What with the BAD 24 hours, and the excitement of the tiger, I forgot about this bit – the reason I came to Ranthambore instead of the Corbett Park; the reason I’m here in India. Well you didn’t think I was here to have a good time did you? This is jolly hard work I’ll have you know.
The Rajasthan countryside is parched and dry, with a bleak rugged beauty. The surrounding hills are pink and rocky, and from them comes much of the marble prevalent in shops and hotels, and which adorns the ancient buildings. The villages are a mixture of thatched mud houses and dwellings made of woven panels – I think they’re banana leaves - again with thatched roofs. These panels are sometimes used to enclose straw stacks or grain. Everywhere there are piles of cowpat, dried in the sun. These are then formed into stacks with pitched roofs, some thatched, and some ‘rendered’ with slurry now dried to keep out the rain. Swirls and patterns decorate this rendering, and some are even painted. These cowpats are their fuel, and very important to them. In amongst all this, and outside the houses and on the roofs, are bundles of sticks, some no more than twigs, also for fuel. Firewood is a scare commodity in this bare and scrubby area. You will see the women and children breaking branches from roadside trees. In the Ranthambore Park there are many trees, and the pickings as far as the villagers are concerned, are richer.
The Prakratic Society, started in 1999 has succeeded in setting up over 250 biogas digesters in the villages around the Ranthambore National Park. In doing so they have reduced the amount of fuel wood collected for cooking per family buy about 2.4 tonnes per annum. There are many social and health implications for the household in switching to AD plants; not having to make a round trip of some 20 km for fuel, a reduction in respiratory and eye diseases caused by smoke in the home, plus general cleanliness. From the Park’s point of view there is much less disturbance of the natural habitat, with fallen wood left to provide micro habitats, and growing trees left standing.
The digesters employed here are of the deenbandhu type, with a 3m³ body built of bricks and mortar, and the feedstock is cow dung (gobar). Households are selected on their ability to adequately service the digester, i.e. have enough cow dung to give a regular supply of gas, and in essence need 4 or more head of cattle. They have found that the fermented dung makes better fertilizer than commercial fertilizer and claim yields from farms using digestate are up by 25%.
18 May 2010
Andhra Pradesh - 8th May, Saturday
The first eight hours of landscape passed me by in darkness and slumber as my mobile hotel hurtled south. By morning, the view could almost be one of English broad-leafed woodland, stretching for miles toward distant hills, with sliver-barked trees with fine drooping branches which could easily be silver birch, and the stature of others reminiscent of oak and elm. Some very British-looking pylons cut huge swathes through the scenery.
There are more palm trees here, and the wooded areas are thicker, but it is still mostly farmland. In one place, a man ploughs his field with an ox, while his neighbour drives a small but smart-looking (and by inference, fairly new) John Deere with a two furrow reversible plough. I still haven’t quite come to terms with the juxtapositions of these things. Rich/poor, old/new. In Rajasthan, a man who lives in a mud house, has a new JCB parked outside; a Delhi rickshaw driver in a vest and loincloth, texts on a camera-phone vastly superior in quality to my mobile.
Eventually the train crossed an area – the Deccan Plateau probably – where huge rounded rocks piled themselves on top of the hills and each other in gravity-defying arrangements. I can’t get over how smooth some of them are – perhaps it’s the effect of the sand-blasting.
Fly in the ointment? I travelled first class because the 2-, 3-tier classes were already booked. When you are about to leave the train, all those who have waited on you come round with a tray ……. except the poor old chaps in brown fatigues, who wash the floor and spray the curtains for mosquitoes, and empty the bins; they are no-where to be seen. I’m sure they need my money more than the purser in his clean company-issue shirt.
There are more palm trees here, and the wooded areas are thicker, but it is still mostly farmland. In one place, a man ploughs his field with an ox, while his neighbour drives a small but smart-looking (and by inference, fairly new) John Deere with a two furrow reversible plough. I still haven’t quite come to terms with the juxtapositions of these things. Rich/poor, old/new. In Rajasthan, a man who lives in a mud house, has a new JCB parked outside; a Delhi rickshaw driver in a vest and loincloth, texts on a camera-phone vastly superior in quality to my mobile.
Eventually the train crossed an area – the Deccan Plateau probably – where huge rounded rocks piled themselves on top of the hills and each other in gravity-defying arrangements. I can’t get over how smooth some of them are – perhaps it’s the effect of the sand-blasting.
Fly in the ointment? I travelled first class because the 2-, 3-tier classes were already booked. When you are about to leave the train, all those who have waited on you come round with a tray ……. except the poor old chaps in brown fatigues, who wash the floor and spray the curtains for mosquitoes, and empty the bins; they are no-where to be seen. I’m sure they need my money more than the purser in his clean company-issue shirt.
Radjhani Express - 8th May, Saturday
I really like Indian train travel! This time I am travelling first class, and for something in the region of £50, I have travelled 1000 plus miles, had a good nights sleep in an air-con carriage, with evening meal, breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea all thrown in. I’ve watched miles of India pass by, caught up on all my writing, and had the pleasure of Indian company. Nobody wants to harass me or sell me anything. And at the end of my journey, H Murali Krishna of Village Vision Bio-Power, or one of the people from his organization, will be waiting for me and see that I get to my hotel.
They have a clever way of organizing first class. As the carriages are divided up into two or four berth compartments, each with a door, they wait until everyone has booked before allocating berths. As before, sleeping is mixed, so they put couples or unaccompanied females together – it’s all very civilized. You can find your berth allocation by texting your passenger number to a rail text line a couple of hours before the train leaves.
The washroom is spacious. A basin, chrome handrails, hooks but otherwise bare. I hadn’t realized there was a showerhead on the wall. Well, anyone who has spent any time at all in the gritty dust of Delhi will realize what a fantastically welcome sight that is. Five minutes later, and totally re-humanised, I was left contemplating the IRCTC-issue towel I had with me. Expecting only to be able to wash, a towel of, at most, 18 x 30” seemed a trifle small after a shower. But I’ve managed everything else so far.
They have a clever way of organizing first class. As the carriages are divided up into two or four berth compartments, each with a door, they wait until everyone has booked before allocating berths. As before, sleeping is mixed, so they put couples or unaccompanied females together – it’s all very civilized. You can find your berth allocation by texting your passenger number to a rail text line a couple of hours before the train leaves.
The washroom is spacious. A basin, chrome handrails, hooks but otherwise bare. I hadn’t realized there was a showerhead on the wall. Well, anyone who has spent any time at all in the gritty dust of Delhi will realize what a fantastically welcome sight that is. Five minutes later, and totally re-humanised, I was left contemplating the IRCTC-issue towel I had with me. Expecting only to be able to wash, a towel of, at most, 18 x 30” seemed a trifle small after a shower. But I’ve managed everything else so far.
Delhi Market 8th May, Friday
Delhi is busy. Not only is it the capital and bound to be heavily trafficked, but it is also preparing for the Commonwealth Games in October. This involves a massive road improvement scheme, and almost every street appears to have road works along it somewhere. Being India, the niceties of segregating work from pedestrians or traffic is not observed. Pedestrians clamber over piles of sand, or paving blocks, or bricks; the workforce digs holes and lays blocks around the pedestrians. Drainage trenches run alongside the road, and planks are laid across for shop access. Nothing stops the road building, and nothing stops the shopping. The road gang ladies knock-up mortar beside the bricks, and the well-heeled ladies hitch up their saris and splash round. We are in their way, and they are in ours, but I hear no complaints. The traffic drives over the piles of earth and sand. The city is red with dust, and today it is very windy. Everyone’s clothes are filthy. There are only a few moths to go before the games, some of them involving the monsoon. I wish them well.
With time to kill between checking out of my hotel and my evening train, I ventured into the market places, behind my shades, naturally. Several vendors offered me sunglasses
‘Look, I have some’ I said, pointing to my face.
‘These are good glasses ma’am’
‘Mine are better, I don’t need glasses’
And a small shoeshine boy hurried after me offering his services ‘I’m wearing trainers,’ I said, exasperated, ‘what do you think you are going to shine?’ An Indian lady with embroidered sandals was having similar trouble, so I felt better.
I turned down one of the side streets to the usual accompaniment of ‘hallo ma’am, hallo’ to attract my attention.
One passerby said, ‘hallo’ pause ‘sexy’. This was so surprising that for a second I didn’t even find it funny. What I did find was that, ‘Piss off you creep’, needs no translation, as a number of stall holders laughed, & repeated the phrase several times to each other. As a rule, the men here aren’t rude or derogatory. A boy of around nine, in a group of well-dressed lads in the Little Taj in Delhi called ‘bitch’ after me when I refused to give them Rs 100 for a plastic flower, but that’s been all, and then that’s probably small boys everywhere.
One strange thing happened. An elderly man with unkempt hair and in traditional dress, was carrying a long bamboo pole about 2” in diameter which he waved about and sometimes banged on the ground, shouting something. He stood in front of me and brought the pole above his head in the manner of an axe. Staring very hard at me, so that I could see white all round his pupils he yelled ‘HIN-DU-STA-NI’ and menaced with his pole. I was astounded. No-one else around me – and the streets were crowded - said anything or did anything; they just let this weird scene play out in front of them. He shook the pole at me again and shouted something else. He was an old man, and it was a big pole. If he tried to hit me he would probably have fallen over, but I could have certainly stepped out of the way. Perhaps he thought I was the menace. I took off my sunglasses, maintained eye contact, and walked by, while he stood in the road, pole above his head, still shouting. I have no explanation.
Not all stalls in the market are retail. Apart from the shoeshine, there are cobblers and carpenters practicing their trade in the street, but the most popular and prolific are the mobile phone repairers. They have small electric or gas soldering irons on their tables, and boxes of printed circuits, and they sort your phone out while you wait.
I have developed another new tactic. Sorry England, my motherland, but I have become selectively Scottish, and will be denying you many times before the cock crows if expedient. Apologies too to all north of the border in the Highlands and islands, but little is known about Scotland other than that it is near England. The Scots are seen as poor; the English as stinking rich, and as I have failed to dispel the myth of the latter, I am now subscribing heavily to the myth of the former. This may (or may not) reduce the expectations of drivers and porters.
Heading off on the next leg of my journey, I collected my luggage from the Royal Holiday, who charged me Rs 50 to look after it, and fetched up in a taxi at the Nizamuddin railway station. This is a clean, modern place, and the first I’ve been to with signage which I can follow. They make train announcements continuously in at least 2 languages, each preceded by a little jingle (shades of Hi-de-Hi).
So that was Delhi, which passed without significant incident, but thank you anyway to the British Consul for the email warnings, but I was scheduled to be in Delhi, and I was very watchful behind the dark glasses.
With time to kill between checking out of my hotel and my evening train, I ventured into the market places, behind my shades, naturally. Several vendors offered me sunglasses
‘Look, I have some’ I said, pointing to my face.
‘These are good glasses ma’am’
‘Mine are better, I don’t need glasses’
And a small shoeshine boy hurried after me offering his services ‘I’m wearing trainers,’ I said, exasperated, ‘what do you think you are going to shine?’ An Indian lady with embroidered sandals was having similar trouble, so I felt better.
I turned down one of the side streets to the usual accompaniment of ‘hallo ma’am, hallo’ to attract my attention.
One passerby said, ‘hallo’ pause ‘sexy’. This was so surprising that for a second I didn’t even find it funny. What I did find was that, ‘Piss off you creep’, needs no translation, as a number of stall holders laughed, & repeated the phrase several times to each other. As a rule, the men here aren’t rude or derogatory. A boy of around nine, in a group of well-dressed lads in the Little Taj in Delhi called ‘bitch’ after me when I refused to give them Rs 100 for a plastic flower, but that’s been all, and then that’s probably small boys everywhere.
One strange thing happened. An elderly man with unkempt hair and in traditional dress, was carrying a long bamboo pole about 2” in diameter which he waved about and sometimes banged on the ground, shouting something. He stood in front of me and brought the pole above his head in the manner of an axe. Staring very hard at me, so that I could see white all round his pupils he yelled ‘HIN-DU-STA-NI’ and menaced with his pole. I was astounded. No-one else around me – and the streets were crowded - said anything or did anything; they just let this weird scene play out in front of them. He shook the pole at me again and shouted something else. He was an old man, and it was a big pole. If he tried to hit me he would probably have fallen over, but I could have certainly stepped out of the way. Perhaps he thought I was the menace. I took off my sunglasses, maintained eye contact, and walked by, while he stood in the road, pole above his head, still shouting. I have no explanation.
Not all stalls in the market are retail. Apart from the shoeshine, there are cobblers and carpenters practicing their trade in the street, but the most popular and prolific are the mobile phone repairers. They have small electric or gas soldering irons on their tables, and boxes of printed circuits, and they sort your phone out while you wait.
I have developed another new tactic. Sorry England, my motherland, but I have become selectively Scottish, and will be denying you many times before the cock crows if expedient. Apologies too to all north of the border in the Highlands and islands, but little is known about Scotland other than that it is near England. The Scots are seen as poor; the English as stinking rich, and as I have failed to dispel the myth of the latter, I am now subscribing heavily to the myth of the former. This may (or may not) reduce the expectations of drivers and porters.
Heading off on the next leg of my journey, I collected my luggage from the Royal Holiday, who charged me Rs 50 to look after it, and fetched up in a taxi at the Nizamuddin railway station. This is a clean, modern place, and the first I’ve been to with signage which I can follow. They make train announcements continuously in at least 2 languages, each preceded by a little jingle (shades of Hi-de-Hi).
So that was Delhi, which passed without significant incident, but thank you anyway to the British Consul for the email warnings, but I was scheduled to be in Delhi, and I was very watchful behind the dark glasses.
Delhi 6th May, Thursday.
It may appear that I didn’t enjoy my tour, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. With hindsight being the best sight, I would have done it differently, that’s all. Having organized this trip entirely unaided, I’ve been rather pleased at the way things have panned out, considering my novice status. But the moment I handed over the reins…
You see, I selected ‘Incredible Home Stay’. Me. I did. I opted to stay an extra day, and it was always my intention to return there after my tour. To my surprise I found it was included in my package. Before leaving, I checked with the one of the hotel staff just to make sure. He showed me my name in the diary. On my return the tour operator, Abyss, have informed me I’m now in a different hotel, because the Incredible had made a mistake. Now this I know not to be correct, but there’s no point beefing because I have allowed things to be taken out of my hands and permitted this firm to find me a hotel. This hotel, The Royal Holiday, is nice enough, the chaps are friendly, and it has free wifi with a half decent signal, which is a bonus. The air-con doesn’t work though; it is merely re-arranging the hot night air at great volume. I’m slightly amused, because there is an air-con cover on the wall, but no electrical device for cold air. No controls, nothing inside. It’s empty, bar the blower!
Electricity is delight here, if you don’t work for HSE back home. Like the driving, it’s something best not thought about. There are two types of plug in use; two pin and three pin; both round, and many sockets have holes for both. The two pin plugs fall out at the drop of a hat. Since my arrival I have used my two trusty books – the Lonely Planet Guide, and Keenan & McCarthy’s Between Extremes, to either jamb underneath my adaptor or add weight from above. You have to twist the plug, or leave it half out sometimes, ignore the crackles and sparks & hope in the morning your phone has charged. I have broken my faithful fruit knife trying to widen the pins on my adaptor. Could have been worse, have broken the adaptor I suppose.
The standard method for making a connection is to first bang the plug hard. The net result of this treatment is that many sockets have a rather tenuous hold on the wall. On the train, an Indian gentleman attempting to charge his mobile, said to me,
‘Electricity here is a joke. A joke’, and proceeded to tear up newspaper to jam behind his plug. Another gentleman calmly pushed two bared wires from his laptop into the socket holes and held them there with toothpicks.
You see, I selected ‘Incredible Home Stay’. Me. I did. I opted to stay an extra day, and it was always my intention to return there after my tour. To my surprise I found it was included in my package. Before leaving, I checked with the one of the hotel staff just to make sure. He showed me my name in the diary. On my return the tour operator, Abyss, have informed me I’m now in a different hotel, because the Incredible had made a mistake. Now this I know not to be correct, but there’s no point beefing because I have allowed things to be taken out of my hands and permitted this firm to find me a hotel. This hotel, The Royal Holiday, is nice enough, the chaps are friendly, and it has free wifi with a half decent signal, which is a bonus. The air-con doesn’t work though; it is merely re-arranging the hot night air at great volume. I’m slightly amused, because there is an air-con cover on the wall, but no electrical device for cold air. No controls, nothing inside. It’s empty, bar the blower!
Electricity is delight here, if you don’t work for HSE back home. Like the driving, it’s something best not thought about. There are two types of plug in use; two pin and three pin; both round, and many sockets have holes for both. The two pin plugs fall out at the drop of a hat. Since my arrival I have used my two trusty books – the Lonely Planet Guide, and Keenan & McCarthy’s Between Extremes, to either jamb underneath my adaptor or add weight from above. You have to twist the plug, or leave it half out sometimes, ignore the crackles and sparks & hope in the morning your phone has charged. I have broken my faithful fruit knife trying to widen the pins on my adaptor. Could have been worse, have broken the adaptor I suppose.
The standard method for making a connection is to first bang the plug hard. The net result of this treatment is that many sockets have a rather tenuous hold on the wall. On the train, an Indian gentleman attempting to charge his mobile, said to me,
‘Electricity here is a joke. A joke’, and proceeded to tear up newspaper to jam behind his plug. Another gentleman calmly pushed two bared wires from his laptop into the socket holes and held them there with toothpicks.
The tour continues - 5th May
Hotel Umaid, Jaipur
This place is rather smart. The ceilings of the foyer, the bedroom, the dining room, the halls, plus the walls, are all decorated with a flower motif. Little friezes run everywhere and paintings and old photographs of a maharaja and his court, fill the spaces. There are drapes over windows and doors, and plush furnishings and objet d’art everywhere. Rather incongruously, the arm of the Victorian-style armchair in my room has been broken, and a repair affected with a thin strip of plywood and four staples. The room has a balcony, and lying on the bed looking up is a little like viewing the Sistine Chapel. Well, not much like really, but it is certainly a remarkable view.
Last of my brief tour today, and into Jaipur, the Pink City. There are some truly magnificent buildings both within and without the city. From the almost cool Winter Palace (Hawa Mahal) with its sloping ridged access to the top of the building, and slotted, patterned vents on all sides providing a continuous breeze, to the heat of the monolithic Jaigarh Fort/Amber Fort complex over looking the city from the Hill of Eagles, with defence walls running for miles up the sides of the hills and across their ridges. The fort really needs a couple days to appreciate properly, and it needs to be winter. All those films I’ve seen - like Ralph Richardson in The Four Feathers, stumbling along under a blistering sun. Well that was me.
Actually, I’m not one of nature’s tourists, certainly not the tick-box kind, and I found the tour relentless. There are only so many historical buildings you can absorb in two days, and I could happily have remained with the tigers. The tours include too many stops at selected warehouses and craft malls for my liking. You never get to browse in peace there; there’s always a voice at your elbow, the soft-shoe shuffle behind you as someone follows you wherever you go. I bought at the one place where the seller didn’t harass me, and told him that was why he’d made the sale.
Caveat emptor. Some hotels and tour operators are part of a network. Once in the hotel a friend, colleague, brother, can whip you off to the ‘tourist bureau’ and can have a tour organized for you in a flash. This is not a con – just a business. Everyone along the line must get a little tickle out of it, and I suspect the warehouse owners pay the tour operators for providing customers, maybe even a percentage if there’s a sale. Tours don’t have to be expensive - they’re tailored to your budget - sort of (see the blog on Hidden Extras) but I guess there’s cheaper ways to do it. The trouble is that the traveller doesn’t always know what he wants, or what there is to see, and isn’t given much time to think, so the tour often suits the operator. I won’t do another.
I haven’t had to say ‘no’ so much since my children were little, and then never so often. I met an Australian Indian lady on holiday with her family, and she was fed up with this constant aggravation in the land of her fathers – the insistence that you need a guide; that you must buy. Fluent in both Hindi and English, she had been both polite and rude in turn. Rude to the point where she had told sellers that she did not even like their goods so why on earth would she want to buy anything!
I have a good trick now. Shades. You can have a good look, but can avoid eye contact. And just say ‘no’. Forget ‘Thank you’ or any other pleasantry you may have learned at your mother’s knee.
This place is rather smart. The ceilings of the foyer, the bedroom, the dining room, the halls, plus the walls, are all decorated with a flower motif. Little friezes run everywhere and paintings and old photographs of a maharaja and his court, fill the spaces. There are drapes over windows and doors, and plush furnishings and objet d’art everywhere. Rather incongruously, the arm of the Victorian-style armchair in my room has been broken, and a repair affected with a thin strip of plywood and four staples. The room has a balcony, and lying on the bed looking up is a little like viewing the Sistine Chapel. Well, not much like really, but it is certainly a remarkable view.
Last of my brief tour today, and into Jaipur, the Pink City. There are some truly magnificent buildings both within and without the city. From the almost cool Winter Palace (Hawa Mahal) with its sloping ridged access to the top of the building, and slotted, patterned vents on all sides providing a continuous breeze, to the heat of the monolithic Jaigarh Fort/Amber Fort complex over looking the city from the Hill of Eagles, with defence walls running for miles up the sides of the hills and across their ridges. The fort really needs a couple days to appreciate properly, and it needs to be winter. All those films I’ve seen - like Ralph Richardson in The Four Feathers, stumbling along under a blistering sun. Well that was me.
Actually, I’m not one of nature’s tourists, certainly not the tick-box kind, and I found the tour relentless. There are only so many historical buildings you can absorb in two days, and I could happily have remained with the tigers. The tours include too many stops at selected warehouses and craft malls for my liking. You never get to browse in peace there; there’s always a voice at your elbow, the soft-shoe shuffle behind you as someone follows you wherever you go. I bought at the one place where the seller didn’t harass me, and told him that was why he’d made the sale.
Caveat emptor. Some hotels and tour operators are part of a network. Once in the hotel a friend, colleague, brother, can whip you off to the ‘tourist bureau’ and can have a tour organized for you in a flash. This is not a con – just a business. Everyone along the line must get a little tickle out of it, and I suspect the warehouse owners pay the tour operators for providing customers, maybe even a percentage if there’s a sale. Tours don’t have to be expensive - they’re tailored to your budget - sort of (see the blog on Hidden Extras) but I guess there’s cheaper ways to do it. The trouble is that the traveller doesn’t always know what he wants, or what there is to see, and isn’t given much time to think, so the tour often suits the operator. I won’t do another.
I haven’t had to say ‘no’ so much since my children were little, and then never so often. I met an Australian Indian lady on holiday with her family, and she was fed up with this constant aggravation in the land of her fathers – the insistence that you need a guide; that you must buy. Fluent in both Hindi and English, she had been both polite and rude in turn. Rude to the point where she had told sellers that she did not even like their goods so why on earth would she want to buy anything!
I have a good trick now. Shades. You can have a good look, but can avoid eye contact. And just say ‘no’. Forget ‘Thank you’ or any other pleasantry you may have learned at your mother’s knee.
5 May 2010
Tiger Shoot – 4th May, Tuesday
Reader, I shot one. What a fantastic experience. A motley crew of 19, mostly Indian, in the back of an open truck with seats, bounced down the track in the Ranthambore Tiger Park at around 6 in the morning. My new friend, Sureeta, in the next seat, struck up a conversation. She was from Ahmedabad; had a bungalow near The Hotel President; and badly wanted to see a tiger.
‘Fingers crossed’, I said, and held up crossed fingers.
‘Fingers crossed?’ it amused her.
‘For luck’
‘Ok’, she crossed hers also, ‘for luck’
The track was rough, narrow, and in parts rather steep; and with a rather disconcerting steep drop to one side on more than one occasion. The park is overlooked by the walls of the massive Ranthambore Fort which runs along the top of the cliff above us. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting; something more ‘kiplingesque’ I suppose. More jungly with remnants of long-lost civilizations. Instead the park was a cross between scrub and savannah. Lots of bare ground dotted with leafless trees and shrubs, some enormous Banyans, and some tall straw-coloured grass. True, there were some ruins here and there, with trees growing through and round the stones, There was plenty of wildlife for us to see; deer, birds, displaying peacocks, and monkeys. Were these the Bandar-log of the stories, I wondered.
And there she was. Lying in the shade, some distance from the track, and apparently unperturbed by our two jeeps and a truck. She allowed us a good 30 or 40 minutes, looking at us a couple of times, then rose suddenly with a strange warning call, which set the peacocks and monkeys screeching, and stalked off. We didn’t see another tiger – too much to ask really – just a few crocodiles, lyre birds and a rich bright blue kingfisher.
Sureeta said, ‘We did that. You. Me. With our crossing fingers’ Of course we did.
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