Agra

Monday 31st October 1983

I washed both pairs of my filthy trousers before joining George for breakfast in the Jaggi Restaurant. From there we went on to the Post Office to dispatch Taj Mahal postcards to friends and family at home. We were unsure of the advice given to make sure that the postcards were franked so that the postal workers didn’t just bin them an reuse the stamps and, as we weren’t given much option to do otherwise, we handed over our cash and left it to fate.

I bought a new slide film for 95 Indian Rupees on the way to the Agra Fort and sent an aerogramme to my old workmates at BP Research Centre giving them the Delhi Youth Hostel address. Admission to the Fort was 2 Indian Rupees and we spent a while wandering about.

Agra Fort is a historical fort which was the main residence of the emperors of the Mughal Dynasty until 1638, when the capital was shifted from Agra to Delhi. Before capture by the British, the last Indian rulers to have occupied it were the Marathas. In 1983, the Agra fort was inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage site. It is about 2.5 km northwest of its more famous sister monument, the Taj Mahal. The fort can be more accurately described as a walled city.

Although it looked impressive from afar, the red stone fort was in a bad state of repair and the maze of (often blind) alleys were very shoddy. An apathetic native hacked at the overgrown lawn with a knife as we passed into a high court overlooking the Yamuna river and the Taj Mahal. We tarried here in the blazing sun for a while before setting off for the Taj Mahal.

The usual entourage of hawkers and rickshaws tagged along behind us. Our drink stops were becoming more frequent and near the gate to the Taj Mahal we stopped for a cuppa. A fan which would have been effective as a propeller on a light aircraft revved as if for take-off as the waiter brought our pot of tea. There were also two of the metal deceit cups that we had seen before, which had the appearance of a half pint mug, but the capacity of an egg cup. We made our second visit to the Taj Mahal and indulged in a massive photo session around the grounds of this iconic site.

We sauntered around watching Indians taking family photos with cheap pocket instamatics (no selfies at that time!) and foreign tourists festooned to photographic excess with everything from zoom lenses to cine cameras.

We were approached by a fellow who was not actually after money, but chatted to George in rudimentary English. “English is a monkey language”, he explained good naturedly. As a large crowd of gawpers began to gather we left for the tea shop through the ever-present vendors. After trudging back to Jaggis we stumbled into the restaurant opposite. Barely alive I had a chicken bone curry while George stuck to the old standby, egg curry. We finished just as a large party of cringe-making Europeans came into the place and began fussing over the menu.

I was feeling dull and listless as I brought in my washing (surprisingly still there where it had been hung out to dry), but the food must have restored my vigour and feeling stronger we bid farewell to the lizard in his usual place under the light bulb and set off to find a well-lit café in which to read and write.

There was only one choice that fitted this criterion so we settled for the expensive Kwality Inn. Luxury indeed: a sign welcoming American Express and sugar cubes, by God!

We returned to our hotel room and spent a depressing time looking up East Asian aeroplane and ferry fares. It would appear that we would have to scrimp and scrape more than we expected. To add to the fun I was still feeling rough and my neck ached. We fell asleep eventually but were so besieged by mosquitos and ants that we were forced to put the light on and turn the overhead ceiling fan to full gale-like blast.

The Taj Mahal

Sunday 30th October 1983

We awoke in the gloom to the sound of my alarm clock heralding 06:00 hrs. As we gathered up all our belongings as quietly as possible George suddenly squealed and leapt on to his bed. Something large and furry was scuttling about on the floor after leaping from the wastepaper basket. We grabbed our gear and made a rapid exit, completing our dressing in the yard.

We walked down to New Delhi Railway Station passed people still sleeping on the streets, totally covered in blankets. We found the train on platform 2 and found our seats fairly quickly. The short 3-hour trip to Agra Cantonment Station was a refreshing change from the long hauls we had become accustomed to.

Agra is a city on the banks of the Yamuna river in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. It is 206 kilometres south of the national capital New Delhi. Today Agra is the fourth-most populous city in Uttar Pradesh and 24th in India.

We saw our first horde of monkeys alongside the track as we neared Agra (but I had seen a lone one on the way up to Srinagar). At the station, the pests awaited. While the train was still decelerating, they leapt gleefully aboard like pirates at the sack of a foundering rich merchant vessel. “Good morning, sir. Cheap hotel? Cheap taxi? Cheap trishaw? Want to buy something? Want to sell something?”

Agra being such a prime tourist destination made it a hot spot for these human flies. We steamed resolutely out of the station, ignoring them as best we could, and this dissuaded all but the hardiest. We joined a pack of other European walkers and soon pulled ahead at all but two persistent trishaw peddlers.

“Times are hard”, they beseeched, but despite a steady reduction in price as we proceeded (down to 50 Paise to any destination!) neither they nor the sun managed to break us down and we reached the quiet sanctuary of Jaggi’s open air restaurant and ordered egg curry and pullaw rice. I discovered that Jaggi’s was mentioned in the Lonely Planet traveller’s bible and we decided to give it a try with a double room for 30 Indian Rupees.

At first glance Agra appears to be relaxing town with wide streets and few motor-driven vehicles. Pedal power holds sway and it does not seem to be half as commercialised as I would have expected. We checked into a pleasant twin bed cell and set of for the tourist mecca, the Taj Mahal. The Taj Mahal is an ivory-white marble mausoleum on the south bank of the Yamuna river. It was commissioned in 1632 by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan (reigned from 1628 to 1658) to house the tomb of his favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal; it also houses the tomb of Shah Jahan himself.

Construction of the mausoleum was essentially completed in 1643, but work continued on other phases of the project for another 10 years. The Taj Mahal complex is believed to have been completed in its entirety in 1653. The Taj Mahal was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983 for being "the jewel of Muslim art in India and one of the universally admired masterpieces of the world's heritage". It is regarded by many as the best example of Mughal architecture and a symbol of India's rich history.

As soon as we stepped off the hotel premises a parasite pounced. Following us up the road in his trishaw he bickered away, proffering letters of recommendation from other satisfied customers, but we were determined to walk. Scarcely had we shaken him off than he was replaced by a gem salesman on a pushbike. We argued and refused his services to almost the gate of the Taj Mahal park before he pissed off.

We paid our 2 Indian Rupees at a well-concealed booth and entered, at last into the grounds of the Taj Mahal. We passed through an ornate gate house and looked upon the famous waterway and gardens leading up to where the magnificent white tomb sat serenely beneath an azure sky. We toured the dim interior, which was quite plain compared to the outside.

A large marble tomb was set centrally with a larger one offset to its left. The sweet smell of an obscure scent was pleasing to the nostrils, but we were not so pleasing to the tomb-keeper as we left without leaving him a cash offering. A longstanding myth holds that Shah Jahan planned a mausoleum to be built in black marble as a Black Taj Mahal across the Yamuna river. The idea originates from fanciful writings of Jean-Baptiste Tavernier, a European traveller who visited Agra in 1665. It was suggested that his son Aurangzeb overthrew Shah Jahan before it could be built.

Ruins of blackened marble across the river in Moonlight Garden, Mahtab Bagh, seemed to support this legend. However, excavations carried out in the 1990s found that they were discoloured white stones that had turned black. A more credible theory for the origins of the black mausoleum was demonstrated in 2006 by archaeologists who reconstructed part of the pool in the Moonlight Garden. A dark reflection of the white mausoleum could clearly be seen, befitting Shah Jahan's obsession with symmetry and the positioning of the pool itself.

We went outside to the rear of the Taj Mahal and sat in a wide courtyard with our backs to the wall which cut it off from the Jamuna river. Water buffalos wallowed in the muddy water near steps to our rear left. Despite the sombre nature of this great shrine, the Indians shout and jabber, while their tinny transistor radios loudly spout the Test Match commentary (Cricket 2nd Test, West Indies Tour of India at Delhi, Oct 29 - Nov 3 1983).

The sun beams down mercilessly and the river scene behind us looks like a travel agent’s poster of the River Nile. Families do their ablutions and women do the laundry in the muddy brown water.

At Srinagar the back of my camera had come open and as I didn’t know where I was on the film framewise, or even if it was in a usable condition, I thought it wise to fit a new 35mm transparency film. I launched into taking the classic textbook photographs of the Taj Mahal when I realised that the film was not winding on properly. Cursing I pissed about with the film and after a few minutes I wound the end of the film into the case, thereby rendering it totally useless.

I raged in frustration for a while before giving into the idea that there was nothing that I could do to rectify the situation and thus I tossed the knackered film into a bush and set off in a calm, resigned mood of acceptance. Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be), karma and all that!

We wandered back, incessantly bothered by more trishaw drivers and salesmen. We gave up looking for the elusive General Post Office and returned to our hotel. As we sipped cold Coca Cola’s up the road a shaking shifty-looking employee from the hotel approached us for a “15 Indian Rupee loan until tomorrow”. We declined and sought refuge in our room, but even in here a sly smiling fellow invited himself in and started making low bids for our possessions.

We finally got shot of him and shut the door to relax with only a couple of lizards for company. Earlier today George took a photograph of three snake charmers in action and we fled with their cries for money ringing in our ears. Supper consisted of an egg curry with a couple of insubstantial bread rolls in a restaurant which must boast the slowest service in a supposedly profit-making concern. It was lucky that we had some books with us!

George got ripped off for a number of sugary dainties and we returned to our room after ascertaining that beer prices were far too expensive for us. We slept well despite a few alarming scratching and gnawing noises during the night.

The Red Fort

Saturday 29th October 1983

I washed my rancid grey YHA sleeping sheet and after breakfast in the Delhicacy Restaurant we set off to the Nepalese Embassy to pick up our visas. En route we were assailed by a gaggle of wretched women pawing and begging. We fled, but not before on had half undone the zip on George’s daysack.

We passed the Iranian Embassy with it’s hysterical religious graffiti and passed a huge building site where women were doing all the donkey work (literally). We collected our visas with no trouble and made for the Red Fort which is about 7 kilometres away. The Red Fort is a historic fort in the city of Delhi that served as the main residence of the Mughal Emperors.

Emperor Shah Jahan commissioned construction of the Red Fort on 12 May 1638, when he decided to shift his capital from Agra to Delhi. Originally red and white, Shah Jahan's favourite colours, its design is credited to architect Ustad Ahmad Lahori, who also constructed the Taj Mahal. It was constructed between May 1639 and April 1648.

We paused at New Delhi Railway Station to get tickets for Agra tomorrow and spent more than an hour wading through the system, passing from the station to the huge maze of reservation offices. We tottered on through the hooting bustling throng and by the time we reached the old Delhi station we were all in!

We slumped against the tea counter in exhaustion and decided that the fort could wait for another time. We wandered back past a ridiculous traffic jam composed of bicycles, scooters, trishaws and various beast-drawn carts and wagons. People lived on the pavements under tarpaulin shelters while children scrobbled about in the dust and shit. The sun was cruel and, that too, took its toll.

We hit the restaurant near Ringo’s Guest House for an egg curry before returning to read and write in Ringo’s courtyard. Memorable sights today were the open-air barbers are shaved with a cut-throat razor in an old rickety chair with a mirror hung on a tree. The little upmarket chipmunks that scurry everywhere in the cleaner New Delhi but shun the squalid nastiness of Old Delhi.

A pot of tea renewed our flagging energy and we set about another book-browsing expedition. The book shops had some excellent novels, but official copies were too expensive for our limited budget. I purchased 2 bootleg paperbacks from a street vendor for 10 Indian Rupees each. We then paid our last trip to the Delhicacy Restaurant for a while – our train, the Taj Express, leaves at 06:00 hrs. tomorrow, bound for Agra.

Life of Riley

Friday 28th October 1983

I awoke early and took advantage of the rare peace in the hostel to read my book. It was cold but light and everybody else appeared to be asleep. I plodded on with “The Lord of the Rings” until the sun increased in strength and joined George in a clothes-washing session.

We spent the morning changing money and putting in our visa application at the Nepalese Embassy at a cost of 100 Indian Rupees. A quick tour of the underground bazaar beneath Connaught Place was followed by a sunbathing session on the grass above.

I finished reading “The Lord of the Rings” despite interruptions from people offering massages, shoeshine (we were wearing sandals), maps and guidebooks. George is chatting with an old boy about Western sexual morals, or lack of them in the old boys’ eyes – he thought that we lived the Life of Riley in constant sexual ecstasy in Europe!

Another egg curry later we brought in our laundry and set off for the swimming pool where we gained admittance after a spate of paperwork and payment of 20 Indian Rupees. The Olympic size pool was a treat and I managed to labour up and down for 26 lengths of this 50-metre waterway.

George took advantage of the rudimentary weight-lifting facilities in the changing room while I went off to investigate the other 2 pools that we had failed to notice earlier. As I walked out of the dim corridor into the main pool area, I caught my breath in awe at the sight of a vast floodlit arena. I felt insignificant in this vast open space, faced with two magnificent Olympic standard swimming pools.

What I thought was the roof turned out to be the night sky with the stars made invisible by the bright poolside lights. This vast modern amphitheatre was completely at odds with the crude squalor only a few kilometres away in Old Delhi.

We had two drinks breaks on the walk back and I bought “Gorky Park” which is a 1981 crime novel set in the Soviet Union during the Cold War written by American author Martin Cruz Smith. It cost me 10 Indian Rupees and it gave me something to read in our local, the Delhicacy Restaurant. Here we stayed until we were evicted at closing time.

The swim was good exercise and I feel a lot cleaner for it! Back at Ringo’s Guest House the hippies are crawling out of their dark corners in which they dwell during daylight hours. Our dormitory is a cellar with a fan and a fluorescent strip light in which Ringo has crammed 12 beds covering 95% of the floor space. Above the beds a network of clothes lines are heavy with drying towels and garments. The beds are crude wooden frame jobs with woven sisal cords supporting a thin mattress and I fear that they were designed for smaller Indian folk!

Delhicacy

Thursday 27th October 1983

This morning we moved into the dormitory after a breakfast of omelette, toast and porridge in the Delhicacy. From there our task was to trudge 6 km. out of town to the Youth Hostel (which we had used as a Post Restante address for our friends and family) to collect any mail that may have arrived.

After a long hot walk along wide clean British-made roads with well-tended lawns and gardens, and for a change few people, we reached the huge Youth Hostel. Here we picked up several letters from home. A bit of a mystery with Georges, none from his girlfriend Kim and one without an envelope. We sat down with a cola in the canteen hall to read them. We were well cheered up by the news from home. All was well and, indeed, many changes had occurred.

We roared with laughter at the letter from Martin McCormack which seem too literate for his simple brain but gave us a concrete rendezvous to work on at last. Martin was planning to fly to India to join us in our travels. We walked back, pausing to check out the swimming pool which seemed expensive at 20 Indian Rupees for 2 hours (18:00 to 20:00 hrs.). Back at the hotel we wrote aerogrammes home on the roof of Ringo’s in the sun and away from our “fellow travellers” (check out the type at https://www.wanderlust.co.uk/content/orlando-charmon-hilarious-guide-to-gap-yah/).

Extract of overheard conversation last night: Girl (in a moronic drawl) “Ya know, I’d kinda like to live a good life and be fit and give up smoking and eat all the right foods”. Man (in fatherly advice tone) “Yeah but that kind of life is very hard and boring”.

Back at the Dehlicacy Restaurant we had mid-afternoon lemon tea and finished our letter writing. A statue of Mahatma Gandhi leading the Indian people to freedom was impressive enough to warrant a photograph but looking at the British-built New Delhi in comparison with more modern Indian areas you wonder what they have done with that freedom. Let all the old buildings go to wrack and ruin and jerry-build new ones.

It’s about time they gave up harping on about how free they all are and put their arses in to gear in an attempt to pull the country out of the Middle Ages. Walking back into the heavily populated area the stink of piss and shit assailed our nostrils afresh. We must have been getting used to it.

We posted our aerogrammes and after getting mildly lost returned, yet again to the Delhicacy Restaurant (which appears to be thriving still: https://www.facebook.com/Delhicacy-324239071097991/) for evening coffee.

Here I was in better letter writing form and used my last aerogramme to write a long overdue brief to Kerry (a friend of mine from my Judo class in Isleworth). George has just blatted a gigantic ant that crawled out of our sugar bowl and the one-legged newspaper vendor outside is still beckoning us to buy the evening news. He’s got 2 hopes (no hope and Bob Hope!) as we have only got 10 Indian Rupees between us until the banks open tomorrow.

Back at the dormitory we made elementary plans for trekking in Nepal aided by a loud conversation from the far end of the room on the same subject. A fat American and a couple were being advised by a Bob Dylan look-alike. We read and slept as a new singer sang country songs and the Yankie bint caterwauled alongside him.

Shahjahanabad

Above top photo: Connaught Circus in New Dehli.

Wednesday 26th October 1983

The only memorable event of this mornings train journey was a lecture on the Hindu religion from our neighbour in the compartment. With the aim of some pictures he explained his pilgrimage consisting of a 14-mile barefoot walk to some sacred elastic cave that expands or contracts to fit the visiting pilgrim comfortably.

Subsequent research reveals that the Amarnath cave, located in the Indian state of Kashmir, is one of the most famous shrines in Hinduism. Dedicated to the god Shiva, the shrine is claimed to be over 5,000 years old and forms an important part of ancient Hindu mythology.

Inside the main Amarnath cave is an ice stalagmite resembling the Shiva Linga, which waxes during May to August and gradually wanes thereafter. This lingam is said to grow and shrink with the phases of the moon, reaching its height during the summer festival. According to Hindu mythology, this is the cave where Shiva explained the secret of life and eternity to his divine consort Parvati. There are two other ice formations representing Parvati and Shiva's son, Ganesha.

The cave is situated at an altitude of 3,888 m (12,760 ft), about 141 km (88 mi) from Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. It is a popular pilgrimage destination for Hindus - about 400,000 people visit during the 45-day season around the festival of Shravani Mela in July-August, coinciding with the Hindu holy month of Shravan.

Devotees generally take the 42 km (26 miles) pilgrimage on foot from the town of Pahalgam, about 96 km (60 mi) from Srinagar, and cover the journey in four to five days. There are two alternate routes to the temple: the longer and more traditional path from Srinagar, and the shorter route from the town of Baltal. Some devotees, particularly the elderly, also ride on horses to make the journey.

During the past fifty years, the ice Shivlingam has shrunk in size. While weather does affect its shape and size, many environmentalists blame global warming for the condition.

He went on to try and explain complex tales of eight-armed Gods and Goddess’s, Ganesha the elephant-headed Hindu god of beginnings, evil dwarves and beheaded disciples. George and I were hard-pressed to believe that people took this toffle for Gospel! But it explained how difficult it must be for Indians starting a new life in Britain to explain to their children what their religion entailed when their contemporaries were Church of England Christians. If you were an Asian born in Birmingham and grown up there, it must be near impossible for your parents to sell this bizarre religion with it’s elephants and serpents to you.

A typical Hindu text seemed to be “Arjuna then saw the omnipresent and omnipotent Supreme Personality of Godhead, Mahā-Viṣṇu, sitting at ease on the serpent bed. His bluish complexion was the colour of a dense rain cloud, He wore a beautiful yellow garment, His face looked charming, His broad eyes were most attractive, and He had eight long, handsome arms. His profuse locks of hair were bathed on all sides in the brilliance reflected from the clusters of precious jewels decorating His crown and earrings. He wore the Kaustubha gem, the mark of Śrīvatsa and a garland of forest flowers. Serving that topmost of all Lords were His personal attendants, headed by Sunanda and Nanda; His cakra and other weapons in their personified forms; His consort potencies Puṣṭi, Śrī, Kīrti and Ajā; and all His various mystic powers.”

After a while we had to seek refuge on the top bunks, which were three high in each tier, from the interference of this man’s 5-year old daughter. Cute as she was, we tired of smiling as she poked and prodded us in curiosity.

At 13:30 hrs. we pulled into Old Dehli railway station and battled through the usual press of touting taxi-drivers, hotel owners and ne’er-do-wells into the street. Here we struggled along through 5 km. of crazy crowded dirty roads with all the usual ingredients: cattle, bicycles, tricycles, carts, beggars, etc. All of them hooting, calling out and generally promoting a colossal hubbub.

Old Delhi or Purani Dilli is an area part of the greater city of Delhi, India. It was founded as a walled city named Shahjahanabad in 1639, when Shah Jahan (the Mughal emperor at the time) decided to shift the Mughal capital from Agra.

Sweating and weary we made Connaught Square, and after a cold Campa Cola, I set off to find “Ringo Guest House”, leaving George feeling weak and worse for wear, to look after our baggage. We were now in New Delhi which is an urban district located in the city of Delhi. New Delhi serves as the capital of India and the seat of all three branches of the Government of India. The foundation stone of New Delhi was laid by Emperor George V during the Delhi Durbar of 1911.

If you come to Delhi and do not go to Connaught Place, then you have not seen the modern part of Delhi. It is in a round, circular shape with three concentric circles. All big corporate houses have their offices in Connaught place. All branded restaurant and shops are located here and Ringo Guest House was the place to stay according to Lonely Planet. After a long trudge and fruitless search around all of the three circuses I returned to where George was sitting and we took a 3-wheeled taxi to the place (which was well hidden).

We booked into a double room which had just been painted and leaving all the doors and windows open (to prevent asphyxiation tonight from paint solvent fumes) we went out in search of sustenance. A boiled egg curry was rapidly consumed in a grubby little hole with poor service before we went on to tour some of Connaught Place. George bought a good plastic map of India, but we decided that the Lonely Planet “India” guidebook was too heavy and too expensive.

We settled for a coffee in a clean airy place and watched the European travellers in their hippyish local garb come and go (we ‘ates ‘em we does!). We had one uneasy moment when an urchin appeared at the door near out table with a cobra rearing menacingly from the basket he carried.

We browsed around the outermost ring of Connaught Circus and whiled away long periods in a couple of bookshops until this was curtailed when the power went off and the shops were plunged into darkness.

After another cup of tea in the Dehlicacy Café we returned to the Guest House. Initial attempts at a peaceful reading session were thwarted when an ugly Yank hippy chick struck up a wailing dirge to very amateur strumming of a guitar. We had a coffee out in the common hall, but we retreated to our room as the Yankie girl and another weedy hippy bastard appalled us with their chatter.

They chortled at religion, discussed dope and guitar prices, and generally made sure that they were the centre of attention with their loud moronic drawl, interrupted only by pulls on the communal “roach”. When the male of this comedy duo mocked suicide and requested a razor blade in jest, I was almost moved to “do the honours” with my Swiss Army knife and put the miserable wretch away for good.

We fled to our room before aggressive physical action was further provoked and tried to relax despite murmurs and caterwauling guitar songs from the common room and the constant giggling from pot smoking girl in the next room.

Shalimar Express

Tuesday 25th October 1983

We were up at 06:30 hrs. and we walked through the morning clamour to the bus garage. The bus was supposed to leave at 07:30 hrs. but as usual the total lack of organisation caused a long delay. We were more comfortable on this A-Class bus as we had the rear seats and could stretch our legs out into the aisle.

The driver made good time along the extremely winding road and the weather seemed to improve as we went south past panoramic Himalayan valleys and foothills. At 18:00 hrs. we were dropped at Jammu station to await a dubious train amongst the chaos. We began to relax amongst the clamour on the dim platform 2 and gradually every bit of space became covered with human life and baggage. We drank tea and ate hard boiled eggs, served from a pot of boiling water by the squatting vendor on the platform, and read our books and dozed.

Vendors sold cheap copies of British books, printed in India. Eventually the Shalimar Express Train which runs from Jammu Tawi to Old Delhi arrived and George asked if it was our train. It wasn’t, but ours, the Post Train, was in on platform 3. We found our 2nd Class sleepers, which were as good as 1st Class, with surprising speed considering the illegible scrawl on the tickets, and we settled down to a good night’s sleep despite the murmuring of other passengers and the incessant coughing and wailing of little kids.

Kashmir Cinema

Above: George in bed on the Gosani Palace houseboat.

Monday 24th October 1983

After a good night’s kip, we laid in until about 09:00 hrs. talking about our mates at home and recalling old songs. Then we rose and bid farewell to Abdul and his brother. As expected, they “came the old soldier”, asking us to pay for the first “free” night and for a skimpy meal of omelettes and stale bread on that night.

We left after paying what we did owe, plus 10 Indian Rupees for sundries (a total of 180 Indian Rupees in total for our stay aboard the Gosani Palace). As we left, they still smiled and bid us recommend the place to our friends (some hope!). We were glad to be away. The only enjoyable part was the sleeping.

On the way to the Paradise Vegetarian Restaurant for brekkie we were hailed by an old boy on a bicycle who declared that he was “no businessman”, but a worker at the local hospital. He smiled broadly when he learned that we were English and welcomed us as “his sons”. Our feelings of refreshment at meeting a non-money-orientated soul were quickly dashed as he produced a folder and begged for a donation for his mission.

Breakfast complete, we set off for the Youth Hostel via the Foreign Parcel Post Office. After a long rigmarole George got his parcel to Kim dispensed with for 77 Indian Rupees and then we booked into the Hotel Allora, which was part of Srinagar Youth Hostel. 10 Indian Rupees secured us a clean 5-bed dormitory with an ice-cold shower.

Feeling a bit cleaner we walked back into town, and after a long browse in a good but expensive book shop, we booked our bus for tomorrow. Now we had time to kill before I picked up my sandals at 18:00 hrs. We had a good vegetable curry with warm naan bread in the Host Restaurant and went for a wander along the pony trail that bisected Dal Lake.

At one spot we sat peacefully in the rare sun on a grassy spot where the people actually lived, rather than on the tourist exhibition and exploitation side of the lake. We mused over plans for future Swagman parties and camping trips. I picked up my sandals at 18:15 hrs. and for a made-to-measure they were a bloody awful fit, and we dashed to the cinema just in time to see the movie Breaker Morant at 19:00 hrs.

The cinema was packed with locals and I was worried that this Aussie film had been dubbed into an Indian dialect. George asked if we were in the right screen, but the sea of blank faces and shrugged shoulders indicated that not one of them understood English. It shows the moronic nature of this pathetic race that they then sat through this totally English-speaking courts martial drama with no subtitles, without a jot of comprehension for the film that they had paid to see.

Breaker Morant is a 1980 Australian war drama film directed by Bruce Beresford, who co-wrote the screenplay based on Kenneth G. Ross 's 1978 play of the same name. The film concerns the 1902 court martial of lieutenants Harry Morant, Peter Handcock and George Witton; one of the first war crime prosecutions in British military history.

We enjoyed the film and then returned to a blacked-out dormitory to spend another cold night. We were supposed to have company, but our guests must have changed their minds – probably the smell!

Gosani Palace

Above: Water Taxi on Dal Lake in Kashmir.

Sunday 23rd October 1983

Awoke at 10:50 hrs! After a good breakfast in our “local”, the Paradise Vegetarian Restaurant, we hired some push bikes (bicycles) to tour the city and the surrounding area. After a few red herrings and bum steers, we found the Tourist Reception Centre and I bought a map of the area. We pedalled off and eventually discovered the best hidden Youth Hostel yet. It was a colossal place, but it was closed on Sundays.

We found out that the film “Breaker Morant” was showing at the local cinema and planned to see it later on. A quick browse around the local clothes stalls told us that the merchants were out to get what they could get and profiteering was the order of the day, asking prices that would be expensive in England. We returned to the Paradise Vegetarian Restaurant for a snack of fried cheese on toast for me and porridge (which was a treat) for George.

We pedalled along the lakeside road out of Srinagar. Dodging huge dragonflies, we idled along and talked about the old days when we were active members of the Isleworth Explorers Boys Club. A pale sun broke through the clouds and despite the uncomfortable saddles, we had a very pleasant ride. The bikes were returned, and we walked back to the boat along the boulevard.

Our intention to buy food or drink (especially alcoholic) was thwarted by rip-off artists all along the way. Prices were far too high, even by home standards and, when a newsagent even jacked the price of a newspaper well above its printed price, we walked away in disgust.

Tourism has taken hold like a cancer in this once pleasant land. Everyone is after money. Even the little children hold their hands out and the shikara boys use their monopoly to extort extra cash. Behind every smile lurks a greedy desire. No one we have met in India so far has offered us friendship or service save for personal financial gain.

In the failing light we were rowed back to the Gosani Palace by a youngster that incurred the wrath of his comrades by taking us for the official price of 50 paise (The Indian rupee, sign: ₹; currency code: INR, is the official currency of India. The rupee is subdivided into 100 paise). We repaid his honesty with 1.5 Indian Rupees and he rowed away with a delighted smile on his face. On board we supped tea and repelled a persistent waterborne trader, who was selling papier mâché knick-knacks, as dusk fell.

Kashmir appears to be the home of the Indian Army. Camps are everywhere and military vehicles fill the roads. George made a few complaints to our hosts regarding minor things such as no water supply, no electricity, no flush to our full toilet and no free transport to shore.

We made our way to “Paradise” via Nehru Park, which backed onto our houseboat mooring, and enjoyed a lovely feast of vegetable korma, vegetable fried rice and warm naan bread. We walked back and, hopefully, endured the profiteering of the shikara rowers for the last time. They charged 2 Indian Rupees to Nehru Park, a distance of about 15 yards across the mill pond calm lake, which required no effort at all. Back at the boat we were glad to find the power back on and a clean bog (toilet).

Shankaracharya Temple

Saturday 22nd October 1983

We awoke at 09:30 hrs and after a short spell in Middle Earth (reading our Tolkien books) we hit the shore for breakfast. A couple of omelettes were rapidly demolished, and George was presented with the tiniest, most undercooked, toasted jam sandwiches that we have ever encountered. In a trice they were gone, without need for chewing!

Next, we did a little shopping in the touristy shops that all claimed to be Government emporiums of fine handicrafts. I ordered some made-to-measure sandals and invested in a small shoulder bag for carrying passports and documents. We returned to the boat and took advantage of a short period of sunshine to read our books and sip tea.

I was shown some beautiful carving on our host’s new houseboat “Chez Henry”, which was still under construction, and Abdul reiterated the old “we are brothers” spiel and tried to interest me in an expensive trip into the mountains and several local tours.

He proved that our words were just wind to him by asking if we had flown to India despite us yesterday having explained at great length how we got from Britain to Srinagar. He grinned his too-good-to-be-true smile and waved as we were rowed back to the shore to ascend to the Shankaracharya Temple overlooking Dal lake. The track was very steep, and we discovered that our fitness had lapsed on our travels. Nevertheless, we made good time to the top, sweating and with laboured breath.

The temple is dingy, and the view spoiled by a dismal cloudy sky. We trudged back downhill along a long and winding road (cue The Beatles). The weather and the deciduous woodland combined to make it seem as if we were walking along a British country lane. At one spot a snake slithered across our path and George, ignoring the Country Code and fearing a lethal threat, crushed its head with a rock.

We stumbled wearily into a vegetarian restaurant (same one as last night) for some sustenance as daylight began to fade. Following supper, which was porridge for George who now has a bad sore throat, we went on what started as window shopping around the various art shops in a pleasant shopping centre.

We looked at awe and desire at incredible walnut carvings, elaborately embroidered silks, intricately woven carpets and copper statuettes. George was soon 325 Indian Rupees lighter (£1 = 15 Rupees) for a fetching silk smock, trousers and scarf set for his girlfriend Kim. We looked on in wonder as the shopkeeper wrapped up the parcel in brown paper and then sewed it up in a cloth envelope.

We wandered from shop to shop wishing that we had money to burn and eventually broke off from our dreaming to have a coffee break. Local shopkeepers told us tales of how they had been stitched up by French, Germans and Canadians with their trusting “send now, pay later” policy.

This shopping spree served to cheer us up and renew our strength, so we returned to the boat to read our books before getting a good night’s sleep.

Dal Lake

Friday 21st October 1983

A cold night ensued, and I slept on and off with a vague sense of unease and the friendliness of our hosts. I was not put at ease when something scampered up my side and scrobbled about on the blanket covering my head. I thought that a bat had flown in through the window and into me, but when I sat up a mouse was deposited on my pillow (the light was on as the power had been restored sometime during the night).

In disgust I swept it viciously into the far corner of the room where it disappeared into the shadows. I donned my thick jumper and curled up into a foetal ball to combat the cold and dozed until dawn. In the daylight the lake looked like a totally different place. Coloured shikaras plied up and down the calm water which reflected the sky and the trees. In the distance the vast mountains of the Himalayas could be seen.

We were joined in the living room of the boat by the family that owned it. Abdul was disabled and squatted on his useless legs and beamed as he produced letters of recommendation for his hospitality from as far back as 1882! He and his sons assured us that they were “our brothers” and that everything we desired was “no problem”.

After a cuppa we were rowed ashore by the youngest brother (who’s services as our guide we declined) and we walked into town to find a bank and the Tourist Office. After a short walk past various local handicraft shops and a luxury two-seater shikara called “The Jolly Swagman” we stopped for a vegetable curry and tea in a vegetarian café. Our teenage camping and backpacking club was called the Hounslow Swagmen and I had Swagman panier bags on my Honda 90.

Abdul’s team had said they could organise a trek into the mountains and this seems like an exciting prospect for the days ahead. After a bit more wandering, we discovered the well-disguised bank and while George was cashing a Traveller’s Cheque we became acquainted (conveniently) with the old boy who ran the handicraft shop downstairs below the bank.

He showed us his wares and warned us against the “monkey business” of the local people, especially the houseboat owners. He told us to organise our own trek and cut out the needless expense of a middleman. He mourned the passing of the days of the “British Raj” when “India was the bones and the English were the flesh”.

Now India had gone downhill and all the people were looking after number one and were out for all they could get, thinking that every tourist “had an oil well behind them”! As he lay out a mountain of shawls for our inspection his assistant gave us some useful advice and addresses in regard of our trek.

We returned to the boat with me feeling a bit disgruntled as somewhere along the line the back had come open on my Ricoh KR-10 Super SLR camera had come open and I was not sure how exposed the 35mm slide film had become.

We lazed about on the roof of the “Gosani Palace” as scanty clouds flitted across the sun. I wrote a letter home while George tried washing his filthy clothes in cold water in the bath and then went on to trim his beard with some blunt scissors. We had a tasty Kashmir meal cooked by our hosts, which was not free as they had us believe.

After supper we were paddled back to dry land and we wandered into a vegetarian restaurant where I continued eating with a vegetable korma. We supped lemon tea and discussed plans for when we returned home to Blighty (naively expecting our fellow Hounslow Swagmen friends to be keen to hear our travel tales and see our photographs and 35mm slides from exotic foreign climes).

We were caught for 2 Indian Rupees for the short row back to our boat, where equipped with extra blankets and quilts (and bottles of drinking water too) we bedded down to a good night’s sleep.

Srinagar

Thursday 20th October 1983

We were up early. When the alarm went off at 04:00 hrs. we dressed quickly and walked through the gloom to the bus station. People were still asleep on crude wooden beds by the roadside and the only sign of life were the armed security patrols. We got the 05:00 hrs. bus to Jammu and arrived at this destination despite much shrugging of shoulders and talks of a strike.

Jammu is the winter capital and the largest city in Jammu district of the Indian union territory of Jammu and Kashmir. Lying on the banks of the river Tawi, the city of Jammu, with an area of 26.64 km2 (10.29 sq mi), is surrounded by the Himalayas in the north and the northern-plains in the south. Jammu is the second most populous city of the union territory.

We got a Srinagar bus straight away at a station that looked like something out of a Charles Dickens tale. The fare was 27 Indian Rupees on the 11:00 hrs bus.

Srinagar is the largest city and the summer capital of the Indian union territory of Jammu and Kashmir. It lies in the Kashmir Valley on the banks of the Jhelum River, a tributary of the Indus, and Dal and Anchar lakes. The city is known for its natural environment, gardens, waterfronts and houseboats. It is also known for traditional Kashmiri handicrafts like Kashmir shawls and also dried fruits. It is the northernmost city of India with over one million people.

Immediately we began to climb into the mountains and the country was green and cultivated in terraces on either side of winding road. Progress was slow as the road was narrow and in places it had been pushed down the hillside by landslips. Sign warned of the danger of speeding around the blind bends with witty rhymes such as “Reckless drivers kill and die, leaving kith and kin to die”.

We stopped a couple of times at the usual transport café-type shacks for chai, but we now felt quite at home in these grubby sheds. As the night wore on it got really uncomfortable in the cramped bus. Every few miles the road was blocked by flocks of sheep and goats and the woman behind me kept hawking and gobbing betel juice spit uncomfortably close to my back.

Paan is a preparation combining betel leaf with areca nut widely consumed throughout Southeast Asia, South Asia (Indian subcontinent) and East Asia (mainly Taiwan). It is chewed for its stimulant effects. After chewing, it is either spat out or swallowed. Paan has many variations. Slaked lime (chuna) paste is commonly added to bind the leaves. Some preparations in the Indian subcontinent include katha paste or mukhwas to freshen the breath.

The habit of spitting out the chewed betel is also believed to aid the spread of diseases like tuberculosis and betel stains teeth dark red and causes tooth decay. The purple spit from chewing betel nuts is often considered an eyesore and could be seen everywhere.

We passed through the Jawahar tunnel, which opened in the 1950s, and is just short of 3km long and is an essential enabler of connectivity between Jammu and Kashmir's summer and winter capitals, and into the Kashmir Valley where we picked up a French harlot and a local houseboat owner. This young upstart soon upset one of the passengers who had already offered us a houseboat on Dal Lake for the night.

Dal is a lake in Srinagar, the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir, India. It is an urban lake, which is the second largest in the union territory of Jammu and Kashmir. It is integral to tourism and recreation in Kashmir and is named the "Lake of Flowers", "Jewel in the crown of Kashmir" or "Srinagar's Jewel".

When we reached finally reached Srinagar we caught a 3-wheeled taxicab to a jetty with our “benefactor” and were paddled out to a houseboat, grandly named the Gosani Palace, on a wobbly shikara (The shikar is a type of wooden boat found on Dal Lake and other water bodies of Srinagar in Jammu and Kashmir, India. Shikars are of varied sizes and are used for multiple purposes, including transportation of people. A usual shikar seats half-a-dozen people, with the driver paddling at the rear).

Safely aboard we settled down with some Persian tea (just hot water!) and an omelette. The power had just gone off and we are writing by the light of a storm lantern. It is very cold at the moment, but at last we have some peace from the blaring Indian music that assaulted our ears on the bus. The driver had one audio cassette which he flipped from side to side on continuous replay throughout the journey.

The Golden Temple

Wednesday 19th October 1983

We were up and away at 08:00 hrs. (without Pa Bear) and were greeted in the Pak Tea House by our usual waiter who had laid our places for breakfast! We demolished an omelette and toast and trekked off through the heat to the station. Somewhere along the line we went adrift and after several people had given us false directions, we found one who knew what he was talking about. Many Pakistanis and Indians would make up directions, nodding their heads from side-to-side, rather than admit that they didn’t know the location of your destination, or didn’t understand your question.

It seemed that we were leaving none-too-soon as riot police were amassing in the Mall and truck loads of regular “Old Bill” (police) sat expectantly in trucks along all of the main roads. We arrived at the minibus stand just as it was about to leave and bagged the prime two front seats for 3.5 Pakistani Rupees each. The back of the transit bus was crammed with human bodies, as usual for this neck of the woods, and we pulled into the melee of assorted traffic.

The way the driver used his horn you would have thought that the bus ran on noise rather than petrol! Horn blaring he weaved between tongas (a light horse-drawn two-wheeled vehicle used in India and Pakistan), bicycles, motorcycles, water buffalos, cars, horse carts and pedestrians, miraculously not hitting anything solid. We passed through a very primitive rural “housing” ghetto where man and beast languished in crude lean-to shelters by an open stagnant earth channel sewer.

At the border we filled up with Pepsi Cola before walking through Pakistani Immigration and Customs. We had to leave our bags in the Customs Hall while we went to the Passport Office and I was half-expecting and dreading a “drugs-plant” and the resultant bribe when we returned. We turned down a request from a dodgy-looking group of Nigerians to carry bundles of “sari material” across the border for them.

The border walk was very pleasant with it’s lawns and gardens, and after a vaccination check, we finally passed on to the Indian side. The open air open-plan Immigration and Customs Section passed us through quickly (as border crossings go). We then got on a bus to Amritsar for 2.5 Indian Rupees.

Marvellous looking Royal Enfield motorbikes (still made in India) were everywhere – hopefully we can acquire one for a song in Amritsar. We fought our way passed the pedal rickshaws, from the bus station, after ascertaining that there were no more buses to Jammu today. After a frustrating and circuitous route on foot we found the Youth Hostel, a haven of peace and sanity amongst the madness and poverty of the surrounding area.

We booked a dormitory bed for the night at a cost of 8 Indian Rupees and settled down in the cool cafeteria to tea and Thums (sic) Up! cola. What a marvel the International Youth Hostel Association is.

By Aug 1977, the Janata Party Government had made two demands of Coca Cola: Dilute their stake in the company and reveal the secret formula, otherwise, quit India. As expected, the Coca Cola took offence (for the secret formula demand by the Government) and decided to pack its bags. Although the Government had given one year time to Coca Cola to reconsider its case or quit, the company left no time in winding up its operations, and within the next 1 month, had already shut down most of the factories. In consequence India went ahead in promoting and distributing it’s home grown Thums Up! Cola, Gold Spot (fizzy orange) and Limca (fizzy lemon) drinks.

Note: despite the warnings in the Lonely Planet Guide Books about the hotels in Mcleod Road, two Aussies and a Dutch traveller were relieved of their travellers cheques in these very establishments, in one case from under the mattress that they were sleeping on at the time of the sneak theft. The victims were all in possession of the “West Asia on a Shoestring” travellers bible, but obviously thought that they knew better.

After a break we set off to see the home of the Sikhs, the Golden Temple. After an idle wander through the maze of rude alleys we eventually stumbled upon the temple. It was decorated to commemorate the occasion of the notorious British Massacre, so we were not welcome visitors, not least for the fact that we had omitted to cover our heads. We got a glimpse of the magnificent golden temple before being overcome by harassment and leaving in disgust.

This was despite the claim that The Golden Temple in Amritsar (Sri Harimandir Sahib Amritsar) is not only a central religious place of the Sikhs, but also a symbol of human brotherhood and equality. Everybody, irrespective of cast, creed or race can seek spiritual solace and religious fulfilment without any hindrance.

The Jallianwala Bagh massacre, also known as the Amritsar massacre, took place on 13 April 1919, when Acting Brigadier-General Reginald Dyer ordered troops of the British Indian Army to fire their rifles into a crowd of unarmed Indian civilians in Jallianwala Bagh, Amritsar, Punjab, killing at least 400 people including men and women.

Chanting and angry speeches incited the crowd from the Tannoy System as we weaved our way through the dirt and the squalor back to the Youth Hostel. I am in need of a break, as the crowds wind me up with their shouts and their incessant blaring of motor horns. These last few weeks of non-stop travel have taken their toll and I am very tired.

Despite the troubles heralded by “Time” Magazine, we saw very little evidence, save for a few armed soldiers on the streets. We had a snack meal at the hostel (a very slow process, getting served!) and we returned to our room as the power cut. We dozed until it came on again at 21:00 hrs.

Lion Warriors

Tuesday 18th October 1983

We were up early and set off, without Jan for once, to the Pak Tea House for a superb breakfast of omelettes and toast. Our next task was to book a bus to the Indian border for tomorrow, so we walked along the Mall in the blazing sun to the tourist bureau.

They directed us to the minibus ranks at the station, so onward we trudged to collapse exhausted into a welcome chair in the restaurant that we had patronised yesterday. A few cokes and teas refuelled us for our mission and after being passed from stand to stand like an unwanted buck we discovered that there was no booking system but the buses just set off for their destinations when they had a full load.

Next on our agenda was sight-seeing so we set off to explore Lahore Fort and the adjacent Badshahi Mosque via some very poor alleys where man and beast lived in close proximity in dingy surroundings. The mosque was an unexpected treat, supposedly the biggest in the world, it looked rather like the Taj Mahal.

The Badshahi Mosque was built by Emperor Aurangzeb in 1671, with construction of the mosque lasting for two years until 1673. The mosque is an important example of Mughal architecture, with an exterior that is decorated with carved red sandstone with marble inlay. It remains the largest mosque of the Mughal-era, and is the second-largest mosque in Pakistan.

Bare-footed we mounted the 204 steps to the top of the corner minaret and gazed out over the grubby noisy city with it’s wide mall, and the picturesque fort opposite. As we left these ancient monuments we met Jan looking like “Pa Bear” slouching towards us, his head lolling on his chest as usual. He learned about the buses from us and disappeared into the fort.

We wandered through the bustling town amongst all manner of vehicles, motor and beast driven, passed Kim’s Gun (The Zamzama Gun, also known as Kim’s Gun or Bhangianwali Toap, is an ornate large bore cannon. It was cast in about 1757 in Lahore, now in Pakistan but at the time part of the Durrani Empire. It is currently on display in front of the Lahore Museum in Lahore, Pakistan.) and into the Pak Tea House for a vegetable curry.

We passed the afternoon in a merry “window shopping” spree in the bazaar. George bought a new shirt and trousers to replace those that he had thrown away to lighten his bag. Despite scouring the town I was unable to find some suitable sandals or a shoulder bag. Our final quest before returning to the YMCA was to reconvert our excess Pakistani Ruppees into usable money for India. When we changed our money into Pakistani Rupees we were assured that such a transaction would be easy, but as we were shunted from bank to bank we realised that this was a fool’s errand and returned to our room to chortle over an article on “British Tribes” in Time Magazine.

An alarming article was also brought to light: “Prime Minister Indira Ghandi has declared the Punjab ‘a disturbed area’”. Five companies of paramilitary reinforcements were rushed to Amritsar (our next destination), the Holy City of the Sikhs, bringing the number of security forces there to 3,000. Meanwhile turbaned, blue-uniformed “Lion Warriors” manned machine guns in the highest towers of the Golden Temple, ready to repel a Government assault.

“Almost every night the rattle of gunfire echoed through Amritsar, occasionally punctuated by the explosion of a bomb”, and “at weeks end the Punjab remained a tinderbox, it’s air poisoned with mistrust, it’s people deeply fearful”. This was in Time Magazine 24th October 1983 and was especially relevant to us as we are intending to cross the border into India and stay in the Amritsar Youth Hostel tomorrow!

Lahore-Amritsar is the only border crossing between Pakistan and India so we have no alternative. Fate has indeed dealt us an alarming card. Amritsar , historically also known as Rāmdāspur and colloquially as Ambarsar, is a city in northwestern India which is the administrative headquarters of the Amritsar district and is located in the Majha region of the Indian state of Punjab.

We had dhal and vegetable curry in the Pak Tea House and an abortive walk with Jan before we went to bed. A reasonable night ensued and I awoke only once, probably disturbed by the noisy chuntering of our ceiling fan or the hardness of the bed.

Lahore YMCA

Monday 17th October 1983

This morning we pored again over maps and guidebooks to work out the best Indian tour. We passed through Multan (Multan is a city in Punjab, Pakistan. Multan is also known as the city of Saints. Located on the banks of the Chenab River, Multan is Pakistan's 7th largest city, and is the major cultural and economic centre of southern Punjab.) at 08:30 hrs. and wondered if we would reach Lahore before we became totally submerged in the dust that blew in through the windows.

Eventually we came to the fertile valley of the Punjab where five rivers come together and trees and greenery abound. The train went on and on stopping at every two-bit station along the way. It was already hours late and I was getting extremely irritable in the dusty heat of the compartment, despite an increased interest in the “The Lord of the Rings” tale. At long last, and four and a half hours late, we laboured into Lahore station.

Lahore is the capital of the Pakistani province of Punjab. It is the country's 2nd largest city after Karachi and currently the 18th largest city proper in the world. Immediately several pests sprang into our carriage and began to proffer hotel cards and unsolicited advice. We fought our way passed them and out of the station, with a few ripe expletives from George, into a grubby smoky town.

Two wretches still persisted in following us even after we stopped for a meal (which Jan only managed to pick at again) and one, a particularly slimy fellow, we were hard-pressed not to physically dissuade. Eventually he got the message and fell behind as we made our way to the YMCA on the Mall.

Our loathing for this vile creature was fuelled by the many tales of thievery and trickery associated with Lahore, especially the despicable practice of planting dope in the hotel rooms of travellers where-by the the police and the informant profit from the resulting bribe money required for the victim to escape charges.

YMCA, sometimes regionally called the Y, is a worldwide youth organization based in Geneva, Switzerland, with more than 64 million beneficiaries in 120 countries. It was founded on 6 June 1844 by Sir George Williams in London, originally as the Young Men's Christian Association, and aims to put Christian principles into practice by developing a healthy "body, mind, and spirit".

From its inception, it grew rapidly and ultimately became a worldwide movement founded on the principles of muscular Christianity. Local YMCAs deliver projects and services focused on youth development through a wide variety of youth activities, including providing athletic facilities, holding classes for a wide variety of skills, promoting Christianity, and humanitarian work.

We had tea in a pleasant tea room just around the corner while we waited for the YMCA (the safest place to stay according to our travel guides) to house a lot of the text-book travellers that we love to hate. We were booked into an austere but clean enough double room (2 nights for 40 Rupees each) and George set off for the cold shower.

After a week of travelling with Jan we were glad of a break from the soapy fellow – he had a single room across the corridor. First on my agenda was to scrub off the ingrained grime of the last couple of days. My hair was stiff and the dirt was so deep that I had to spend a long time, and a great deal of soap, crouching under the cold tap (labelled hot) in the shower stall. Finally, I felt clean at last, and fresh clothes made me feel like a new man.

I wandered out onto the terrace, which overlooked the street and housed a basketball court, before returning to read under the rotary fan in our room. A restless night followed on the absurdly hard wooden bed.

Pakistan Railways

Sunday 16th October 1983

We had an excellent sleep under the warm heavy quilts and reluctantly prepared to leave Quetta. We had breakfast (tea and biscuits) in the café on Jinnar Road and trudged down to the railway station. People called hello and waved as we passed. The train was already in and we found our luxurious (by Pakistan standards) 4 bunk cabin with it’s own toilet. It had cost us 130 Rupees and as we were the only occupants, we had plenty of room to sprawl about.

We stocked up with bananas and biscuits for the 24-hour journey up ahead and we pulled out of Quetta station at 12:00 hrs. A sign in the compartment declared that if anyone smoked after being told to desist by fellow passengers then they could be fined 20 Rupees and removed from the cabin. A good rule indeed!

At the station, a Pakistani leant in through our window and expressed wonder that were having “enjoyment without babies”. We gleaned after a while that he meant travelling without female companions or partners. The train trundled through the desert wastes of Baluchistan and we were joined by a Pakistani Army Captain. When he found out that we were English he cried “Ah, Margaret Thatcher, Iron Lady!” He then beseeched us to linger in Pakistan instead of rushing through in transit. He told us not to miss the beautiful north and learn first-hand, the countries poverty and people.

He talked at length of the history and problems of Pakistan, of it’s religions and it’s separation from India and later, West Pakistan (now Bangladesh). We listened with interest to his arguments which were sound and often amusing, regarding the British Raj, education and the abolition of the Pakistani “Lord” System that suppressed progress. He said that he welcomed Pakistan becoming a nuclear power and said that they would be happy to use nuclear weapons if they were under threat because they were protecting their own land and people.

He left us eventually to read and doze as the train progressed south to warmer desert plains with some greenery, and then back north-easterly to higher ground towards Lahore. The outer doors to our carriage were wide open and occasionally I would stand in the opening, holding the handrail, and stare out into the arid open plains. There was nothing for as far as the eye could see and this vast nothingness was only interrupted by crude tents and occasionally, multi-coloured trucks passed by on the road adjacent to the track.

George is now demonstration how messy it is to eat a pomegranate, spattering his face, hands and the compartment floor with vivid red juice! I pored over our travel bible: “West Asia on a Shoestring” published by Lonely Planet, reading the historical and background summaries of Pakistan and India for the first time.

At Jacobabad Junction railway station we put the local chai boys to good use and chatted with curious locals who posed the usual questions “where are you going?”, “where do you come from?” and “where have you travelled from?” Jacobabad is in Sindh, Pakistan and Jacobabad Station serves as a major junction for Pakistan Railways network.

George and I tucked into some local fast food while Jan looked on enviously, worried as usual about catching something nasty. I continued reading the Lonely Planet guide to try and work out the ideal tour of Kashmir, starting from Amritsar and ending in Dehli, without backtracking or excessive travelling time. George has started reading “The World According to Garp” by John Irving and bursts of giggles occasionally break the calm in the compartment. The night was fairly warm and I slept fully clothed on a dusty upper bunk.

Diarrhoea

Saturday 15th October 1983

The night was freezing and as we only had a sheet each, I put on all my warm clothes and got into bed. We all slept well until 09:30 hrs. despite the cold, when we got up and set off in search of a bank. The streets were bustling with life and bicycles, 3-wheeled taxis, motorbikes, cars and pickup trucks roared about hooting wildly as we negotiated horses and carts, pedestrians and the open sewers.

We found a bank where George had a minor difficulty changing up Thomas Cook Travellers Cheques (I had America Express, that’ll do nicely!) but he changed £50 and we had £25 of Rupees each. The banks were guarded by men with shotguns and casual-looking police with batons sat chatting on street corners in groups.

I tried to change my Iranian money (which the banks wouldn’t change) into Pakistani Rupees with a dodgy old incoherent bastard who had chewed too many betel nuts. At least we got a free cup of tea from him before realising that he was wasting my time with a pitiful rate of exchange. I still had this Iranian money when we returned to the U.K. and it is probably still in the attic!

After breakfast we went to the railway station where we gained 50% discount on tomorrows first class sleeper by fraudulently presenting our Youth Hostel Association cards as proof that we were students. Our next port of call was the Post Office where we wrote postcards in the sunny front garden, and then on to a tour of the town.

Jan returned to the hotel and George and I went shopping around the bazaar looking for bags and waistcoats with secure zip pockets. People beamed when we acknowledged their greetings and we wandered from stall to stall unmolested. We left empty handed and tried a cheaper café for supper. I was quite happy with minced beef, spinach and rice but Jan picked unhappily at his ropey curried lamb with a look of disgust which only increased when George suggested that he substituted the meat for banana with the rice.

At another place we had tea and I raced back to the hotel just in time to avoid soiling my pants with a sudden assault on my bowels by a bout of virulent diarrhoea. We settled down for the night now equipped with a heavy duty, maximum TOG, continental quilt.

Jan, who had been careful about what he ate and avoided drinking the water provided on the bus, was worst affected by gippy tummy. He spent most of the night in the toilet groaning, drizzling and farting and muttering “Oh my God, Oh my God” to himself.

Whew! This completes the mammoth task of writing up the events of the last week. I thought it wise to refrain from writing about Iran, especially the political comments, until I was safely outside of her borders.

Quote of the Week: from Winty “You want to sleep on the bus? You cannot!”

Quetta

Friday 14th October 1983

We carried on for a while through the desert until we came to another large primitive town where we stopped for breakfast. Turbaned locals roared up and down the wide main drag on light blue Neval motorbikes (we were told that they were stolen from the Russian Army in Afghanistan) as we went into a fly-infested café for tea and bread. Winty soon had the waiters hopping about so we were assured of good service.

All day we continued through the desert on a crude tarmac road passing small, isolated mud villages, people on push bikes (bicycles) and grazing camels, black goats and sheep. We raced with other multi-coloured jangling buses, some carrying sheep on the roof! At the lunchtime stop we asked if we could ride on the roof, and when we set off again, the three of us were perched above the drivers cab behind two metal decorated peacocks.

The bus laboured over the mountains (our route across Baluchistan crossed the Chagai Hills and Chiltan mountain range) and our driver revitalised his ebbing energy with more hashish. At the next stop we decided to return to our seats inside the bus. We sipped ubiquitous Coca Cola (this and Laughing Cow cheese triangles - https://www.thelaughingcow.co.uk/history/ - seem to get to the remotest places on the planet) as the rest of the crowd prayed to Allah and two Germans from another bus strutted about in full tribal garb posing and smoking like film stars.

With 20 miles to go, the coach, like the driver, was beginning to flag. We passed another Customs Post (where more baksheesh was called for by tubby docile-looking border officials with antiquated rifles) and began to climb again, when the bus gave up the ghost. We left the coach with steam pissing from the radiator and walked up the hill, following the ever boisterous Winty.

Eventually the bus crawled up to meet us at the brow of the hill and we remounted to trundle rapidly downhill into Quetta in the failing light of day. Quetta is at an average elevation of 1,680 metres (5,510 feet) above sea level, making it Pakistan's only high-altitude major city. The city is known as the "Fruit Garden of Pakistan," due to the numerous fruit orchards in and around it, and the large variety of fruits and dried fruit products produced there.

At the bus station Winty and the Iranian (one of the only Ayatollah Khomeini supporters we had met) shot off to catch the Karachi bus. Our intrepid trio, Jan Verdich, George and I, took a 3-wheeled bike/cab/tuk tuk into town. On the Jinnah Road I asked in a posh hotel, I asked for the price of a triple room and an English fellow who overheard recommended the El-Imran Hotel for economy and cleanliness.

We found the place and booked 2 nights in a pleasant room for 126 Rupees (£1=20 Rupees). We returned to the Jinnah Road for a meal (curry and rice with 7Up for 70 Rupees for the three of us), which George and I enjoyed but Jan most definitely did not. We returned to the hotel through the darkened streets where a few stalls remained open and a pitiful wretch moaned from a cart for alms.

Pakistan

Above: 1. Afghans queuing to get into Pakistan. 2. Pakistani desert bus. 3. Pakistani Motorway Services!

Thursday 13th October 1983

We were up at 06:00 hrs. as the bus was due to leave at 07:00 hrs. and we walked to the stop through throngs of military personnel, passed a watch tower at the corner of a military camp. We bought our tickets and settled down to wait with yet another English-speaking Iranian. Only seven seats had been bought so we had to bide our time until the bus had a full contingent, fuelled by ice cold Coca Cola vended from grubby polystyrene boxes.

At last a load of Afghani’s arrived to fill the spaces but another delay ensued as the Afghans refused to have their baggage searched and to pay the tip for the loaders to pack their baggage on the roof. It took about an hour to sort this out and we finally boarded the coach and set off on the arid dusty road to the border.

Our next delay was an army checkpoint where all the Afghans were taken off the bus with all their gear, frisked and all their bags thoroughly searched. The Iranian told us to use the term “refugee” loosely in the case of these Afghans as he said that they were smugglers of currency, drugs, gold and weapons. Indeed, they all seem to be carrying great wadges of Iranian money. The next checkpoint inspected our passports and the one after that was for Iranian nationals only.

The long dusty road finally brought us to the border and we were off-loaded at 14:00 hrs. to wait in the Iranian border compound until the office opened at 16:00 hrs. The wind whipped up the sand in our faces and a public address system kept up a steady barrage of martial music and religious monologue as we waited at this bleak outpost. Two GB Land Rovers and a GB Ford Transit van arrived, plus a Belgian car. The Afghans were herded without ceremony into what appeared to be a refugee camp, but was in fact Pakistan!

I joined the Iranian in an expensive chicken and rice meal in the tourist restaurant (500 Iranian Rials) but at least the walls, festooned with propaganda posters, kept the wind and the sand out. When the Immigration Office opened I went in with our three passports (George, Jan and mine) and was stamped out without any regard for currency control or customs checks. We moved on to the “refugee camp” which turned out to be the border town of Taftan, and found a small building which was Pakistani Immigration Control.

In this dimly lit room our passport details where entered into a huge ledger and a rubber stamp concluded the proceedings. Back in the open air a tubby, friendly-looking man rushed excitedly up to us and tried to recruit us as passengers for a minibus to Quetta. “All the buses are full”, he cried, but our Iranian companion had spotted an apparently empty bus and we eventually paid a six-seater row for the five of us on this bus.

Seedy local money changers swarmed around us from the noisy melee of the shanty town and we changed 20 U.S. dollars (borrowed from Jan) at a poor rate, as the money changers knew that the banks were closed. We got 240 Pakistani Rupees for $20 dollars.

The bus was magnificent. Every inch of this single decker Bedford was covered with patterned silver “armour” and garnished with lights, fluorescent reflectors, coloured paint and transfers. Chains hanging from the bumpers tinkled in the desert wind as our bags were loaded on to the ornate roof rack. Inside the bus was just as decorative with floral designs in dayglo colours and inset patterns behind Perspex panels.

We had the row of seats behind the driver and the rest of the bus was filled with Afghanis. Inside 8 of them occupied rows which grudgingly accommodated 6 and other packed on to the roof perched on top of the baggage. In all there were 5 passport holders and 100 Afghans on the bus!

Our next stop was at customs. “The driver knows how to handle Customs”, said our Pakistani business man friend, “they will not touch passport holders and the rest of them must chip in for a suitable bribe”. Thus we were quickly away and on to the 80 miles of rough track (now called the N40 desert highway) across the Kharan Desert.

It was pitch dark now and after about an hour we had a break at a rude “transport café” in the desert. Three mud walls topped with a woven rush roof soon became filled with squatting Afghans eating stew, while we looked up at the millions of stars in the sky. Goats and donkeys strayed in the darkness and the Pakistani businessman who was resident in Iran, who we had nicknamed “Winty” as we couldn’t pronounce his name, told us of the region’s history and of his own travels.

A second stop a while later (about midnight) gave us a chance to stretch our cramped legs and have a cup of Pakistan-style tea. Winty gave the café staff hell calling for quick service and tea without milk for Jan. These desert night stops were a treat, and we were sorry that we couldn’t tarry longer at each.

Finally, we stopped at the drivers resting place so he could sleep off the effects of his hashish cigarettes! “For 2 hours”, said Winty, but we were destined to spend 5 hours cramped up in this steel coffin fighting the urge to scream and stretch and break out into the cold desert air. I finally fell asleep with my legs stretched over the back of the driver’s seat and resting on the steering wheel. We were glad to see the sun rise the next morning!