I am duly deposited back in sultry Asian climes; after chilly Melbourne I am once again encased in dampness. I do quite enjoy the sudden shock of arriving in a totally different world- far more disorienting than the logic of slow travel. I enjoyed my spaced-out flight: Hurtling through the night skies in a metal canister, stars out and lonely lights from a ship down there on the dark sea, is a perfect place to feel disconnected from reality. We passed over a lit-up island in the middle of nowhere, eerie in the black: some kind of military base? Poised and ready, soaking up dollars from somewhere. I’m quite used to ignoring people now too- certainly no appetite for friendly plane chats, tho I have still had a few. I nearly had a chatty Aussie sitting next to me but luckily he’d got the wrong row- I heard him droning on behind me for the rest of the flight. I was disappointed to realise airplane food needed pre-booking. I watched the foiled parcels being dished out to the savvy few, wondering with envy what delights lay within. I was probably over-indulging in Melbourne on cafe treats, so it was good to remind myself that a periodic fast is a sensible thing. Besides, I had eaten a fair bit before the flight so I was hardly in need. I just really like plane food. Total passivity: being served slightly miniature food while trapped in the sky. 

The stay in Melbourne was successful, not that I had anything in particular to achieve (or did I?). I had fun staying with my friend, and it was a pretty chilled experience roaming the city. I didn’t put much pressure on myself to do much, but simply due to the number of days I spent there things got seen in the end: Abbotsford convent, Preston market, St Kilda, Chinatown, quite a few galleries. Probably got a fairly good set of pictures overall, despite the absent and half-hearted nature of many of the strolls. So I guess it was more of a holiday than other recent travel segments. Melbourne’s charms are fairly subtle: an old Italian cafe, or a gently modish one, a well-thought-out shop, a dishevelled street with neat graffiti, understated restaurants. I could have spent a fortune eating and drinking and getting very fat, but if I lived there I’d try to balance it out with some yoga and bike-riding. There is still the sense that it would be a great place to be if I were feeling on good form- an open city of little communities, or so it seemed. 

In Manila I find myself quite far from the centre (although, strangely, I had planned that) in a strange hostel-type place with nice, big communal space and tiny single rooms. I suppose this is not the area tourists are immediately drawn to. The taxi driver from the airport was simultaneously trying to get me into a different hotel and pair me off with one of his daughter’s friends. The area I’m in is called Teacher’s Village and there are some local guests here, but I don’t know if they’re teachers or not. [I later found out it was because the University of the Philippines was nearby.] I am currently in the open area, sweating under a useless fan, being delicately nibbled by a troupe of mosquitoes. I didn’t sleep enough last night, so today I wandered to the nearby street with cafes etc, had some kind of American breakfast (half fry-up, half pancakes), then took a taxi south to a Megamall. I’m not sure why I did that, but I suppose it was vaguely interesting seeing people from a specific country browse the shops that exist in lots of other countries. I think it was Father’s Day, so that must’ve added an extra layer of family jollity which, in retrospect, was vaguely noticeable. Perhaps I should just visit loads of malls. I thought the one I visited was a massive one, but apparently it was normal sized- there were far larger beasts lurking within the city. I bought some trainers and a cap, so I am now in theory ready to jog around the city, which of course would be a ridiculous thing to do. I walked around outside a little bit, but there is the predicted melange of heat, noise and fumes to contend with, so I kept early reconnaissance to minimum and focused on drinking coffee and reading the Anaeid: pretty good  thus far- am especially enjoying the finely wrought slaughter scenes. 

(continued)

The rest of the Manilia trip turned out to be OK, although it probably wasn’t sensible staying in that area, away from any area that would be interesting to photo. But I walked round a bit, and at least the area was fairly calm. It was just too hot to do much. I did meet a few nice guys who ran a coffee shop/community space, sourcing coffee from various parts of the country and turning it into fancy brews, so that was my Manila social interaction. It was good to meet some guys doing something a bit different: setting up a coffee co-operative/art space. It meant I could have some good conversation before I went off to the beach. I’d done a bit of google-research and found an area a few hours bus ride away called Zambales. I didn’t want to travel too far, so it seemed ideal. The bus dropped me in a small town and I took a sidecar-taxi to the airbnb- a nice guesthouse set in a garden, run by a friendly and welcoming Swiss/Philippine couple. I wasn’t really up for chatting a lot, but I did feel relaxed and comfortable there. I avoided a few foreigners who were there in the evenings to eat in the restaurant, overhearing some of their conversation from my little wooden cabin in the garden. I spent a few days swimming in the sea, reading on the beach. It was precisely the right thing to do, and I didn’t need to worry about doing much. It had been a long time since I’d been able to just enjoy floating around in the sea. At night one of the two dogs would go to sleep under my hut, shuffling around and shaking the timbers. Comforting and annoying at the same time; I felt sorry for the shaggy beast trying to survive in the heat. I woke up early because of the heat, the noise, the light. One day I went to the beach around 6am- there was a little boat waiting, manned by two brothers. They took me to a few nearby islands. On one of them it was just us. On another, there were a few other boatloads of local tourists. They were fun, and a few people took photos with me: part of the day’s sightseeing. And then I was alone again, strolling up and down the empty sands. 

The next day the boat was there again, and we went off to one of the nearby cove-beaches. The one that I’d first read about, but hadn’t been staying on, as it was camping only and it seemed better to get prepared and go there in a group, with food etc. Lush green hills, calm water, the small wooden boat chugging along. We turned into the cove, the beach set a long way in, a smaller beach on each side of the approach. I was deposited on the shore. Fairly quiet, a few people, boats pushed up onto the sand, the sun still low and the light coming softly through the trees. The beach was split into campsites, hidden amongst the trees. I walked on the beach, swam to one of the little beaches. It was all getting a bit Robinson Crusoe. I swam back, I read for a bit. I didn’t have my phone, so I suspected they’d be expecting me at the airbnb in the evening. Hadn’t had breakfast- walked along the beach, found a hut selling cup-a-noodles etc. Kept walking. Heard some music and thought it might be a cafe. Met a smiling Turk who was living there in a small concrete room, the only non-shack on the beach. It wasn’t a cafe, but he shared an omelette with me and gave me a coffee. He had a full set of the encyclopaedia Britannica and loads of other reference books. All quite surreal and out of the blue, enhanced by the trippy atmospheric music, all at a particular ‘nature’ frequency. I was pretty sure the music would be freaking out/annoying the locals nearby. He seemed sane enough. He’d just decided to live here, with his books. I wasn’t convinced his English was up to a lot of the subject matter, but he said he was learning that too. His pregnant wife was in Manila, so he was dividing his time. I got the impression he wanted to raise the child on the beach- not sure if his wife shared his enthusiasm.

I spent the day reading (‘P’ in the encyclopaedia, and a psychology book), drinking coffee, floating around the shallow water of the cove, playing a bit of volleyball… In the evening we drank a bottle with a few other guys, swigging round the circle, picking at some fish in the centre. The campsite owner bamboozled me with a string of card tricks. The day had worked out remarkably well. I’d been fed and watered and had enough money for a tent to sleep in. It was Saturday, so the beach had a few groups of visitors. In the morning, a large group of friends (from a university Christian Society) were cooking up a great breakfast and I was lucky enough to get a plateful. When I got back to the guesthouse on the Sunday, I realised the hosts had been very worried. I thought they might be a bit worried, so I felt guilty about that. I’d found the secret (not secret) cove so alluring there was no way round it. No phone, not even any phone reception. Pretty much P for Paradise. 

Back in the city I did manage to have one day’s hike around the centre. Not much to report, but at least I made the effort to brave the heat, get some shots, and get a glimpse of the city’s chaotic streets. I had an air bnb which wasn’t a sweltering hole, so I felt better equipped to tackle the city. I would go back: I could explore the coffee areas the cafe people go to, and return to my beach- where I could quite happily spend a very long time taking dips in the sea, reading, wandering the hills (there’s a waterfall which I never made it to), soaking up those sunsets. 

June is here, but so is winter. Melbourne has turned from warm and sunny to cold and grey. I’m staying in Thornbury with my friend- a period of family life which has been easier than I thought to adapt to. They have been very welcoming and relaxed, so I’ve not had to worry too much about feeling detached. If I can feel comfortable in a situation then I can just be detached with a fair amount of acceptance. So in that sense, it’s good to have some time in a stable environment, with daily doses of sociability with familiar people. Plus it’s quite fun to observe a functioning unit of adults, kids and pets, and feel involved a bit too. I’ve had a few errands to do, but mostly I’ve been free to come and go. There are a couple of tram lines that run south towards the centre so getting around has been simple. I was quite upbeat when I arrived, pleased to see my friend and a new city. It’s nice to be in a quiet area- I can stroll around and take photos and not feel too stressed. I’ve found a great yoga place, so I have tried to fit that into the (empty) timetable, so I am glad I have been able to keep that going with some regularity since India. 

Looking back on my time here, I should be feeling more positive. I’ve made a fair effort to walk around and soak up the suburban novelty and graffitied streets. I’ve rooted out various little galleries and been talking to some people there, which on occasion has been quite enjoyable. Also at the yoga place, I’ve been chatting to a couple of the teachers who I really like- challenging, but at least the incentive has been there to make the effort. I’ve been to lots of nice cafes- pretty unavoidable given the frequent need to duck out of the cold and rain. I’ve been to a few life drawing classes at one gallery: again, a really positive experience. We’ve had to do some light mingling in the breaks as we peruse each other’s work. I tend to feel more spaced out in these situations: people at close quarters under gallery lights, after the concentration of the drawing (with glasses on- which makes it worse). Still, I’ve have had some fairly nice interactions. Under normal circumstances, these activities would be a great way to make friends and get involved in the life of the city.

I’ve seen some good films- part of a German film festival… got one more left on my 5 ticket pass. So I’ve had places to go, given myself things to do. The only thing I’ve not really been doing is getting involved in the social life of the city- bars etc. I’ve been out a bit with my friend, making the effort to engage in as normal a way as possible, but generally I hate the sensation of being in noisy, busy places and find it quite hard to communicate in those environments. Sometimes the desire to act as normally as possible overrides the sense of unease, but only if I’m feeling comfortable. This is to a large extent a chilled and liveable city with lots of things to get involved with, without any language barrier. In a couple of weeks, I’ve managed to get a good feel for the city, but without the sense that I’m really living a life here, getting involved, having meaningful experiences. That’s no different to anywhere else, but perhaps here I can envisage a kind of life that would work very well for me, if I didn’t have this layer of separation between me and the outside world. Even with the feeling of detachment, it would still be a good place to exist. I’m not really having Fun here, but I also appreciate that it’s not likely to be much better anywhere else. Like anywhere, over time there would be scope to meet people. I’ve met up with a couple of people I know in the city, which has been a good way to break up the walks, but generally I’m not that keen to be sociable, given the effort required to feign upbeat engagement. 

I used to enjoy travelling because I always knew there was the potential to meet people and have some good experiences- a fairly typical motivation. There’s now the question of where the satisfaction comes from. I can’t rely on any spontaneous happenings carrying me through a destination. Travel now isn’t really motivated by a sense of excitement, but how best to pass the time in a moderately pleasant way. I should definitely be watching more T.V. This is what it’s there for: when the outside world can’t provide enough stimulation. So at least this is an original way of seeing the world. It would’ve been great to be here with that capacity for greater fulfilment, but as a place to walk around and observe for a few weeks it is pretty rewarding, and without the noise and intensity of other cities I’ve visited in recent months. There is something quite self-indulgent about being in a place for no reason with nothing to do. I could be on a beach, probably spending much less in the process. But would that be enjoyable? I’m not in a holiday place; I’ve dropped into a regular city going about its business. I just let the streets wash over me, and try to take note of what’s happening around me: families riding bikes to school, walking their dogs, chatting on the tram. Prosaic motions of a progressive city. It’s nice to wander around a city with a calmer pace for a change. Plus I don’t need to be rushing around ticking off the sights in a few days. 

I have booked my tickets back to UK, so I know for sure that I have one more week here. Today it was sunny for a change and I walked west, along the Merri creek for a short stretch (worth exploring more) towards Coburg and then south to Brunswick. Good to take some pics in the sun and see some new areas. Had falafel for lunch in an Afghan restaurant. I’m not quite used to (although I should be by now) having such a mild engagement with a place, but I think in my own vague way I am finding the experience stimulating. I plan to explore more this week and get a better sense of the city as a whole, and hopefully enjoy the process. 

Last evening in Sydney. I have felt the energy levels fading recently, having spent a great chunk of each day strolling around the city- perhaps a little bit of Sydney Saturation. So maybe it’s good to have a day on the train to rest the feet. I feel that I have been fairly pro-active and successful in exploring, although I would need another couple of weeks to get out of the central districts and see the city properly. Redfern has turned out to be a good base (I chose this area last time because the Art Fair was nearby); I am back in the room downstairs now, and my back is surviving the mattress well. All has gone smoothly, with minimal bother from other guests, apart from a new guy who last night was determinedly yanking on the locked door between my room and the empty room in front. Just as I was getting out of bed (at 2am) to investigate, the door opened and I was able to get in a quick burst of cursing before closing it and going back to bed. It’s been quite pleasant having the little kitchen to rustle up such delights as Spaghetti on Toast, Cheese on Toast, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes, Boiled Eggs etc. This has meant I’ve been able to keep eating out down to a minimum, although the cafes have still been tempting; the vegetarianism has been half-maintained, but has had to give way to a few tasty pies.

The two weeks have been a blur of walks though quiet and leafy streets- endless foliage and balconies. I don’t remember any of this style of street from my first visit when I was 19, so clearly I didn’t explore the city too much. I’ve been trying to dredge up what precisely I did on that visit (where did I stay, eat, who did I meet?). I think I just wandered around the coast and the botanical gardens etc. I remember watching a piano recital in a small room at the Opera House, watching Oliver Twist (the old film), playing pool in a pub, seeing Bondi beach. I wasn’t used to cities, so it all probably loomed strange and slightly menacing, vaguely alluring. I don’t think I had much skill at engaging with people in a confident manner, so my present state has probably lead me full circle, having passed through peak-sociability some years ago. 

I’ve seen a lot of the Head On exhibitions, main and subsidiary, at venues dotted around the city. As a result, over the last couple of days my ability to engage and have a bit of chit-chat has definitely improved. Obviously having no language barrier, plus a general focus, helps a great deal. That leaves me feeling mildly positive. I didn’t have high expectations of this trip, and in some ways that has been sensible. The photo exhibition itself has come and gone without too much fuss, and it’s hard to know how much of a sensible investment that has been, but I am very happy with the host-gallery and the group show in general. I have been taking photos of the city almost semi-consciously, camera always with me as usual, and I’ve just been ‘clicking’ any composition that looks vaguely interesting. I am looking forward to having a period of calm so I can sift through all the work from the last few months. Feeling detached when I take the picture makes me much less present in the scene; when I took pictures before I would alway remember when and where I took the photo, as well the associated mood of the moment. Now I rely much more on simply looking and the instinctive sense of whether it will make a good photo. The experience of being in that scene is muted. 

Overall, I feel I have a witnessed a good slice of the city: the busy downtown, the beaches, the residential streets. I’ve been lacking a bit of social interaction, but then again the short conversations I’ve had with people in galleries have been enough to keep me going: micro-doses of sociability. Walking and taking pictures is tiring in its own way, as is visiting galleries, so I haven’t had much energy left over. I’ve seen Maria and Andrew and Sofia four times in total: 1) that first time at the restaurant, 2) at a preview performance (an older lady from NY performed an act describing her life, with songs and musical accompaniment from a jazz trio), 3) another dinner at their home, 4) a dinner last night at a very nice middle-eastern restaurant in Bondi. Plus I went to dinner at Rob (who I met on the plane from Hanoi to Hong Kong, en route to Sydney) and his wife Lisa’s place. Plus I had one chat with the guy at the gallery and met my photo-friend for lunch. All that has been good: just getting on with it, socialising though the fog, trying to accept that it will be strange but unavoidable. By giving in to the numbness I can at least ease myself towards acceptance and neutralise some of the anxiety. This does, of course, lead to certain apathy and a general sense of absence from the scene in question- yet the absence of anxiety is more important. If I can keep myself numb and functional, then the day can pass without so much stress and discomfort. I’ve kept myself occupied, and when I’ve felt tired I’ve just sat on a bench and stared at the view or found a cafe/random bookshop. I’ve also managed to go to about seven yoga classes on the two-week intro-pass, adding another activity to the routine. 

The taxi-drivers have had a number of cameos, and I’ve been able to tick some more countries off the list and enjoy the subsequent conversations: Indonesia, Senegal (stereotypically excellent music: 1990s Afro-jazz), Nepal, Lebanon, India. One guy was quite serious and well-built, plus I was knackered after yoga, so I didn’t get into a chat with him. Perhaps the most interesting guy I spoke to was the aboriginal/Irish guy who was always outside the metro. He saw my camera and started telling me about his friend who made double exposures, and about the aboriginal designs in the metro station. He was pretty sharp but sometimes he was a bit too hyper and his sunken features told a story. Another day, while discussing the election results, he told me he’d taken DMT about 800 times. I guess he was a very clever guy who saw through the fakery of the world we live in, and yet was in some sense a victim of not wanting to, or being able to, fit into it. So in the end, he was asking for coins and writing satirical notes and probably being mostly ignored. 

I’m now on the train heading to Melbourne. I rushed to get to the station early thinking there may be some kind of security, but actually five mins before departure would’ve been fine. Getting trains in other cities is more stressful. Slight waste of a taxi (Thailand), but I did have quite a lot of bags to hoof. I accidentally left the food bag containing bread, cheese, mayonnaise, jam and Turgenev before leaving the house, so the air bnb lady will know that I’d intended to steal a knife. But she does get Turgenev. I bought a 1st class ticket thinking it would mean spacious luxury, but I was seated next to a big snoring man (I’ve moved), and then an odd-smelling man got on with two teenagers, deposited them in front of me, sat down across the aisle, ate a chicken burger then immediately fell asleep and started rasping like a dying goose. The two teenagers were laughing, coughing, eating and snogging. I have deferred to a calmer corner by the buffet car, where all is serenity, apart from a lady with a choking, gasping cough. The scenery is charming: golden leaves, eucalyptus trees, rolling hills dotted with sheep, fields of green, the odd horse, things that are possibly creeks, a lively sky of clouds. Strange absence of kangaroos. 

So farewell Sydney. Shall we meet again? We have to face the fact that most places we see we won’t see again. It’s a good place to live: the weather, the gentle pace, the beaches. Could I see myself living there? In a way, yes. Although it’s not cheap- a nice place for a surfer with a house, job, family. I’ve definitely seen myself able to calm down there. And I like that the city has a distinctly Asian flavour, adding an extra dimension to the atmosphere. Maybe I’ll add it to Helsinki and Berlin as places I could feasibly have lived in for a youthful stint. I probably would have gone for runs and turned golden brown in the sunshine. 

I left Rishikesh last Sunday and am now, ten days later, in Sydney. The trouble with not writing a regular ‘diary’ is deciding how best to sum up the time between then and now. The details fade and impressions become generalised. Passing through the days in a foggy haze means I don’t feel fully present. I am aware of everything going on (kind of), and aware of my own thoughts, but really my reactions are very limited. I have to think ‘what am I looking at that is memorable’, and then remember it. After a few days the soupy-minded gathering of impressions has dwindled to a vagueness. 

I was happy to leave Rishikesh: the ashram wasn’t very lively and the only active thing I was doing were the yoga classes (which were great). An English girl attended a few of the classes, which jolted me out of the dazed calm of my daily life and forced me to communicate with a ‘native’, especially as she was very lively and chatty. It was a little test that meant I couldn’t just hide away in the ashram. I’d only really been communicating with Anuj, which was easy enough, although I could never quite fully relax. I felt OK talking to the guru but we never really made it onto interesting topics, which was annoying as I asked him about the fog and was reverently awaiting his enlightened comments (which never arrived). I had some nice chats with the monk, who asked me a lot of questions and told me his life story: how he decided to leave home and his life as a doctor to become a monk; His mother had been overjoyed, even though it meant a break with the family, but his father was not happy at all. Despite being so studious and focused on his holy path, he was actually very open and light-hearted. I wonder what will become of him. India has many layers of life I will never understand. From my non-religious perspective, I enjoyed the food at the ashram: typical consumer. I did have some pleasant little walks, battling the heat, but I wasn’t really engaging with anyone in Rishikesh. However, I don’t regret going, even though the Retreat was cancelled. It was useful to be in that atmosphere and to have a break for a while before the motor of responsibility cranks up again. 

In Delhi, I went back to the same air bnb, back to the chilled-out musician, who was dozing most of the time. But I don’t blame him- Delhi was roasting (40+), the fans in the flat churning the hot, thick air. For a couple of days I had a great strategy: wake up early and get a rickshaw to a park, observe all the 7am park antics (of which there are many: walking, jogging, chatting, cricket, meditation, yoga, aerobics, group-laughing…), then have a stroll around and get home late morning to attempt to sleep through some of the afternoon swelter. So everything was working well: I liked the area, calm but with some life, some friendly faces, some sense that this was a neighbourhood I could understand and be a little part of. It was great to be in the parks early in the morning, amongst the determined waggle of the power-walkers, the people smiling and saying hello (wondering what the hell I was doing there), one man asking in a friendly way if I was taking photos of birds, another fellow perambulator asking quizzically if I was Indian (How did I find the park? Welcome to India!). The Indians are generally great at the out-of-the-blue comment. You certainly won’t be ignored or left to your own advices in India, which is sometimes a good thing. I just wish I wasn’t so out of it when faced with an unexpected question. Still, the niceties were appreciated even if they didn’t lead to moments of connection. Plus, it was important to get out of the noise and the traffic, and see an un-rushed side to life in the city in the fresh morning air. One morning I was given cake- excellent! Another, I was given a glass of ‘buttermilk’- absolutely foul- it took me two laps of the park to get it down.

My walks took me through various districts, and if I’d had more time I could’ve seen quite few parts of the city. My favourite area was Deputy Ganj (north of the area I’d enjoyed wandering in on the previous visit- Nabi Karim). Again, that sense of getting lost and not quite knowing where you were going or what you would find: streets narrowing, hidden from the heat, atmosphere tightening a notch. Suddenly, the sense that you’ve sprung upon a secret place: streets that I had no reason to visit, with nowhere to hide. I was exposed and noticeable. People stared, or asked me (jokingly) to take photos of their friends, who waved me away. Other people asked me to take their portraits, which I always did, not quite knowing why… but some of those shots were quite good, reminders of the faces welcoming me into their streets. I noticed a rickshaw emptying itself of goats- an endless quantity streamed out, eventually herded down the right street. I set off in pursuit and soon found myself in a goat market- not to be described in detail. At times it’s good to be detached. A strange feeling not to feel present and connected, but useful when a kindly looking gent with an orange beard invites you to sit and have a tea at a stall facing a trailer of goat heads. Not the best view for a cafe, but at least he’d cornered (a corner of) the market. There was one smart guy there (nice polo shirt, tidy hair, clean shoes) who asked me what I was doing. Just having a wander, seeing the streets, I said. I asked him what he was doing; ‘Buying a goat’, he said. Having had my fill of goat parts and investigative journalism, I kept on wandering around and eventually out into the broader streets, with their familiar din. There were lots of large white cows/bulls used for pulling loads. I was admiring one that I’d walked into, decorated with painted brown dots. A nice young lad in a dirty white shirt told me it’d run out of food, and I didn’t doubt it. I gave him some cash for the cow, and hopefully they both got something decent to eat.

I didn’t go over the top sightseeing in Delhi, and there were definitely more monuments etc that I should’ve seen. I just hate that feeling of expending time and energy, forcing myself to feel impressed by something that leaves me feeling neutral and unaffected, and possibly quite tired. Sightseeing is often like that at the best of times. There’s no real room for surprise, because you’re already half-expecting to be amazed, so any reaction usually struggles to exceed the dutiful. Of course, it’s good to be open to these places, ignore the crowds and attempt to connect on a genuine level, casting the mind back to when it was probably dripping with gold and festooned with elephants. The other option is to go with no expectations at all and hope not to be entirely disappointed. With this strategy, I arrived at Humayun’s Tomb. I’m not going to describe all the details. I can’t be bothered, and don’t know how. Colin Thubron would do a great job. You can google it and read about it (which I’ve not done properly) and look at all the photos. It’s very impressive and I wandered around until my stocks of water were depleted, staring at the carved windows and the general splendour. I am very keen on Islamic architecture, that much I do know. All the geometry and symmetry: big soothing spaces, marble, tiles… beauty that is epic and intricate at the same time. Sightseeing over and done with, I filled the rest of the time attempting to drink all my favourite drinks: sugar cane juice from the churning machine (no spice, no ice), juice from the juice stand, coconut water, lassi, chai… The street options are plentiful and appealing, especially when your entire being seems to be evaporating.

And then it was all over and I was flying to Sydney, sitting next to a smiling older lady who kept asking me how much longer it was (she didn’t like to sit still, she said) and chuckling about the guy across the aisle who was asleep for the entire flight. We decided he must’ve boshed a lot of sleeping pills, or simply died just after boarding. She was off to visit her daughter in Canberra (for 6 months!). I watched two great Indian films on the plane: one (‘Lucknow Central’) about a guy who gets wrongfully sent to prison and sets up a band (thus fulfilling his dream), and one called ‘When Harry Met Sejal’- an incredible romp around Europe in search of a lost engagement ring (and true love). I love Air India, but the Indian lady said it might be going bust because of corruption. Still, the food is very tasty. This reminds me of another blog I never did, called ‘People I sat next to on the plane’. That was definitely a pre-fog blog, as now I rarely talk to anyone unless I have to- not ideal for a blog that relies on social interaction.

I’m back at the air bnb I was in before, in Redfern, in a different room, which is delightful because this mattress hasn’t turned my spine to mush. It’s a bit like my return to Delhi: this time I just seem to know what’s going on a bit more. Perhaps these are signs of being slightly less frazzled, although I’ve thought that in the past: a temporary illusion stamped out by reascending brain-fuzz. When I was in Sydney last time, I was ill (ruining my Bondi Holiday) and then running around sorting things out for the art fair in the rain. I can’t say I enjoyed the experience very much. It’s fair to say I was zombified for most of it, as I have been for the past three years (my three year fogiversary has been and gone, sometime at the start of May).

Things here didn’t get off to a great start. I arrived, had a cup of tea overlooking a busy pedestrian crossing (adjusting to the fact that I was no longer in India), slept, woke up, strolled to the opening event of the photo festival I am part of, didn’t go in, went to a bookshop, browsed for the duration of the event, and then strolled home. A typical example of brain-fog shutting down all chances of social interaction. I should’ve played it differently and (as well as not arriving on the same day as the event) made sure I’d arranged to meet someone there, thus giving myself some kind of anchor for the event. Even at my social finest, I still would’ve hated going to something like that alone. 

Since then things have been OK. I met up with an old friend who I knew in London, who lives here now. I was a bit nervous about the meeting, as I knew it would involve ‘group socialising’ on a Saturday night (and thus some boozing, which makes me feel more spaced out). But I managed it pretty well and enjoyed myself, which gave me a little boost for the next couple of days. I’ve been to two yoga classes (fairly close by), picked up the photos (small chat with the printer) and dropped them off at the gallery (small chat there), and had a few good photo-walks around the city, soaking up the autumn sunshine, observing the leafy street life.

I’ve been at the ashram for just under two weeks. It is tucked down a small lane off a hectic road: a collection of dusty-red buildings, with various rooms, a yoga hall, a small temple, trees containing fruit, birds, monkeys. It doesn’t seem big, but actually it could house quite a few people. I was met by small and lively Anuj- a 21 year old Brahmin ‘apprentice’, who is the guru’s right-hand man and budding yoga master. He was bright and welcoming and very helpful. He’s been here since he was 16, learning English, learning yoga, attending the guru’s classes (even when he couldn’t understand anything and was falling asleep), doing various jobs, and presumably helping out guests who turn up, like me. The only other people here at that time were a couple of other lads and a lanky, bespectacled monk in orange robes whose studiousness is belied by a jolly whooping laugh (comic in itself), plus some ladies in saris who do various jobs in the day to keep everyone fed and the place running smoothly- so thanks to the them (and guru’s mother who arrived last weekend) for the tasty, healthy meals.

The timetable I constructed for myself left me with around six weeks to fill, so it made sense to get a return flight from Australia to India and end up at the Retreat here, which I’d seen on their website after the yoga teacher in Hong Kong had recommended this place. Maybe I would’ve ended up in Rishikesh all those years ago had I come to the north, but I don’t think I had any intention of seeing such a ‘touristy’ (as I imagined it) place, without a spiritual to-do list. As it stands, it almost doesn’t matter where I go: the sensations of feeling tired/spaced out//uncomfortable would remain the same whether I was strolling on the moon or around Sydney harbour.

Thus, since my arrival I have been following a strict routine of doing almost nothing. There are small, fairly calm, cow-laden streets in the vicinity of the ashram which have been pleasant to walk around. And even a few hundred metres is enough to see quite a lot. It can help the photos to slow down and focus on some details. No tourists this end of town, so lots of people saying hello and joking around. A few impromptu shoots with people who randomly ask me to take their photo. I have ventured further out, going to the river, crossing the river to (what I thought was) the touristy area, but mostly I’ve been staying in the ashram. Only yesterday did I walk from the first bridge north to the second bridge- whereupon I discovered the real tourist zone, replete with all necessary paraphernalia: cafes, woven goods, pipes, cake etc. And of course every kind of yoga/spiritual activity advertised… I don’t want to know what I was in a past life. However, the setting of all this- on the banks of the Ganges- lends it a particular appeal, as does the history of the place, suffused with so much holiness and Beatlemania. There are, naturally, ashrams tucked away all over the place, lending the place are rather more majestic aspect than most towns.

I should explore a bit more, just to soak it up (the walk between the two bridges is very nice), as I’m sure there’s actually a lot to see and appreciate. My motivation to walk around has been limited, especially when I know the chances of having any satisfying interaction with humans is limited. Plus crossing the bridges (narrow footbridges) is annoying due to the motorbikes (infernally honking), treating the pedestrians (outrageously using their feet to cross the footbridge) as irritants to be honked at and squished. So I’ve been rather grumpy in this oasis of zen. But life at the ashram has been good. I’ve been the only guest. Which has somewhat confused my plan to come here, engage, talk, be involved. And the retreat I signed up for hasn’t happened. But I don’t mind that. The first week was very chilled: yoga in the morning with an excellent teacher and a small class (Indian guys who are pretty good), with Anuj teaching on a Wednesday. Three meals sitting on the floor in the kitchen, being served each time various dishes of vegan goodness. This is when I’ve sat (legs crossed and gently pulsating with pain) and talked with Anuj or the monk, but mostly I’ve been in my room, attempting to meditate, read, but often just falling asleep; it has been pretty hot, and I have been consuming rather large portions of food, and my new audio book (Bhagavad Gita) also puts me to sleep in about ten minutes.

I have weathered a few minor turbulences: An old leg injury flaring up and fading away, the dodgy back has handled the yoga well and a couple of days of on-off stomach pain. Since Sunday I have been attending classes given by the guru. I presume on the Retreat the classes would have been less orientated around Sanskrit Vedas and more a general philosophical chat, but I have been listening as attentively possible, nodding/smiling appropriately and gleaning the odd gem to carry with me on the forthcoming stages of my spiritual journey. There are a few others in the class, including a woman who tries to preempt his words under her breath as he produces them, creating a whispered, half-wrong echo. I feel a bit sorry for the studious monk, who always seems to offer up suggestions or answer questions in a way that seems to make the guru want to move swiftly on. I have decided not to follow suit and do the foot-touching thing; I think he is pretty cool with that. He is interesting to listen to: the Sanskrit recitations are rich and resounding, and his elucidations are eloquent and not without humour. So I feel that I have been in the presence of someone bright-minded and wise, from whom there is a great deal to be learnt (by someone who has read the texts and is less foggy-minded). He is both serious and light-hearted, kind and authoritative, with a voice grading from deep boom to light, simple chuckle. It was fun to watch him feed the two resident Afghan hounds (a young/timid/graceful female called Ira (Sanskrit not Russian) and a large/grumpy/racist/male called Carbon) small squares of cheese (the dogs are non-vegan). The dogs leapt into the air, the small one daintily, the large one crashingly, his massive paws scraping against the guru’s arms, gently nipping the cheese from his fingers.

So I feel mildly rested and ready for Sunday’s trip to Delhi, although whether I have the energy to bound around the city in the inevitable heat taking photos remains to be seen. At least I’ve read a few books, including a travel book by a famous author which is total crap… (I don’t know if that is pleasing or depressing), the first book of essays by Arundhati Roy and Nabokov’s autobiography- prose lilting airily on the fragrant breeze of an old Russian spring. And at least I have gone a small way to stretching out my pathetically un-elastic tendons. I hope I can keep up some kind of healthy routine but I’m not sure I’ve instilled the required motivation. I need to be seized by a intense desire to improve body and mind, otherwise I’ll just lie on the bed, staring at the fan. As I write, the daily meeting of a group of older ladies is taking place- I can hear the drums beating and the chanting. Seems like a pretty good community activity. I bet there would be less depression in England if there was a bit more group singing. Before dinner I’ve been going to the temple and sitting there (more crossed-leg pain) while a few people perform the ceremony- this involves a singing recitation of the Sanskrit prayers, sombre and joyous by turns.

On my last day in Kasol I walked along the river, following the path to the town and beyond. It would’ve been nice to have more time just to hang out and enjoy that landscape, but I didn’t want to stay at the Nest any longer, and I felt that I’d achieved something on this part of the trip and could move on. I’d seen a bit of river/mountain-life, both the holidaymakers and the locals. I’d got some fresh air and escaped the city noise. I’d become accustomed to sheep and all the rest; on that last walk I followed a woman driving two cows along the path. She deposited them in the bushes, but was then shouting at one of them because (i think) it was eating the wrong bush. I can’t say that I’ve learnt a huge amount about the details of village life, but at least I had a few days to see what was going on there.

There was another hostel in the village which I’d walked past a fair bit. It looked like a friendly place, so on my last evening I thought I’d stop by there to have a drink, see what was going on, avoid being stuck in the nest. I was standing on the rooftop looking at the hills when I saw Amir the Iranian arrive at the hostel. He’d returned from Manali, with an English girl. They planned to do the hike to Khirrganga which I’d done a couple of days before. So instead of having an early night I actually had quite a fun night talking to Amir and Shannon. I was happy to see them and have some company in a relaxed place- the manager was around too: quite a funny guy, and a few other guests were milling around. There was a mini-table-tennis table which was surprisingly enjoyable to play on. We drank a bit of rum, and it was nice to have an almost-normal evening of joking around. It was refreshing to talk to an English person, not something I do very often. So I left Kasol on a high-note, having managed to put in a few hours’ worth of socialising.

I got two bangy-shaky buses to Kullu- a random town where I was stuck with my bags for a few hours. I found a place to eat (Chinese-style), left my bags and had a walk around. It seemed ‘out of the way’- a hill town, but with a lot of activity. There was a long narrow market lane which was fascinating to walk up and down: such variety in people’s faces. Again, ignorance reigns- I don’t know about this region. But I liked the atmosphere of this place, and I liked seeing this mixture in appearance. Hints of places I would never visit.

I walked past a shop selling clothes. I bought a jacket, a scarf and a hat. If I ever need to go a formal event in north India in the guise of a local I am sorted for an outfit. Some would call that ‘cultural appropriation’. I just call it high-quality International fashions at a reasonable price. The shopkeeper was a real gentleman (I have his card). I feel that I’d found the Saville Row of Kullu. And will definitely be finding excuses to dress up in the future, although I admit the traditional hat might be hard to pull off- despite its attractiveness.

After a wait beside an incredibly dusty road, trucks driving past, the bus journey to Haridwar started off a dream: I was the only passenger on the Volvo semi-sleeper (Himachal Road Transport Corporation). Quite eerie to be twisting and turning through the twilight into the night, past lonely food-stops all lit up. Semi-supine, semi-awake, the coach making that strange whiney sound that coaches make. Sounds of the road: horns, horns, construction work, half-dulled by earplugs. Unfortunately, some other people got on, including a man who sat down in front of me, immediately reclined his chair into semi-sleep position (so his head was in the vicinity of my chin) and began snoring deliberately and gratuitously. Luckily I was able to scoot back three or four rows. Tried to carry on with the ‘Iliad’ on audiobook, which puts me to sleep in about 10 minutes. The endless hairpins, the semi-consciousness, the sound of Derek Jacobi narrating epic war.

Arrived in Haridwar fairly brain-fried, but just had to get to the guesthouse. There was a very comfortable-looking bed, the first since Hanoi. Had a quick walk around to get the lay of the land, eat some samosas, drink some tea, etc. Had a doze until mid-afternoon, skipping the midday dazzle and heat, and went out to explore- I’d seen the Ganges and the ghats and the people bathing as we came into town on the bus, so I wended through the market street (avoiding the chaotic main road) in that direction. Found a street-cafe, silver pots of delight all gleaming in a line. Really enjoyed talking to the owner, who was pretty entertaining and served up a brilliant thali. If I’m wandering, feeling dazed and detached, that little burst of interaction can help to jolt me into a more engaged mood, and allow me to feel that I’m more present in the place, not entirely absent, floating through. So India is good for that. Mostly I’ll be interacting with people in short bursts, generally feeling quite dazed and out of it, but if I’m not caught totally unawares and have a bit of time to ease into a chat, then it’s easy to have a mood-uplift. And any situation is improved by those spicy little dishes, with side dose of pickle and onion, extra chapatis floating down.

I arrived at the river and for a long stretch people were gathered on the steps, bathing, dunking, swimming, playing, taking photos. It got more crowded as I approached the temples. I took off my shoes and gave them to the shoe-guardian and strolled around the cold wet marble steps. People offered me small bowls of flowers to release into the river. A man in a holy grotto gave me a blessing and tied strings around my wrist. Families sat on the steps, waiting for the prayers to begin and the spare space lessened. It took me a while to get used to it, but after a long stint of sitting on the steps watching, and talking to a few people (and getting involved in a few selfies) I felt vaguely part of the milieu. I think this happens here every evening, but it was a Sunday and as far as I could work out ‘Vaishakha’- Indian New Year (one of the days connected to it), hence the large crowd. I was lucky to arrive in India just in time for Holi, and lucky again to find this at the end of my wander to the river. I had a dim idea that something would be happening, but I didn’t realise it would be so impressive. The prayers, singing, music seemed to grow in intensity as it got darker. The river glowed with the offerings and fire and incense hung in the air. Later on, having a tea nearby (allowing the senses to settle) I met three siblings (one had come from New York) who had their mother’s ashes with them (“in that bag, over there”) and would give them to the river the following morning.

Life on the mountainside has been going well. I’d envisioned myself sitting on a rock by a river, or trapped in a chatty hostel vibe, but- of course- it has been neither of those things. On my first morning here I re-met the Iranian (Amir), who was just heading out with another guy, Shri from Kerala, to a village (Malana) nearby. So I went along with them, removing the question of what precisely I was going to do in this village by the river. We made our way to the road and got on a bus playing lively Hindi pop, making the journey more exciting. I had a sensation of ‘really travelling’, as in the old days. We had to wait for a taxi to take us up the road to the village, so I bought some fondant-filled pastry tubes (specific name unknown) and shared them with a mutt who looked as tho he’d seen better days. The car took us up higher into the hills, more funky tunes, more hairpins and sheer drops, trees in blossom, big views of the valley. The trek to the village was short but quite intense- down to the river, across the bridge, up the other side. The village is famous for its Untouchables (we weren’t allowed to touch them, or anything else around us, except for the ground): either they were especially holy, or they believed themselves to be directly descended from Alexander the Great, who’d obviously quite liked it here on his long-ago rampages. Some of them did seem to have a particular ‘look’, but I haven’t seen many people from these regions to compare the Untouchables with, nor do I have a strong idea of what Alexander looked like (wasn’t he a blonde?). They seemed (literally) standoffish and the village was a wreck of mud, snow and litter. There were some impressive carved temple-halls (built recently to replace the old ones that burnt down), but the atmosphere wasn’t welcoming. There wasn’t an obvious place to have a tea, only a steady stream of guys asking us if we wanted Cream (the famous charas they grow here). At first I couldn’t understand what they meant, but I would have gladly accepted a pint of milk. 

I’ve never really known what to do in these kinds of places- a village, out of the way, everyone going about their business, while a few tourists poke their noses around. However, I liked seeing the Indian tourists who were plying the path to and and from the village, especially the groups of guys, fashionably attired: shades, trainers, caps, leather jackets (draped over the shoulders in some cases), the odd portable speaker providing a soundtrack. They seemed young, fairly innocent despite the swagger, the odd one trying just a little too hard to be cool… on a mountain track, on the way to look at some of their incredibly remote and traditional countrymen. All sorts of locals are in this area sightseeing: bespectacled couples in sensible jumpers, the cool guys, the garrulous groups of school-leavers, Punjabi bikers in bright turbans and scarves covering their faces, roaring past with flags waving from the front of the bikes. It’s like travelling twice- I see the local area, and those visiting: two worlds. Like going to the English countryside and observing the rural-types and the middle-class ramblers clashing over right of way in the pub car park.

After climbing up and around the snow and plastic-choked paths for a while, we decided to head back down the path- probably the more interesting part for me. It was nice to be using the legs, away from the city, in the fresh air, looking at the snow-capped mountains. A fourth guy jumped in the car back to Kasol with us- he hadn’t much liked the village either. He was pompous and mildly likeable, and referred to the idiocies of Trump a number of times, which I found pleasantly out of context. We deposited the proud pontificator somewhere near Kasol, then we mooched around the town for a while, admiring all of the cake-filled bakery displays. Post-smoke munchies are clearly good for business. There were lots of ‘hippie shops’; we browsed a few in search of various garments. I was freezing and needed a cheap coat, and got some multi-coloured mittens too- I have no idea why. Amir bought a dazzling poncho. Shri bought some kind of bone key-chain/talisman. Some backpackers strolled past, looking quite exotic to me, at this stage of dislocation from the west and the world itself. But these foreign specimens were greatly outnumbered by the Indian. Maybe it’s the season? Apparently Manali is hot for weddings. Here it’s hot for weed. Maybe this is the future of Indian tourism: The few scraggly westerners (headband to sandal in tribal fabric), haggling over cake, being absorbed by the local crowd. Eventually we got back to the hostel, where I braved the sitting room, had a beer, talked with the group about the day’s adventures. I looked at some photos of the dutch couple at a weed processing place. Then a delicious chicken biriani arrived, courtesy of the kind and buoyant hostel workhorse Raju. I was okay with the chat, I just wouldn’t normally choose to put myself in a situation like that as I wouldn’t actively enjoy it that much. Still, at least a performance was put in, and I feel that I’ve done my hostel duty- and the day out with Amir (dreamy and jolly) and Shri (kind and easy-going, with a great habit of addressing us regally as ‘dears’) was a success.

The last couple of days were taken up by a hike. Amir departed for Manali in search of a french girl he’d attempted to woo recently, defeated by a rogue wave knocking off his spectacles. Shri suggested heading off to a campsite up the mountain for one night. I’d bought my warm coat, had my knock-off rucksack (enough zips still intact). No reason to say no. So off we went- a crowded, jolting bus for a hour, a procurement of rubber shoes (for there would be snow) and a sturdy stick (for it would be steep). I felt pretty hikish: scarf protecting sunburnt neck, cap, staff for warding off inquisitive goats, rubber boots swinging from the rucksack. There turned out to be a few little cafe-shacks on the way, so we were able to have a few teas and some instant noodles on the way up. We passed through a village where an old man, upon learning I was English, began to give Shri (who seemed pretty knowledgeable about Indian history) a lecture on how the British were gods for saving Hinduism (presumably by stemming Mughal power). So it’s nice to know I have a village in the mountains ready to receive me. The walk was rocky and steep, but again the views were great and we were passing a lot of interesting path life. We crossed the river and steadily climbed up through the forest on the other side, navigating tree roots, path covered in pine needles, views down to the river, trees in blossom. There were patches of snow and landslide rubble to navigate, but nothing too treacherous. It felt good to be heading somewhere, a bit out of breath, sound of river and breeze in the trees. We shared the route from time to time with the cool young brigade, walking in trainers. I got some good photos of them, and they were always polite and friendly and keen to ask me questions.

We got to the top late-afternoon and headed up to the hot spring for a dip. The camp was spread out on a large hillside, mountains all around. A spectacular setting. We had some tranquil moments in a relatively empty pool, enjoying the view and the heat of the water, perfect after the hard walk. The late afternoon light was on the snowy peaks; all was still apart from the cawing of whirling crows. Soon the pool the filled with boisterous lads, splashing, taking photos. It was supposed to be a holy place, next to a temple, but there wasn’t much point trying to enforce the ‘silence is best’ signs. Post-bath, it was chilly. We found good lodgings- real pacha’s tents with a great view of the mountain. We met some nice guys there, two also from Kerala. Later various groups gathered in a warm cosy room with a wood-burner in the middle and ate, smoked, talked. I was feeling tired from the walk, the bath, the heat of the room. I just propped myself up on the cushions, ate momos, half-observed. Shri was on good form: this was the first time he’d seen snow, and he tried a bit of weed too. I took myself to bed early and buried myself beneath the blankets.

We were up early- hard to sleep long in the cold. We had a chai and an omelette and made our way back, just as the sun was breaking over the mountains and flooding the campsite. It was peaceful in the pine forest- cool, soft light, plenty of tree-life to look at. It was nice to take photos of scenes that didn’t include concrete. It was sobering to see locals tripping up to the top carrying various equipment (poles, bedding, the odd case of Coke); obviously the season is just starting and the camp expanding. I tried to enjoy the views, and I was in a good mood, but of course it was all a bit hazy. I just ignored any strange sensations, and tried to make the most of being in this place, a rare spot void of plastic, car-horns, ugly buildings. I remember doing some hiking in Georgia, just after the detachment started in 2016: that was harder- long walks in amazing scenery, feeling heavy-headed, dizzy, unable to be present in the landscape at all. A bit of a waste; quite demoralising to be in a beautiful place and not be able to enjoy it. But I did enjoy this little hike. It was a refreshing change to be ‘in nature’ after the recent random relay of big cities. And Shri was good company- calm, thoughtful, not too talkative. On the other side of the river we saw a small festival getting started at a temple: a couple of drummers, men in glittering sashes, others bathing in the waterfall, goat blood on the path, women walking along the paths dressed in bright saris. We also passed a lot of animals being herded along the path and had to make way for various groups of cows, goats, sheep, donkeys and their stick-wielding supervisors. Nice to be able to observe these animals in fragrant proximity: One sheep contemplating a crowd-surf off a wall, a burst of Alsatian chasing large goat, a donkey putting its lips to a cool rivulet, seeming not to drink.

So a walk of reminders: of how I felt squeezed of energy after hot springs in Japan, and how I tried to sleep in my wooden hut in Japan in winter (buried under blankets), and of other hikes: those in Tasmania all those years ago, scented nostalgically with eucalyptus, and the less positive experiences in Georgia, at the start of this ongoing and rocky chapter. 

Last hours in Delhi before attempting to get a bus to Kasol. Navin has important meetings so it’s no longer a joint venture. I’m at a third air bnb; the second was abandoned after one night due to a) there being a grille-window in the wall, and so all noises from my Swiss neighbour (chatting excitedly on Skype) floated through to my side, b) an open window above my door to the landing, itself open to the street, allowing a flow of dog-barking and mosquitos to fill the room through the night, and c) a bed that seemed more like a table top thinly stuffed with straw. The lunch and dinner and breakfast I managed to consume in this brief time were, however, excellent. If my back hadn’t been totally ruined by table-sleep I may have been persuaded by paratha to stay longer. I did have one walk in the area, which was in fact the sock district. My first sights on the street were sock merchants, shops filled to the brim with socks, delivery men weaving the narrow streets, scooters piled high with bundles of… socks. This was lucky, as I did actually need socks- one of the few things I had on my ‘to buy’ list after seeing the tan lines solidifying half way up the calves. It was a little tricky buying just a few pairs from wholesale merchants (rather like the nut-man in the market who wouldn’t trade below 4kg), but I got a few sporty low-cut numbers in the end.

This latest air bnb is probably the one I should’ve gone for in the first place. A roomy flat, sharing with a swarthy musician who’s soon to appear in a Bollywood movie, in a lively area (Karol Bagh) that felt like a district I wanted to hang around in. Calm streets in a grid, but with a couple of little  parks, street eats, tea-stalls, cafes etc. Only one big road to be dealt with to the east, once crossed leading into a whole huge area to be explored east to Connaught Place. So over the past few days I have been enjoying the home atmosphere, boiling up water in a sauce pan for my Assam teabags, enjoying the atonal honks and woofs from the street, padding around my little neighbourhood, venturing further out for a some photo-walks. I managed to drop my camera, flinging it out of my unzipped bag onto the floor as I fled the sock district. Luckily there a was a Nikon centre close by: reassuring zones of camera rehab and orderliness the world over. Camera (itself unharmed) was cleansed of street-dust, focus realigned (it was out, apparently, which serves as a good excuse for all those shoddy shots) and lens taken into the operating theatre, to be collected upon my return to Delhi. So I am zoomless for the time being.

I decided to down-size, so I bought a rucksack (‘North Face’) at the market, and left my suitcase and extraneous belongings at Kabir’s. Am starting to lose track of the cities in which my belongings are deposited. Thought it wouldn’t do turning up at Backpacker’s Nest with my suitcase. At least now I am actually Backpacking, although two of the zips have already broken- if another one goes I’ll be plastic-bagging my way to the north. Also, my phone isn’t working (credit?), and I don’t know precisely where the bus leaves from, so a successful trip isn’t yet assured. I think I found the backpacker street yesterday. I saw foreigners. Including a dreadlocked couple. I wondered if they were both dreadlocked when they met, and thus bonded. Or perhaps bonded by both becoming dreadlocked. And if one followed the other, which one, and how that affected the balance of the relationship. It didn’t take many turns to be away from the Russian and Hebrew menus and lost in a warren of chaotic little streets. A few people told me to watch my camera- that lump of heavy metal- but I didn’t feel threatened, just stared at. I ploughed on, left and right, trying to feel the atmosphere through the haze. People called out, asked me to take photos of them, stared, smiled. One man gave me an Oreo. A few confident kids asked me some questions: ‘You are from which country?’ I saw a man, the keeper of a dark shop of very-vintage arcade machines, stroking a cow while feeding it bananas. I squeezed between two pairs of large white bulls. I passed through a crumbly, very old-looking arch and ended up at a mosque, outside of which a couple of boys stood on the steps arranged tableau with a group of haughty goats. Zoom lens would’ve been appreciated for that one. A couple of guys stopped me to say hello and see where I might be heading, what I was doing. Amicable, forthright, quizzical. I noticed one young lad hanging around me, he was shy and smiley and I said hello. Wherever I was walking, he was lingering behind, or up ahead, or perched on a motorbike nearby. I guess he was curious, and with nothing to better to do than meander around for a while. I felt that he was watching over me in some way. I emerged from the intense, smaller streets to a main road. I wanted to buy the kid some sweets, as a thank you for his unwitting guardianship. I didn’t know how to go about it, but in the end I bought a street-cucumber (fresh!) and gave him the change- he accepted with a gracious nod and a little smile and I hope that he got himself a treat, little lad alone in his streets. 

Continued from Kasol…

Went to the bus pick-up point at the side of a motorway and found the bus company office nearby. The little office was loud with shout-speak. Outside, the road thundered by. Pravin came to meet me- I think he wanted to show me a buddhist area nearby, but it took him ages to find the office (quite pleased that I managed it so simply), so we just went into the little streets by the road and had a tea. I was feeling, despite the noise and chaos, quite keen to stay in Delhi a while longer and explore a bit more. There was another foreigner waiting for the bus, although at first I thought she might be a hippyish Indian. She had a nose piercing, a single dread and was smoking bidis. She was Greek but lived in Belgium, presumably for a long time, based on her accent. She’d been at the beaches, so was deeply tanned. She has a tranquil, dreamy manner. We had been assigned seats together, so we had chance to talk although we mostly tried to sleep. This was difficult due to a large group of 18 yr olds (off to Kasol to find a secret rave) talking and laughing, one of whom possessing such a piercing hoot that he sounded like a demented grandma on acid (looking for a rave). Luckily I had my earphones (for the duration of their battery life) and ear-plugs. Everyone else seemed very pleasant- all young people off to Kasol for a holiday I suppose. One guy with a cool hairstyle beckoned me over at the dinner-stop to eat with him and his friend. He was swigging a beer and told me he’d finished studying and was enjoying life, off to Kasol to smoke weed for the first time. Kasol is known as Little Amsterdam/Israel, for obvious reasons- this is probably why Navin wanted to come here. The suspension of the bus was soft and squishy and the roads, after a while, began to wind and hair-pin, swaying us one way, then the other. This continued through the night, through dawn (dark trees, misty river down in the valley) and through the morning- about 14 hrs in total. Maria was struggling for the last couple of hours- will Kasol ever appear? I gave her a plastic bag, and she made a commendable job of not requiring it. She was off the bus pretty sharpish once we arrived.

We reconvened in a little cafe where her friends were gathered, one of them, a teddy-bearish Indian, had a huge swaying dread-ball in his beard. I had a tasty coffee (4 kinds were on offer: Indian, Italian, Ethiopian, Colombian) and then went off to find my hostel, leaving them pondering where best to scour the mountains for magic mushrooms. It was a fair trek in the midday sun, but the area was beautiful: steep hillsides, snowy peaks seemingly not far off, a roaring river down below. I crossed a bouncy little bridge across the river, made way on the path for a flock of sheep, a large, wary goat bringing up the rear (we stared at each for a while before it skitted past at speed) and carried on through the village, up the steps to the Nest, perched garish-green on the hillside. Mostly since arriving I’ve been drinking tea, sleeping and reading. I met some of my nestmates yesterday: a geeky-looking Iranian in specs with wild hair and hiking boots who likes Berkeley, Hume and Russian Literature and a trio who’d been out tripping in the mountains and returned still finding existence pretty amusing. 

I have just arrived at a new airbnb, quite a long uber ride to the north of the city, away from the smarter suburbs of the south. A taxi/rickshaw ride is not a bad way of seeing the city: the streets pass by, traffic piles into your path, no need to knacker yourself out walking in this midday heat. I have brought with me a memento from the salubrious south- some Assam tea bags from the ‘tea salon’ near where I was staying. I was also given a taster of a tea called ‘Frost’ from Nilgiri, nicer than the Darjeeling I thought, so I have some of that: loose tea, so I need some kind of tea brewer.  They needed to fix the bathroom in the old place, and there was some building work going on outside, and I wasn’t finding those streets overly exciting, so I was happy to move on. Here there is nice steady soundtrack of horn-honking coming from the road blending with actual bird squawking, so at least I don’t have to face the shock of a silent room.

I noticed the other day that it was hotter. Not sure how hot it was before, but it has definitely crept up to the next level- around 37ºc. This limits my enthusiasm to do anything. I’ve had a few morning strolls but even by 10 the light is getting harsh and I’m ready to escape the sun. I remember my previous trip to India. I thought I’d meander from Agra back to Mumbai, taking in the sights of Rajasthan and Gujarat. A nice idea, except it was April/May, in the hottest part of the country. The memory is a bit blurry- I remember drinking a lot of water and fainting once in my room after waking up early one morning. As I returned to consciousness, lying on the floor looking up at the underside of a table, I remember thinking that I had no idea who or where I was. Lucky I didn’t break anything- bones or furniture, just some rugged grazes. And then I arrived in Mumbai, slightly bedraggled, and realised my flight out had been changed to Delhi. I hadn’t seen the email. Luckily they’d booked a connecting flight for me, but still, I could’ve gone to the cool hills in favour of sweating it out on the scorched plains. I’ve learnt my lesson, kind of. I’ve still managed to end up in Delhi in the heat, but I’ve been much more adept at not exploring/sight-seeing etc. I have read two books, the one about subtly not giving a fuck and the Theroux one about travelling around China by train in the late-80s.

My main outings have been to parks, where I can see what’s going on, take it easy, and have a rest. I liked ‘Garden of the Five Senses’. This was the third choice of acitivity, after going to the photo gallery (in an area of massive walled off mansions) and finding there was no exhibition, then going to Qutub Minar and deciding not to go inside. It was midday, busy, they wanted 600r, and I could see some of the tower from the road anyway. So I’d saved a great deal of time by not doing things and was intrigued by the sound of ‘Garden of the Five Senses’. Looping paths, patches of grass, a hillock with a grave on the top, pretty flowers, and 500 couples taking up all of the shaded spots, exercising their sense of touch. It was surely the most romantic place in Delhi, as if it were mandatory to arrive with a canoodling partner. I thought about taking some photos of this phenomenon, but all eyes were on me, and I didn’t feeling like disturbing the love-vibe. I walked past two girls who were as equally surprised to see me as I them. Where were our partners? They were non-romantically talking selfies amongst the flowers. We chatted for a bit and that was fun. They told me they found the couples ‘quite annoying’. The best park, however, must be Lodhi Garden, and if I were writing a review on TripAdvisor I would give it 5 stars and say ‘definitely go there’. Massive park, impressive 15th Century tombs, lots of Delhites enjoying the park’s delights: joggers, dog-walkers, picnickers. There were some fluro-bright bougainvillea bushes where people were taking photos. Also, a bonus that it is no longer called Lady Willingdon Park. Thunder rumbled and the park glowed in a rich dusky light. I was already in a rickshaw home when it started to rain. I’m not supposed to buy any more books, especially as I’ve borrowed two from the guesthouse. But the guy weaving through the traffic jam with a stack of books seemed so cool and calm that I couldn’t resist a traffic-light browse. Besides, I was keen to take a photo and after extracting Murakami from the pile he struck a suave pose before the lights turned green.

So I’ve not been exploring too much, just a few strolls, the city passing by in a bit of a daze. And perhaps because I remember being so engaged on my last visit, walking all day, snapping away, enjoying the colour and the chaos, I feel less motivated to get stuck in. I know I’ll find it draining, and I’m not interested in taking random photos, and to make a good series of the city involves a lot of focus, a lot of looking, and as much engagement as I can muster. But I knew this, which is why I’ve given myself these extra days before leaving the city. I’ve got time in the next few days to see something more. And then I’m off to the hills. Pravin’s brother Navin recommended a place called Kasol. That was good enough for me, so I’ll go there. And Navin has decided to join me. I think it will be fine. He’s an interesting guy, although the intense chats he’s initiated around the themes of Life and Politics have left me slightly brain-frazzled. We’re staying at a place called Backpacker’s Nest, which may or may not be pleasant, depending on who is nesting there and how much chirping I’ll be forced to do about great waterfalls I’ve visited.

I’ve had a calm few days; the guesthouse is a very peaceful, homely place- and the food has been  delicious, so I feel settled here. I’m not sure when I’m supposed to leave. I’ve got nowhere to go in particular, so I may stay for a while. I’ve been having some walks, just trying to get to grips with the city. I ended up back at Connaught Square the other day, walking in ‘Central Park’- it was hot, but still quite busy and people were gathered in the small patches of shade. A group of guys were doing some park acrobatics, flipping and spinning around. Some kids came up to me and wanted to film me as part of some prank. Lots of people were lounging, posing, taking selfies. The smart phone has taken over here, for large numbers, like everywhere else.

The ‘highlight’ was meeting a friendly teddy bear of a man who started strolling beside me inspecting me ears. Of course they were in need of a clean, he said. I quickly succumbed to his teddy bear charm and was sitting on the grass, hopefully not too conspicuously (tho there were plenty of people around), head cocked, having my sensitive hearing organs rummaged around in. I suppose being a bit dazed makes me more susceptible to aural attack, but at the same time I was in need of a sit down and had nothing to do. Nothing to lose- apart from my hearing (and a pile of rupees). I liked the way he said ‘hello hello testing testing’ into each ear afterwards, to check that it was still working. I felt cleansed and reassured, but sensed deep down that was he was presenting for my inspection something other than matter from my ears. Oh well, off I went, lightened of cash, fairly content. He had a little notebook with reviews, a kind of Trip Advisor for ear services, and I noticed Jack, from London, who wrote: “Today I had my ears cleaned by Baba Farid. He did very good job (sic). I couldn’t belive (sic) how much gunk was in there. Highly reccomended (sic).” Jack, whether you exist or not, we’ve both been had, mate. And your spelling is terrible. Tourists are a gullible, foolish bunch, and as we stroll around observing the local life, sticking our cameras everywhere with an air of entitlement, we would do well to remember that simple, humbling fact. To come to Delhi and not be smoothly scammed at least once would in itself be quite an odd thing, and perhaps unsatisfying.

That night I went to Pravin’s for dinner and met his older brother, a smart and jetlagged businessman who’d just been in Austria. They said I’d definitely made that man Baba’s day, but at least I’d given him the chance to do a good day’s business. It was a good night of chat- they’re both pretty sharp, even after smoking, so it was a good chance to actually use my brain in conversation. By the end of the day, I’m usually feeling pretty slow and low on energy, but I think from time to time it’s good to force myself to engage- and this was a perfect, chilled environment to talk, drink their Darjeeling tea and eat a delicious curry ‘home-cooked take away’ from somewhere close by. I got home by Uber Auto-rickshaw, which somehow felt wrong. To get out of the tuk-tuk without paying, knowing that it’s being taken care of by internet fairies is disconcerting, so giving the driver a tip seemed the right thing to do.

I’ve managed to get myself to a yoga class, much needed- and I was surprised my back was happy to go along with it. Going again today. Like a lot of Iyengar teachers, it seems, she was strict. But that’s good: the instructions are so meticulous there needs to be a good dose of discipline in the class. Plus it helps me to not be lazy. And at good centres, I think the strictness is actually a sign of kindness and wanting the students to do it properly, understand the mechanics, improve. Also, nice to see the type of people who go to these classes.

Yesterday I made it to Old Delhi. Quite a tough place to be, because there are people, bikes, rickshaws, various other vehicles and trailers, dogs, the odd donkey, all mashed together, with all the associated noise. One rickshaw driver persuaded me I needed a ride, and he was genuinely an entertaining guy- I just felt a bit concerned that he was expending his energy hauling me down the road, but he seemed pretty enthusiastic, pointing out a few buildings, while avoiding getting his rickshaw crunched by oncoming taxi-trucks. It was a fairly bumpy ride and I was quite keen to get out and explore, so I abandoned the tour and dived into the shade of an alleyway, which led me into the pungent spice market, men flowing in and out carrying large sacks and boxed on their heads. Trying to adapt to this new environment and not obstruct the work-flow, I weaved around the alleys: men with calculators in kiosks surrounded by huge sacks of nuts, raisins, spices. Too much to take in, really. But despite the noise and the chaos, individually people seem quite calm. Of course, I am conspicuous, not entirely able to blend in with the spice vendors. I feel self-conscious taking photos in these places where I’m clearly an outsider and easily noticed. Eyes are on me, and if I take aim to take a picture of a bloke reading his paper, he’ll be alerted by a shout from nearby. And interactions are inevitable too- people are curious, they want to know where I’m from. I remember that from being in India before… it’s very easy to find yourself in conversation. And maybe that’s what I need. Usually, if someone starts talking to me, I can’t handle it very well, can’t make that instant click. But these little bitesize communications are probably something I’ve been missing and are good for general interactivity. Plus, they help to feel engaged with the place, and make the hectic environment feel more personal and welcoming. I can relax and take a few photos, and realise people won’t be annoyed- they’ll either smile warmly or graciously acknowledge the tourist-specimen.

The mind filters out most of what is seen in the moment, so writing is a good way to re-visit the scenes. When I’m walking in an intense place it’s good to have little breaks, to pause and observe and clear the mind. Have a cup of chai, eat something that looks good. You can see everything cooking away on the street. When I found the main mosque, I thought it would be a perfect place to relax in the shade. A space where people can sit and chat, sleep, and pray. Red brick, tall arches, shaded cloisters, cool marble underfoot. A group of older western women arrived the same time, and were politely mobbed by locals, a smiling session of selfies ensued. I was sprawled out in a corner, wondering if it was okay to eat my ladoo balls when two cool young guys came up to me. They were chilled and friendly and it was nice to have a bit of company. We ate a couple of ladoos and one of them showed me photos of his pet goat, some kittens and his wife/fiancee (couldn’t quite work it out)- she had a serious look that seemed both attractive and ironic. Some other kids gathered round and it was turning into a party. While I was walking around the mosque area, various people asked to me to take a photo. This used to mean that I took a photo of them. That has happened a bit, but mostly it means let’s do a selfie! The longer I stay in India the more my face will appear on random phones. It can be fun of course- another way to feel connected to the place. I climbed up the tower to take in the not very spectacular view (it’t always good to get a glimpse of a city from high up- just to see). There wasn’t much space and it was a bit of a squish. As I was clinging on the the metal grille a man asked to take a photo of me- with his son. He dumped his bemused 3 year old in my arms and took some snaps.

I had another walk around the busy streets, enjoying the sights in the afternoon light. One boy happily purchased some bright orange chicks (a passerby informed me as I watched: ‘They are nothing but coloured chicks’). As I walked the shops changed: wedding cards (a huge number of shops), fireworks, candles, bangles, jewellery, and perhaps most impressive: fabric and saris. Small shops full of brightly coloured cloth being unfurled and flicked full in the air for the customer. Also, got a hair/beard cut. The hairdresser was a kindly fellow with a strong moustache. Was very tempted to keep my moustache- surprisingly bushy with the rest gone- as a sign of brotherhood.