It’s been an eventful few
weeks since my last blog post. I’ve been
happily pottering about Delhi, exploring its sights, for example the delightful
Haus Kaus Village, full of trendy nick-nack shops, groovy cafes ad a bohemian
air; the National Railway Museum, home to quietly rusting locos and squealing,
exuberant children waving and giggling at us from their ride on the miniature
train and finally Lodhi gardens, just a short walk from my hotel, crammed with
picnicking families, cricket-playing youths and hundreds and hundreds of
enormous eagles wheeling around and swooping on the crows.
Over the last fortnight
however, I haven’t been able to tick anything more off my Delhi
to-do list since I got sent to Dhaka. As the capital of Bangladesh
it used to be part of India
and then East Pakistan. Dhaka is a major garment maker, countless
factories stitching clothes for the likes of Walmart in the USA, H&M
and even designer brands. Those with
slight imperfections are sold off in stores or for next to nothing in garment
sales which resemble giant jumble sales. As a result the majority of the
population of Dhaka are remarkably well
dressed. Unfortunately the political
situation in Dhaka isn’t helping economic
growth with wrangling about upcoming elections resulting in violence, petrol
bombs and general strikes, and the torching of buses and autorickshaws becoming
more frequent during the time we were there.
Luckily we squeezed in a tour of Old Dhaka – like a frenetic old Delhi
with more brightly painted cycle rickshaws, before the election schedule was
announced and before the cocktail bombs started being regularly thrown. We saw the pink palace and Lalbahg Fort,
causing a stir wherever we went and being met with constant requests to have
our photo taken with the locals. I’m guessing they don’t get to meet too many
tourists. Armed with a bagful of
clothing seconds and hard-bartered pearls it was back to Delhi,
before my weekend away in Amritsar…
Part of the Punjab, Amritsar is home to the Golden Palace,
serenely sitting surrounded by its holy waters.
No matter what your religion, the volunteers at the Golden temple offer
Langar which translates as free food so after swapping my shoes for a metal
token, paddling through the footbath and admiring the beautiful temple I
collected my thali plate and sat cross legged on the floor whilst eager
volunteers slopped rice, dhal, veg curry and a sweet rice gloop onto my plate,
plus the obligatory roti to eat it all with. I wasn’t too keen on the sweet
rice but I felt I had to eat it all so as not to offend. It was all highly efficient, after eating we
all filed out in turn to give back our empty plates, trying desperately to
avoid squelching through bits of dropped food with our bare feet. I’d travelled t o Amritsar by train which I was determined
would be part of the experience. And at
over 6 hours on the way there and a numbing 9 hours on the way back, it was
certainly a long experience. Still there was always plenty out of the window to
look at – slums and rubbish dumps seemingly attracted to railway lines like
magnets, both with their unique ecosystems involving children, cows, and in the
case of the rubbish dumps, tribes of pigs.
Almost as enthralling was watching my fellow passengers, since most
Indians wear their hearts on their sleeves there was always some drama
unfolding. And eating, in the case of the Shatabdi Express which took me to Amritsar, free food was
served at least every twenty minutes or so it seemed.
I was staying at the
wonderful Mrs Bhandari’s guesthouse in Amritsar. Mrs Bhandari must have been an amazing lady, living
to the ripe old age of 100 and being the first woman in Amritsar to own and drive an car. She set up and ran the guesthouse when both
of her husbands died at a young age. She
died in 2007 and nothing appeared to have been altered since then, from
the fading excerpts from the Sunday Telegraph
on the walls to the teak furniture, dodgy electrics and unique plumbing system.
Breakfast was served in the morning sunshine accompanied by the tweeting of
birds. Life was made very easy for me
from advice on how much to pay for a tuctuc to being picked up from the station
to a hot water bottle magically appearing in my bed! They even laid on a car to take me to what
was the highlight of the weekend – the Flag Ceremony at the Wagah border. The exaggerated gestures and Monty
Pythonesque silly walks of the Border Guards on both sides had been described
to me but what came as a surprise was its sheer scale – thousands of spectators
singing, dancing, waving flags and chanting in a show of patriotism and
one-upmanship directed at the slightly smaller but equally vociferous audience
of Pakistanis beyond the gate. Indian pop songs gave way to chanting of Hindustan!, delivered by a Bollywood style Indian in a
tight white tracksuit and then to the theatrical high kicking of the border
guards which had to be seen to be believed.
And that’s it – back in Delhi for a couple of
weeks… so much to see, so little time.
More in my next post….
