Delhi
Delhi is not a city that should be tackled in a rush; the city’s streets are
among the world’s most congested and the real soul of Old Delhi only betrays
itself to those who take time to entangle themselves in its web. It has been said
that if you stand long enough on one of the busy corners in the exotic labyrinth
of Chandni Chowk bazaar the entire world will eventually pass before your eyes.
While this may be an exaggeration the Indian capital is certainly one of the most
enthralling places in the world for people watching: through the crowd come old
sadhu holy men, begging for alms; statuesque Sikh mountain-men, who look half-dressed
without guns on their shoulders and knives in their belts; dusky Rajastani beauties
who flash kohl-darkened eyes from under semi-transparent shawls; fair skinned Kashmiri
girls walking with tall elegance; and scrawny Brahmin cows, abusing their prerogative
for right-of-way through the entire crowd.
At the eastern end of Chandni Chowk lies the mighty Red Fort. This is one of the
great sights of India and its lawns and fountains are greatly appreciated by Delhi-ites
as a refuge from the bustle and clamour of the streets. Likewise the gardens outside
the nearby Friday Mosque (India’s biggest) are perpetually commandeered for
that other great Indian religion: cricket.
The great sprawl of Delhi defies the imagination and frequently thwarts all attempts
at navigation. For the purposes of the average visitor Delhi can be divided into
three quarters: New Delhi, Old Delhi and Pahar Ganj. Positioned between the two
main parts of the city, Pahar Ganj has become the main backpacker hangout. While
the impressive (but limited) Delhi underground system is an experience in its own
right the best way to get around Old Delhi is still by bicycle rickshaw. Allow twice
as much time as you really think you need…and then just sit back and enjoy
the ride.
The geometric network of the new city can be explored fairly well in a single day
(unless the traffic is particularly congested) but Old Delhi is the place to stay
for anyone who really wants to get to grips with what has been called ‘the
Happy Ant-heap.’
Kashmir - A Boatman's journey on Lake Dal
in Kashmir
Kashmir
I wake in the chill early morning haze and, freeing my feet from the tangle of four
or five blankets and the now tepid dead-body warmth of the hot-water bottle, I reluctantly
slide out of bed. I crank the gas heater up to full power – its warmth is
a mixed blessing since the gas bottle leaks just enough to oblige me to keep a window
cracked through the night. I dress crouched on the floor in front of the heater
and then peel the curtain back and peak out. It is still dark outside but I can
see the glitter of heavy frost on the ground. The entire experience reminds me of
days – so long ago that I hesitate even to attempt the maths – when
I would wake in the early winter mornings of northern England to dress for school.
(The reluctance for school is probably the second reason that I don’t attempt
the maths!). Those icy mornings are probably one of the primary reasons for why
I hit the road in the first place.
Thinking back on this I muse about the strange twists of fate that have brought
me to this ungodly wakening in the dark wood cabin of a forty year old houseboat
on Lake Dal, high in the Kashmiri Mountains. It is all very well to drift on a wing
and a prayer and place everything in the lap of the gods. It is one of the luxuries
of a year on a round the world trip that I am free for once to allow myself a bit
of spontaneity. But then again upon arrival in Delhi, with no further plan and with
a couple of weeks to kill before my first assignment, I found that the gods had
decreed that all the southbound trains would be full. They further gave me an almost
irresistible rate (after heavy haggling) and an easy path to the frozen north. For
an hour or so we sat on the plane in Delhi waiting for fog to lift at Srinagar,
the Kashmiri ‘summer capital’ in the foothills of the Himalayas. It
seemed that the gods reneged on the deal after all but eventually we touched down
amid the barbed-wire, cloaked Kalashnikov packing soldiers and Russian armoured
cars of Srinagar airport.
Now I was waking at dawn to meet my guide Fayas and take a boat through the tangled
labyrinth of foggy canals to the Lake Dal vegetable market. This amounts to the
Kashmiri stock-market.The floating pontoon jetty was frosted and slippery as I climbed
into the shikara (a Kashmiri version of the gondolas of Venice) and sat back in
the soft cushions nursing a warm cup of coffee. Kashmiris have a wonderful and unique
invention for dealing with the cold: beneath their voluminous robes they carry a
kongi. This is a terracotta pot inside a wicker basket and it is used as a sort
of mini barbecue with hot coals inside. But nothing is cooked on a kongi (although
it is also the source of fuel for recharging shisha pipes). Instead it is carried
around under the robes and keeps the local people wonderfully warm on these frigid
winter mornings.
It took about forty minutes for Fayas to paddle us through the labyrinth of houseboats
and down a narrow backcountry canal to the vegetable market. At first appearance
it was like any other vegetable market, apart from the serene way in which the shikaras
of traders and buyers wafted elegantly around and among each other. But the serenity
was shortlived. Within the course of half an hour we saw several fights and in one
case the combatants actually managed to fight while jumping from one boat to another.
The war might have quietened down finally in Kashmir but it seems like the Lake
Dal vegetable ‘stock exchange’ is once again the main battlefield.