vs. India to be exact, in their first test since the bloody riots of 2002 staged in said city. After our disappointment at the rained off cricket in Australia is seemed rude not to see this legendary game whilst we were so close. So we arrived at 5am with the streets seemingly devoid of activity bar cows and stray dogs roaming. Nothing unusual as they dominate most Indian cities as do the mass of sleeping bodies, dirty and matted, clustered outside the train station - their refuge for the night. The only difference here was the quantity of each of the above. Similarly litter, whilst an unfortunate plague of Indian cities and a lack of education on the part of the government, was literally lining the streets forming small mountains of rubbish.

We headed to a recommended guesthouse despite the auto-rickshaw driver doing everything in his power to persuade us otherwise; it's closed sir, the police are always there sir, I know a better one sir. Correctly we concluded that the hotel would not pay commission to the drivers who delivered us to their doorstep. The hotel was absolutely appalling and wins the accolade of the worst place we have ever stayed in on our travels - against stiff competition too. Stained sheets, sagging bed on the point of collapse, damp and peeling walls, burnt carpet and broken toilet seats. The list could go on but it's too depressing. It was cheap and we were tired so after brushing an over-eager cockroach from the bed we gingerly slipped between our sleeping bag liners until giving up to sleep. The cold light of day did the room no favours which at best should be condemned and at worst, demolished.

Our appearance drew more attention than usual as Ahmedabad is off the normal tourist route and clearly they were not used to foreigners in their midst. We were cat-called, jeered and stared at with every step and at lunchtime we slid into a dining hall finding anonymity in the shell of a building. Nevertheless the food was good - not dumbed down for the palette of foreigners as often seemed to be the case in Rajasthan. Every mouthful was shared with an involuntary gulp of carbon monoxide omitted from the hundreds of auto-rickshaws congesting the roads and wafting kerosene fumes onto the masses.

We optimistically went hunting for cricket tickets only to find they had sold out. Half disappointed and half relieved that we could leave, we managed to change our ticket and left that evening heading for what we hoped would be the civilisation of Mumbai.

The City of Lakes: Udaipur

It took ten hours by bus from Jaiselmer but it was actually not as bad as we had imiagined and we had certainly travelled on worse in Laos but it was just soooo hot. We arrived safely (a miracle) and checked into the very nice Kumbha Palace, targeted by us because it advertises marmite on toast for breakfast. Oh the joy of feeding our addiction after so long of going without! Our delight seemed to offend the chef who clearly would have preferred us to go into raptures over his (excellent) alu gobi.

Udaipur is named the most romantic city in India and the guide book promised us 'shimmering reflections of the Lake Palace in the water of Lake Pichola'. Unfortunately not much was reflected by the dry lake bed - without water for years now. D'oh. Watch James Bond Octupussy to see Udaipur at it's most romantic complete with shimmering lakes and chaotic rickshaw scenes.

We had little time in Udaipur so we took an auto-rickshaw (a very jolly Indian driver) and were driven around the sights of the city; from the heady heights of the monsoon palace to the splendor of the city place, from the 4000 year old Jain temple to the ancient Royal Cenopaths before rounding off with a traditional puppet show. The latter only served to perpetuate our view that the Indian men are sexually repressed - the puppets appeared to hump and gyrate their way through the show at the hands of the pervy puppeteer!

Two hours of the day was spent sending parcels. And we thought Royal mail was slow? In India, they do not use cardboard packaging for international post but goods are wrapped in cheesecloth then hand stiched around the items and finally sealed in place with wax stamps. Honestly, it's an art form, albeit one that involves a frustrating amount of time to execute.

Reluctantly we moved on leaving the cleanest and least polluted of cities we had visited, to pray for rain to restore their most famous lake to it's former glory.

The straw that broke the...

Excuse the pun but it really did seem as if the camels were carrying everything but the kitchen sink on our safari into the Thar desert (including us) but of course they are not called the 'ships of the desert for nothing'.

We were totally overcharged for our safari when we should now know better by now but that aside we were taken 85km by jeep into the heart of the hostile desert where we saw not a soul but desert people for two days. It was just the two of us, three camels, the camel driver and his boy Friday - a motley crew that made for interesting conversation around the embers of the campfire where under the stars we lazily compared rural life for Muslim villagers to the professional lives of the British. We weren't sure who were the happiest actually! With a Bullet beer (Special Brew has nothing on this 8% rocket fuel) for us and a coca-cola for our (Muslim) driver, we ate homemade chilly chicken with chapatis to mop it up and a strong helping of sand blown in for good measure.

Camels might be ships of the desert: sturdy, strong and able to travel for days without water but comfortable they are not. Steve (already bow-legged) now walks like John Wayne and Beth has seemingly permanent bruises on her butt cheeks. We did a five hour trek and people who do the three day version deserve a medal of endurance in our opinion! Camping overnight in the sand dunes made it worthwhile though as we fell asleep under the stars using a cactus to shelter us from the swirling sand. Next morning over porridge eaten with our fingers and sweet, sweet chaye, the little boy started screaming in Hindi. Our camel driver leapt to his feet as we sat bewildered, cross-legged with porridge covering our mouths and dripping from our fingers (haven't quite mastered the whole eating with your fingers thing yet). Apparently a snake was the cause of concern and we saw its tail disappear into the thicket of the cactus bush before we could leap behind the camels. We learnt that snakes, scorpions and spiders are common during the dry period in the desert and we thanked Mohammad that we didn't posses that knowledge before we slept!

On the way back to the jeep we finally became more au fait with the operating instructions. Unlike horses, camels don't have a bit between their teeth but two holes drilled either side of their nose (we were assured it's like ear piercing - painful at first but okay after they recover). Ropes are connected to the holes and unsurprisingly tugging on the reins gently moves them a lot. To make them go faster you click your tongue as if emulating a galloping horse for a child. We sounded ridiculous but it worked all the way back to the jeep and where we headed back to Jaiselmer, stopping only for photographs of some royal cenopaths situated in front of some wind turbines: a good example of new and old India even in the depths of the desert.

Desert Town

Jaiselmer is a small dessert town rising from the arid heat of the Thar desert, 100km from the Pakistan border. Despite the intense temperatures which soared to over 40 dregrees by day, we absolutely loved Jaiselmer with it's beautiful lopsided fort rising like a sand castle. A labyrinth of tiny winding streets run through the fort between the old havelis and are decorated by textile stalls lining the walls with their wares that twinkle and sparkle in the sun.

The women's sarees of bright reds, pinks, green and blues seem even brighter than normal against the backdrop of yellow and brown sandstone buildings in the desert. It was also a shopping haven with everything from clothes, wooden boxes and leather bags to antique furniture, miniture paintings and puppets. We bought many wonderful things that we probably don't need and for a house we haven't got but we challenge anyone who thinks they can resist the swirl of colours of Rajasthan's craftsmen.

Jodhpur: True Blue

Our trip to Jodhpur was in the evening and we were hoping that the train would be quiet enough to grab a free sleeper for some kip. No can do, largely because we had not checked our tickets closely and were actually in plain second class. Seven hours on a plank was interesting and people watching was impossible because everyone was watching us but we shared some particularly tasty pakoras with a friendly Indian and the carriages were a cheaper price than the sleepers (can you believe 1gbp for 1000kms) so we chomped happily on our 20p snacks until we reached the blue city.

It was so late by the time we got to Jodhpur that the famous blue buildings weren't visible. We collapsed into our room at the Cosy Guesthouse, ignoring the dust and choosing to see the character instead and fell into a fitful sleep in the 30 degree heat of the night. The next morning we woke to a sea of blue. The rooftop terrace, whilst too hot to sit for long, afforded amazing views of the old city. Blue washed buildings boasted orange lined windows and bright green doors. The monkeys jumped from terrace to terrace stopping occasionally to gaze at the Jodhpur Fort set on a hill towering over the city streets and surprisingly brown in defiance of the sky blue both below and above.

The blue comes from the copper sulpher used to paint the structures to prevent termite damage and in the sun it turns the buildings blue. On the ground, the streets are so narrow that dodging the auto-rickshaws and leap frogging the cows (who seem to realize they are sacred and can therefore wander wherever they like) becomes quite a sport. It was just too hot to wonder around in the day and we chilled in the Cozy Restaurant until late afternoon when we visited the Jodhpur Fort. The audio guide was excellent and gave a great sense of history and the pomp of the Maharajas. We had our palms read in the Fort for what turned out to be spot-on in terms of our personalities although later we became skeptical - had our entrance into the office given us away? For example, Steve was rather accurately described as hating objects out of place such as a desk lamp placed three inches from where it normally sits. But maybe when he placed his bag on the floor and then looked at it and moved it so that it was precisely 360degrees to the left gave him away? Anyway we discovered that we would be exceptionally happy after our 48th year. Not long to wait then.

At 11pm that evening we caught the sleeper train to Jaiselmer and after being bombarded by aggressive camel trek touts for ten minutes the lights went out and we slept in peace dreaming Maharaja's painting whole cities blue.

All Aboard!

What have foreign tourists, journalists and freedom fighters got in common? They share a counter when queuing for train tickets in Indian stations. Confused? We were.

Despite having the largest rail network in the world and employing more people than any other organization on the planet (1.6 million!), Indian Railways have a reputation for being incredibly inefficient. We have heard from other travellers that they have wasted days waiting for ticket confirmations. Our experience has been very different (touch wood)...providing we buy our ticket alongside the freedom fighters of course.

We have been traveling in 'second class sleeper' where the middle-class Indians tend to travel also and costs only 2GBP for 1000kms. Maybe British Rail can learn from this (although perhaps they could ignore the statistic that also claims Indian Rail as the most dangerous in the world!) Second class sleeper carriage is certainly where everything seems to happen – from the noisy chaye-wallahs and pakora salesmen to beggars sweeping the carriages for donations. This seems to be where we see the Indians at their most relaxed, eating pakora wrapped in newspaper, sipping chaye from clay cups and gazing through the bars on the windows to admire the views of their beautiful country.

Jaipur: Pretty in Pink

On the train journey from Agra to Jaipur, with time to absorb the beauty of the surroundings, in an environment blissfully free of touts and without the fear of our bags being stolen or the intense and uncomfortable staring, we realised that the adverts from the tourist board proclaiming 'Incredible India' have a point. Rural Rajhastan is as flat as a pancake for the most part and very dry with a base of golden crops sprinkled with green trees dotting the patchwork. Out of the polluted cities, the rural areas are lovely, often punctuated by gaping canyons veering into jetting hills with water buffalo and huge grey birds frolicking in the lakes at their foot. It was nice to see Indians on the train - in particular the families - joking, relaxed and laughing together. The children offered to share food with us and we joined in their feast of the best vegetable curry and chapatis we may ever possibly eat. It was lovely to meet such warm and generous people.

When the train arrived in Jaipur, we fought our way through swarms of rickshaw touts and mosquitos - both equally annoying - to check into the Diggi Palace which had been recommended to us. It was a refreshing slice of beauty amongst a modern city (or modern compared to Delhi) and based in a 200 year old Haveli, the traditional buildings were beautifully decorated with colourful friezes and ornate carvings decorating the coving, ceilings and walls. The large gardens were heaven and as we imagined the British colonial grounds in old India - luscious flowers, reclining chairs, mischievous stripy squirrels and tall trees housing chattering monkeys, lending an edge of privacy to the secluded gardens. We fell in love with it as well as noting down some interior design and gardening tips!

We discovered that we had arrived on the tenth and final day of the Rajhastan festival and there were fireworks in the Albert Hall only half a kilometre from the Diggi Palace. We walked there in the evening but the crowds were rowdy, the catcalls and staring intense and we were conscious that we were the only foreigners in sight. A kind teenager came over and warned us that if we were to move further into the crowd then they (the crowd) may become 'abusive' and we could be in danger. Thanking him profusely we battled our way back to the sanctuary of the Diggi Palace and sank down into the comfy chairs on the roof top restaurant, ordered a beer and thanked the Lord Krishna that we hadn't been victim to the celebrations again. Latest we discovered that the Rajhastan officials came under fire for lack of security at the event.

For the next two days we commissioned an auto-rickshaw driver to take us around the sights of Jaipur and as we entered the pink city area we learnt what the fuss is about. It's quite simply all pink (or slightly beige due to the pollution), first painted in the 19th century to welcome Prince Albert and is now painted each year for the Divali celebrations. The markets that line the streets are tremendously busy as merchants sell the popular and native blue pottery, jewelry and textiles. Unfortunately foreigners get too much hassle to wonder around as it is predominantly a locals area however it was fantastic to observe from the rickshaw. Based on the number of near misses, our driver was an exceptionally skilled driver (although of course he could have been just lucky) as bikes, camels and even elephants seemed to advance on us at frightening speed only for us to swerve at the last minute. We were too busy to take in the scene however to worry too much and we let ourselves be driven to the first building - Palace of Winds.

We couldn't help sniggering in Beavis and Butthead style at the name until we learnt the origin - named as such for the cool breezes the palace allows through it's lattice windows to ease the heat for the ladies of the King who hid behind them to avoid being stared at. Beth wished it was only as easy as that in modern day India. Creamy buttermilk merged with creamy chocolate against a backdrop of strawberry milkshake were the colour palette used to coat the honeycombed spires and stone pillars of the wonderfully mystical Palace. Despite the 'bad people' our rickshaw driver had warned us of, we posed for photographs with timid smiling Indian families in the blaze of the midday sun (we're available for Barmitzvers, Christenings, weddings etc) that warmed our backs as the cool breeze soothed our faces.

Our next stop was the ancient observatory which seemed to have been largely built to observe heavenly bodies as far as we could gather from the information boards. We had no idea what it all meant but the architecture was fascinating and despite the midday sun it was wonderful to walk around. The observatory is actually more of a deep orange than pink depending on the time of day and position of the sun.

In the afternoon we visited a textile house to see block printing and we walked out covered in gold glitter, happily clutching a silk bedspread that we didn't need but fell in love with. A jewellery maker was next on our list to observe what Jaipur is truly famous for - the cutting and polishing of gem stones. Amethysts, malacites, turquoise and onyx gleamed invitingly at us and of course Beth left clutching rings and pendants worth over 200GBP in England but only the equivalent of 20GBP in India. Our final stop was to visit a beautiful tomb that a Maharaja built to commemerate his children who had died of malaria. The marble was so intricately carved we could not contemplate the time it had taken to finish even one horse and with the tiger fort on the hill as a backdrop we felt we were seeing some wonderful sights in an amazingly historic city. We spent the evening in the fragrant garden under the stars chomping on curried cottage cheese and watching the peacocks hop and call to one another beneath the bunyan trees.

Our driver (always wanted to say that darhhhling!) took us to the Amber fort some 11km outside the city for our final day in Jaipur. On route we took photos of the lovely Water Palace isolated by a moat and only accessible via boat. The Amber Fort itself gleamed in all its amber sandstone glory as it towered above the Amber settlement. We took an elephant to the top, patting the huge beast who seemed very aware of how majestic it looked with its trunk painted with green and pink colours in contrast to the mottled grey of its body. Our guide to the fort was excellent and made the rooms come alive with stories of the King playing hide and seek with his 12 wives and the winner being rewarded with his body for the night! The wonderful fresco paintings of muted pastel flowers and Ginesh the elephant God have survived over 350 years in almost perfect condition due to application of the natural paint on wet plaster resisting droughts, monsoons and eager visitors hand prints. Further into the fort, the King's bedroom (for presumably when he was too tired to service his demanding wives) had thousands of mirrors set into the ceiling and when a stray ray of sun or even a torch fell onto it, the room came alive as if millions of stars were twinkling down on us.

Certainly Jaipur has been our favourite place in India to date - fascinating when you can observe its wonderful sights from the safety of an auto-rickshaw!

'Marblellous' Taj Mahal

The train journey to Agra whilst not particularly comfortable was much better than we expected. Four hours passed relatively quickly as we chatted with another English couple, Alex and Toby, who had pretty much covered the same route around the world as us. Alex is an ex-travel writer for Conde Naste and Beth was green with envy for most of the train journey!

Agra itself is not very beautiful. A dusty, dirty, smelly town full of touts and beggars. The Sheela guesthouse was a retreat from the madness; set in an enclosed garden boasting hisbiscus, palms and sunflowers. The food was excellent (when is a curry ever not?) and it was our haven as we sipped chaye (sweet milky tea) and started the day with Indian muesli and curd.

At 5.45am on our first full day in Agra, we stumbled into the queue for the Taj Mahal, gradually getting more excited the more awake we became as we contemplated what we were to see: a gleaming, 400 year old white marble tomb romantically dedicated to a Moghal emperor's wife. The vision was no less romantic than the story. The first glimpse of the Taj Mahal was breath-taking; dwarfing the tourists that swarms around it, the Taj is perfectly symmetrical in design and reflected in the great run of water that lines the path to the 7th wonder of the world. We felt humbled and certainly insignificant in the presence of such beauty that seems to defy modern architecture in it's ostentatious statement of eternal love. The cool white marble is inlaid with marble of intricate floral designs and wonderfully scripted Islam verse. As the sun rose and warmed the marble, the Taj took on a golden glow repelling rays from the sparkling stone and rebounding off the semi-precious stones set into the walls.

Whilst in an exploring mode we bravely wondered into downtown Agra and walked to the Red Fort, a UNESCO world heritage site and one built entirely of red sandstone but blasted with white shell plaster to make the gigantic fort appear like marble. It actually looked better in the places where the white plaster had come off, the deep red in contrast to the neighbouring Taj Mahal visible from the fort. After a couple of hours of wondering through the maze of levels and after two photo requests by Indian men, we walked on towards the mosque. We didn't get far however as the number of touts aggressively hounding us was too much and we headed back to the haven of Sheela where we stayed drinking lassies for the rest of the evening.

It is easy to harden your heart in India. The touts (the majority) do not make it easy to recognise the genuinely kind people (the minority) when they come along (rarely). It's really hard not to lump Indian men here together as sexually repressed, uncouth and aggressive but we're trying to be open minded and certainly today we have met men who are genuinely helpful and kind. We are working to the theory that one nice man makes up for run-ins with three bad ones. It keeps us positive anyway! So a day of contrasts but nothing can usurp the Taj Mahal which lives up to the hype and, like Angkor Wat, will leave an impression with us for life.