The Spiti Valley, a place so remote and so dry you wonder why anyone would ever want to live here. The average population density is 2 people per square kilometer. The mountains are high and the winters are harsh, with the higher parts getting buried under 20 feet of snow. The Spiti Valley has been carved into these mountains by the Spiti River – a raging, grey torrent that eventually joins up with the Sutlej River. The valley comes very close to Chinese-controlled Tibet and in fact, the name Spiti means “middle land” in Tibetan. The road we took into the area at one stage was only 15 kilometers from the border. The roads progressively got worse after leaving the Kinnaur Valley. The rocks on the sides of the mountains in these parts isn’t held together with tree or plant roots and Bobby – our driver – had to keep looking up toward the cliffs to see if there was any debris on its way down. Fortunately, he never had to take evasive action and judging from the size of some of the boulders lying on the side of the road, it would have probably have been futile.

The change from the green-side of the Himalayas to the dry-side couldn’t be more sudden. You literally turn a corner in the road and all but the hardiest bush disappears. The road also goes from fairly drivable to – how should I put it – challenging. You start to become all too aware of the realities of the situation if you were to get stuck or have an accident.

Our next stop would be Nako Village. Set high up on the slopes of the Reo Purgyal – the highest mountain in the area, sticking its head out at a lofty 6816m. Nako is the first village on our trip with an ancient monastery. Said to have been built and painted in one night, 800 years ago by the Rinchen Zhangpo – The Great Translator. Who is purported to have translated all the ancient Hindu-Sanscrit writings into Tibetan and said to have built over 100 monasteries in Western Tibet.

The air is somewhat cooler up here, especially when the wind blows and we could feel that winter was definitely on its way. Nako is a truely authentic, Himalayan village. Life has gone here unchanged for hundreds of years, with the only difference being the odd dusty backpacker clambering off the local bus and the sprouting up of a few guesthouses and hotels. The accommodation was comfortable yet basic and there were a couple of small places to eat across the road from our guesthouse. Like the people and the culture, the food here is Tibetan.

The most striking feature of Nako is the architecture. The flat-roofed buildings are made of mud, with steadily growing bundles of wood and animal fodder stacked on top for the winter. It felt timeless apart from the odd satellite television dish. I really loved walking around the alleyways while taking photos of the colourful red-and-white buildings against the deep blue sky. Nako is also famous for its holy lake, purported to have been blessed by his Holiness the Dalai Lama. Our guide told us that if you swim in the lake you can be liable to a fine of 2000Rp ($45).

The most memorable activities we did in Nako were visiting the ancient gompa and trekking in the nearby mountains. The gompa is very old and definitely feels that way. It is looked after by only two lamas and we managed to visit during their evening prayers. Attending Tibetan-Buddhist prayers is a very soothing and trance-like experience. Their chanting is both complicated and mesmerizing and is accompanied by the occasional beating of a drum. Sitting inside an ancient prayer room while watching this practice makes you feel as if you have stepped back in time.

Trekking in the nearby mountains is no less spiritual. The landscape is magnificent with views of the snow-capped mountains on the border with Tibet. This was the first time in my life that I had been higher than 4000m and it is definitely a lot harder to catch your breath when walking around. I could also feel a faint headache and we had to be careful to keep drinking copious amounts of water so as not to dehydrate.

I wish we could have spent more time in Nako, but we were soon on the road to our next destination – Tabo. Tabo is a slightly larger town and is at a more manageable altitude of 3200m. It is also set alongside the Spiti River, but here the valley has widened dramatically. It is a dirty town and far removed in charm from the picturesque Nako. What makes Tabo special however, is it’s monastery and gompas. In the centre of the town sits a set of what can only be described as a few indistinct mud buildings. We wouldn’t have given the place much thought apart from the insistence of our guide, Hassan, to visit them.

The main building houses a 1200 year old Buddhist mandala, so vivid and so beautiful that I would have said it had only been painted a few days ago. The walls are covered in paintings depicting the life-story of Buddha and they are adorned with beautifully carved statues of Buddha in various poses. The whole temple is kept in very dim light and the dryness of the surrounding air only adds to the preservation of this magical place. It sends shivers down my spine to imagine that the lamas were chanting the same prayers in this very room, largely unchanged, through the Industrial Revolution, the French Revolution, while Henry VIII dispatched his 6 wives, while Shakespeare was constructing his plays, while Europe was marching to the Middle East on the Crusades.

We stayed in a comfortable guesthouse in Tabo, although we had to get used to using the bucket and scoop to wash as we didn’t have a shower. Fortunately, there was hot water and the food was good. The next day we headed on to the third of the ancient monasteries we were to visit and probably the most spectacular – Dhankar monastery.

Dhankar is perched on a rocky outcrop about 2 hours drive from Tabo. It stands about 600m above the valley floor at a total of 3800m above sea level. The views of the village and the monastery are spectacular and one of my favourite things to do was sit on top of the roof of our guesthouse and just watch the village life across the valley – tiny children chasing stubborn yaks, the shepherds bringing in their flock of sheep and goats in the evenings in a cloud of dust.

We took a walk up to Dhankar lake in the afternoon, only to be surprised by a group of the village men dressed in traditional garb participating in some sort of annual horse race. It was difficult to find out from the local people what exactly they were celebrating but they were shouting and singing while picking up rocks and then hurling them on the ground in front of each other, all the while racing around in a mad frenzy of dust and hooves. After that, they did a lap around the lake and then disappeared down the hill. The small lake is icy and is fed by a stream that flows down the side of the impossibly high mountain above the lake.

The next day we visited the monastery on the other side of the valley. Like Tabo and Nako it is very old, 1000 years-old according to the lama that accompanied us around. It is said that Dhankar will be standing when the world ends, but sadly it is showing signs of gradually sliding down the mountain. Made of rock and mud, it is only a matter of time before the monks will need to abandon it and rely on the more permanent monastery set on the other side of the valley.

Of these three villages and their very old monasteries, I think I liked Nako the most and probably Dhankar second. They had both a peacefulness and simplicity about them that relaxed the soul and made you feel that you could truly forget the frantic world behind you. The next time I visit this area, I would like to stay here for a bit longer so that I can soak up the atmosphere and get to learn more about the people, their customs and their religion. It is also a world so far removed from chaotic India, that you soon forget that it is even part of the same country.

When the world ends these towers of rock, stone and sand will still be standing – their glittering spires tickling the sky in their harsh surroundings. The Himalayas – a place that means so much to the people that inhabit them. It is a place where ancient monasteries are protected by the high cliffs and infinite gorges, unchanged for centuries where the people live in the most difficult of conditions – icy winters and dry summers.

It has always been a dream of mine to see the high mountains of the world. I guess it is that feeling of being dwarfed by something rising 3 kilometers out of the ground that attracts me to it so much. South Africa doesn’t have very high mountains, in fact the highest mountain barely rises above 3600 meters and is probably only 1000 meters from base to peak. Up until this trip, the highest I had ever been was the peak of Mont Aux Souces in the Drakensberg mountains. Then in Lombok, Indonesia we got to 3750 meters on Gunung Rinjani. Margarét had been to the great Andes in South America, but everything we had seen before would be eclipsed by the incredible journey we undertook in the Indian Himalayas.

We had started fairly early in the morning from Shimla, with our guide Hassan – a slight, courteous man who thankfully spoke good English and knew the region we were exploring very well – and our driver Bobby – who made up for his lack of English with his big smile and driving skills. These roads are treacherous and they are trafficked heavily by large apple trucks and maniacal bus drivers. They are twisty, dusty, bumpy and rarely sealed.

The region we started travelling in is called Kinnaur. The first day of our trip saw us bouncing along through beautiful green scenery, dotted with apple farms and small towns all clinging to the cliffs and steep mountains of what I like to call the Green Himalayas. The area is characterised by 3500m high peaks covered in pine and rhododendron trees. The roads, as I mentioned previously, are dusty and rutted from the many trucks transporting apples out of the area. Fortunately, the roads were open the whole way – something which is a rare occurrence as the heavy rains during the monsoon season frequently cause massive landslides which cut off access to villages and towns.

There is a distinctive style of driving you need to get accustomed to in these parts. Due to the roads being very narrow and bendy, whenever approaching a blind curve in the road Bobby would toot loudly on the horn to warn any oncoming traffic that were coming around the corner. Oncoming traffic should/would move over to the side to allow us to pass safely. If we wanted to overtake a truck or car, then the horn is blown until the driver in front moves over. This system works the majority of the time, provided the driver’s concerned use their hooters but on occasion we ended having to swerve madly to avoid a car that failed to hear our horn, ignored it or didn’t hoot themselves. It should be mentioned that on the back of most trucks it says “Blow Horn” in brightly hand-painted capital letters. Nonetheless, we never found ourselves in any particularly dangerous situations and most traffic in front of us pulled over nearly immediately after they heard our horn.

The other part of the driving we needed to get used to was the time it took to cover relatively short distances. Since our top speed was rarely 40km/h, 120 km took more than three and a half hours to cover. We did eventually reach the beautiful Kinnaur Valley and started to slowly zigzag our way down to the brown torrent of the Sutlej River. The fast flowing river and steep gorges makes this area a perfect site for massive hydroelectric projects – one such plant produces 1000 megawatts of electricity – nearly four times the size of a nuclear power station. The ugly side of these projects is the huge destruction of the surrounding river ecosystems and the influx of a huge workforce to staff the projects. The road to Kalpa passes through these construction sites and they are as ugly as they are awe inspiring in their vastness. Small towns have popped up around each site and the area is covered in a layer of dust from the blasting and trucks. The positive side of all of these developments is jobs for the local population and less susceptibility to flooding.

We eventually arrived in Kalpa at night. It had taken us nearly 11 hours to reach the tiny village, some 250 km away from Shimla. Our guesthouse was a few minutes drive above the village. We were exhausted and after a simple dinner of dhal and chapatis (lentils and bread), we headed to our room to shower and sleep.

The guesthouse was an odd place and reminded me a little bit of Fawlty Towers. We could have anything on the menu, provided that it was dhal and chapatis, since everything else was out of stock. The manager only allowed us to have our hot water geyser on for roughly an hour – something which was rather annoying as it was only large enough for one of us to shower before going cold again. The busboy-cum-waiter was a Nepali who scampered around under the shouts and curses from the manager, much like Manuel under Basil. He was about as well trained as Manuel and when he came running out from the kitchen carrying our chapatis in a small basket, I could see his brain working overtime trying to stop himself from handling them with his hands. His antics only got more amusing over the course of our stay there. The one time he came to berate me – obviously after he had gotten an earful from the manager – as I had found the main switch for our geyser on the outside wall and had turned it on myself. He knocked on the door, rattled something off in Hindi while gesturing in the direction of the switchbox. I nodded and smiled whereupon he promptly disappeared down the passage frustrated in the knowledge that I didn’t have a clue what kind of trouble I had gotten him into. The next morning, at breakfast, his final stunt put no doubt in my mind that he had been watching Fawlty Towers under the impression it was a training video. Margarét had ordered a slice of toast and butter and when Nepali-Manuel returned with it, he accidentally knocked the carefully balanced knife from the side of the plate onto the table cloth. In most situations, a waiter would just put it back on the plate but unsure as to what to do, Nepali-Manuel cursed under his breath, picked up the knife and promptly walked over to the window whereupon he gave it good shining on the dusty, old curtain. He then walked back over and calmly placed it on the side of the plate. We couldn’t contain ourselves, it has to be one of the funniest things that has ever happened to me in a restaurant. The only thing missing from this picture, would have been the manager noticing what had happened and clipping Nepali-Manuel around the ears while loudly berating him in Hindi on the way out of the room.

The rest of the day was no less memorable. Kalpa is set on the other side of the Kinnaur Valley, overlooking the gigantic mountains of the Kinner Kailash (6005m). The amazing jagged peaks were covered in snow and glaciers. These were the first views I had had of really big mountains and I was stunned at their size and vastness. We headed down to the town of Rekong Peo to get our Inner Line Permits at the local magistrate. The permits are necessary for accessing the Spiti Valley and the area along the Indian/Chinese (Tibetan) border. After a few hours of standing around and waiting we eventually got the permits and headed for our first hike in the Himalayas.

As mentioned previously, our guide Hassan knew the area very well and took us to a tiny village in the valley alongside the Kinnaur Valley, called the Roghi Valley. We started our hike through apple orchards, where the trees were bowing under the weight of their fruit. The people are friendly and sport traditional Kinnauri-style garb – many of whom were very busy harvesting and collecting grass, apples and apricots before the winter. At the top of the main path up the mountain, Hassan turned off and took us to a tiny house, with a well manicured vegetable garden. The house belonged to a Kinnauri woman called Rajni and Hassan had brought us to her house for a cup of masala chai (spicy tea) and to see how the local people live. Rajni was no less curious about us and it was a really unique experience. Her house was very basic and really tiny, consisting of one room. In one corner was a bed, the other, some sort of ancient weaving apparatus and next to it was her cooking area. In the middle of the room was a heating stove. Rajni offered us apples and even lunch – something we couldn’t refuse. Her English was very basic but she was genuinely interested in learning more about us.

The hike up to 3400m was amazing. The views across the valley to the Kinner Kailash were spectacular and we got to see how some of the shepherds live higher up. On our way back down we had our lunch with Rajni and we got to meet her mother and some of her nephews and nieces. Margarét noticed that one of the nieces was rubbing something in her hands, and Rajni told us she was making hashish for her grandfather. It was then that I noticed that the majority of greenery along the pathways and the roads in this area was one giant crop of marijuana. I don’t think it is harvested in any commercial way, but the people definitely do smoke it. High mountains, high people I guess.

We briefly explored the little town of Kalpa and then headed back to our guesthouse. Unfortunately, Nepali-Manuel didn’t have any new entertainment for us to enjoy and the next day we left Fawlty Towers, Indian-Basil and Nepali-Manuel for the Dry Himalayas.

I should have brought a kidney belt. Then again I should have brought a lot of things. Bouncing around in the back of a Tata jeep on precarious Indian roads, dodging cows and overtaking trucks laden with apples. This was a morning like any other, if you are on your way to the Indian Himalayas.

Our Himalayan adventure had started a few days earlier. After managing to convince ourselves to leave the backpacker’s oasis at Rishikesh, we took an early morning taxi to Roorkee station – roughly 30kms from Rishikesh. Being India, this was to be an eventful trip, where the mundane – such as waiting for our train – turned into the strange – having university students ask to have a photo taken with us.

I am however, getting ahead of myself. We hired a taxi to take us to Roorkee Station which took two hours from Rishikesh but to be safe, we left at 4am to catch our train at 6:27. If I had ever had aspirations for driving myself around in India, this little trip crushed them completely. The road was quiet and dark. Our driver knew better though and took it slowly. The reasons soon became apparent. After baking in the midday sun, the road is a comfortable warm place for the myriad cows to sleep on. Add to that the many prowling dogs and you have a regular, Indian-style game drive. The elephants on this game drive come in the form of giant sand trucks. Although brightly painted, they have no form of rear lighting whatsoever. To top it all off, everybody drives with their high beams on. The Indian traffic department also leaves their “traffic calming” signs in the middle of the road. This makes spotting cows, dogs, donkeys, trucks and signs virtually impossible.

Despite all this, we got to Roorkee Station safely — palms sweaty and sphincters exercised with the driver’s bizarre cellphone alarm ringing in the back of our heads. (I suspect it kept going off to keep him awake.)

We stepped carefully over the sleeping rickshaw drivers through the entrance of the station as we had arrived a full hour before our train was scheduled to come in. So far so good, apart from the fact that it was now reported to be 30 minutes late.

The route we had to take to get to Shimla was thus. A taxi from Rishikesh to Roorkee. Train from Roorkee to Chandigarh. Then change trains at Chandigarh to get to Kalka in time for the toy train to Shimla.

The train did eventually arrive at Roorkee a full 45 minutes late which was roughly the time we had between trains in Chandigarh. Fortunately, when we reached Chandigarh the train to Kalka was late too and before we knew it, we were in Kalka aboard the Himalayan Queen — eating chapatis and lentils out of a box while waiting for the tiny train to pull out of the station.

In case you don’t know what a toy train is or you have never heard of the Kalka to Shimla train trip, let me fill you in. The British had set up a hill station at Shimla, a small village in the mountains, early in the nineteenth century. The trip on horseback was arduous, to say the least. Shimla is at 2200m above sea level, in the foothills of the Himalayas and Kalka is almost at sea level. So at the turn of the 20th century they began a massive construction project to connect the two towns by rail. The track is 70km long and winds up the sides of very steep mountains. It has over 100 tunnels and is a narrow gauge track. Hence the name, toy train as the train is a lot smaller so as to fit on the narrow rails.

Our car was about half full and we had a group of overly excited students, on their way to Shimla for the weekend. They took a keen interest in us and eventually the stares led to group photos and handshakes. Even when we weren’t looking we caught out of the corner of our eyes taking photos of us while pretending to take a photo of a friend. The train took nearly six hours before it pulled into Shimla station. All-in-all it took us 13 hours to cover the distance.

Shimla is a charming city perched high up in the mountains. The centre is located on a ridge and is characterised by its British architecture. During the sweltering summers in India the British Raj would move their administration to Shimla to avoid the heat and it effectively became their summer capital. One third of humanity was thus under their control from this picturesque little town.

I like Shimla. It has a peacefulness about it. Largely due to the fact that no cars or motorbikes are allowed on the Main Mall. This means no hooters, rickshaws, cows or diesel fumes. It is also well looked after, with very little litter. In fact, the state of Himachal Pradesh has banned plastic carry bags and the result is clearly evident in Shimla.

If you get tired of the sanity of the Mall, then a flight of stairs down is all you need to take to enter the Middle and Lower Bazaars. Here you will find hundreds of traders and chai shops, it is a bit more frantic but very interesting and definitely a great way to immerse yourself in the many cultures of this area.

The only thing we didn’t like about Shimla was the touts. They hassled and followed us the whole way from the train station and up onto The Ridge. In the end, we had to get quite rude and chase them away as some of the hotels we tried to look at wouldn’t let us in with a tout behind us.

If we had any doubts about Shimla being an Indian city, they were soon put to rest. On a calm Sunday afternoon we were caught in a procession to mark Krishna’s birthday. The Mall road heaved with thousands of onlookers while brightly decorated cars and vans, covered in speakers passed by – a cacophony of Bollywood and devotional songs blasting out from them. The color, the frenzy and mass of people made it a rather heady experience and we soon had to leave as it became a little claustrophobic.

Shimla was the first city in India we really started to enjoy and we can thoroughly recommend it to anyone, especially after the chaos of Delhi. It is also a fantastic place to organise trips into the Himalayas and this is where our journey led to next.

While taking photos of the 120-year old Christ Church in Shimla, Margarét was approached by an Indian man called Bilal. At first, I thought he was just another pesky tout but it turned out that he organised treks, jeep safaris and transport into the mountains of Himachal Pradesh, Ladakh and Kashmir. After he answered a hundred of our questions we decided to trust him and go on a 12 day jeep safari starting in Shimla and ending in Manali, the main town leading off into Ladakh.

We left Shimla at 8:30am and promptly got stuck in rush hour traffic with our guide, Bilal’s brother Hassan, and Bobby our driver in his brand new Tata jeep. When the traffic eventually cleared we were bouncing along the rough roads, overtaking trucks packed to the brim with apples. Our Himalayan adventure had begun, we were unsure where we were heading but that is what travel is about sometimes. You just need to dive in, enjoy the journey and work out what to do when you get there.

It starts with a rumble. A faint imperceptible rumble. Before you know it however, you are doubled up over the big white telephone. A ball of nausea and pain. Our heroic/stupid efforts to eat in local restaurants were now catching up to us. Margarét had been sick through the previous night and now it was my turn. I don’t want this post to be about poo, but so much of India is. Walking through the streets of Delhi, the state if the railway line at train stations and the inescapable traveller’s diarrhea. We had been very lucky over the last 3 months in South East Asia to completely avoid it and this gave us a false sense of security.

Being sick in a foreign, third-world country is no laughing matter. Being sick in India is even more frightening. Add to that, Haridwar isn’t the most tourist friendly town and there are very few places that appear to serve clean, bland food. Every time you order food off of a menu, you don’t wonder how good it is going to be, you wonder if it is going to make you sick. It is delicious though, and did I mention cheap? A Chicken Korma, Matter Paneer, some Chapatis and rice in a nice restaurant costs about $6 and it is better than any Indian food I have eaten back home.

We managed to escape Haridwar to Rishikesh. Escape from the hordes of pilgrims, the aggressive rickshaw drivers, the filth and squalor. The trip was no less eventful though. Our rickshaw dropped us off outside the main bus station in Haridwar, which is an odd set up to say the least. There is a low roofed structure in the middle that shelters all manner of life, including the ubiquitous fly, beggar and cow. We knew a bus left for Rishikesh every half an hour so the next one had to be here somewhere. Now imagine the scene: the buzz of hundreds of people, about 30 buses honking their horns and rushing passed as they leave the station, piles of rubble, puddles of mud and flies, flies flies. It’s utter chaos and we didn’t know where to go.

I asked the first decent looking person where the bus to Rishikesh was. He didn’t speak English. We walked up to an elderly Indian couple and asked them. They told us on the other side of the main building. We trudged with our backpacks in that direction. When we got there we asked another man. He looked confused, looked around and then told us it was back where we had come from. Arrrrghhh! Doesn’t anybody know what is going on in this place? We walked back through the building. It has to be noted at this point that the names of the buses aren’t written in English and neither are their destinations, so it is impossible to sit in one spot and wait for the right bus. There is also nowhere to sit unless you count the dirt.

Eventually after asking the passengers on several busses we found the Rishikesh bus, just as it was pulling out of the station. We shuffled with all of our stuff to the last 2 remaining seats right at the back next to a Japanese hippy and behind some rather dirty looking tourists. Yep. We’re on the right bus.

In case you haven’t heard of Rishikesh, apart from Goa it is probably the biggest hippy destination in India and they have been coming here since the 60′s when the place was made famous in the western world by the Beatles. George, John, Paul and Ringo moved there for a bit to study meditation and learn yoga under Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. They brought their wives and girlfriends and their music and although they eventually left due to an altercation with the Maharishi – some say he was hitting on their partners, others say he asked for money – a few of their songs on The White Album were written here. Nonetheless, tourists have flocked to this tiny town ever since on the banks of the Ganga. Besides the tourists, Rishikesh is more famous among the Hindus as a very holy place due to its proximity to the holy river. It is set in the green foothills of the Himalayas and is very beautiful.

Our bus took 1 hour to get from Haridwar to Rishikesh, a distance of 17km. When we arrived, it felt like we were still in Haridwar. It was still dirty and busy. A rickshaw driver hustled us into his rickshaw and took us to the backpacker commune in the area called High Bank, up on the hill, overlooking the river. When we arrived, we walked into the first guesthouse we came upon, booked a room and crashed on the bed. Dirty, exhausted, drained. Both physically and mentally.

We had come to a really difficult point in our trip. We had had enough. We spent a fortune getting here, not to mention the time wasted waiting for our visas in Malaysia. This wasn’t fun, this was downright exhausting and stressful and our health was deteriorating. Our first instinct was to go to the nearest Internet café and change our flights to get out of the country as soon as possible. In the end we decided against it. Perhaps we had had a bad run of luck, or we weren’t prepared enough, both mentally and physically. So we decided to give Rishikesh a couple more days before making up our minds.

Turns out, this area is the place to come to if you need to recuperate. Yes, 5 days in India and we already needed to recuperate. Without sounding clichéd, the culture shock when arriving here is the hardest thing to get over and many travellers that we spoke to experienced the same thing.

High Bank, as the name suggests,is set up on the hill above the river. It is a backpacker enclave with lots of cheap accommodation, restaurants and Internet cafés. We had avoided such places in South East Asia, but in India they are small oases of calm and to a large extent you can trust the food won’t kill you and that you won’t be hassled by touts. For the five days we were in Rishikesh, we ventured out of High Bank twice. Once to find an ATM – which was an experience in itself as we had to dodge yet again the rickshaws, the pilgrims and the cows and the second time to check out the area of Laksman Jula. If you have seen photos of Rishikesh, it is the area with the big footbridge over the Ganga and huge Hindu temples in the background.

I don’t know if it was the time of day that we visited Laksman Jula or whether it is always like that, but it was calm and serene. It also has a lot of character with many ashrams, temples and shops. There are also a lot of monkeys in the area, hanging about on the bridge waiting to steal food from passers by.

We felt like staying in Rishikesh until it was time to fly back home but with our health back to normal and the memories of Haridwar and Delhi fading in our minds, we decided to make the most of our 3 weeks and head north to the Himalayas. Since most of the roads in the state of Uttarakand (Rishikesh is in Uttarakand) leading into the Himalayas had been damaged or destroyed by the monsoon, we made plans to go to Himachal Pradesh, home of The Great Himalayas.

Delhi. Hot. Sweaty. Polluted. Frantic. Nothing can prepare you for this place, not even after spending a good deal of time in big cities in South East Asia — Singapore, Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok. We thought that hanging around Kuala Lumpur’s Indian neighbourhood would give us a taste, but no two places could be so different. It felt like getting a heavyweight’s uppercut to the jaw. Everything presses down on your senses. The traffic is brutal and the diesel fumes make you feel light headed and short of breath. There are cows, chickens, dogs and horses on the streets. One moment you are marvelling at the efficiency of the brand new Delhi Metro service, the next you are standing ankle deep in what only can be described as shit, mud and garbage — dodging rickshaws, trishaws, motorbikes and cars. Not to mention touts. Everything is a surprise and you are continually shunted from feelings of loathing it to loving it.

It took us roughly two hours to get from Indhira Gandhi International Airport to our hotel in Paharganj, 25kms away. The driver from our hotel constantly leaning on his hooter while serenading us and chattering non-stop about cricket. “Hansie Cronje, very good batsman but gone. Jonty Rhodes, very good player.”, “Crazy driver!” he then proceeded to rattle off every single player in the Zimbabwean cricket team, in 1999. This isn’t an over exaggeration.

The mixture of jetlag and sheer bewilderment when we left the hotel to get something to eat only added to our loathing of the area we were in. It was about 10pm and there were many people making ready to go to sleep on the street. We walked into a streetside vegetarian restaurant. Our trepidation matched by the stares of surprise from the waiters and cooks. In fact, they were so surprised we caught them a couple of times taking photos of us with their cellphones — a head waggle when they saw me staring back at them.

The meal was delicious. The restaurant was as filthy as the food was good. Tasty vegetable curries and dhal, served with freshly made chapattis. The meal, it has to be said, had no ill effects.

We stumbled back into our hotel over rubble, passed horses and the already sleeping homeless. Too exhausted to care about the suspicious looking marks on our sheets and the scurrying cockroaches at the bathroom door.

The next morning we headed out in the rain to find the nearby New Delhi Train Station. Touts, crooks and people “practising their English” in tow. When you come to Delhi, expect every person on the street to suddenly walk up to you, start a conversation and then try to steer you to a tourist office, shop or hotel. All with a head waggle and a few comments over how much they love cricket or how dangerous the direction in which you are walking is. If you want an idea of what it looks like on the main bazaar in Paharganj, look at photos of Berlin after the Second World War. Entire blocks of buildings have their street-facing walls missing, the rubble lying in the street below, all in preparation for the Commonwealth Games in 45 days. This state of chaos doesn’t deter the people though. We could see men cooking breakfast in the bare-walled rooms and streetfood stalls next to the piles of rubbish and rubble. The roads are tricky to negotiate as there is no sidewalk, never was, never will be. The heavy rains mean all the faeces, dust and garbage has been reduced to slippery ooze that you feel could melt bare skin.

The train station is nuts. The crush of people rushing to catch trains, buy tickets or just sleeping at the entrance is quite an experience. You have to be vigilant, keep your head down and ignore anybody who isn’t sporting a khaki army uniform and a giant automatic weapon. We found respite in the Tourist Booking Office — upstairs above the main platform and not across the road or down the road or next to the station as many “helpful” men had pointed out. One random guy tried to block our path while asking for us to display our ticket. His jeans and t-shirt gave him away and like anybody in India, asking for something, we just pushed passed him.

I don’t know if anyone could like Delhi. Traveller’s and inhabitants that we spoke to all said they had a great dislike toward the place and I have to say that I agree with them. It is however, a very large city and we only bothered to see a very tiny piece of it. Partly due to the heavy monsoon they were experiencing, partly because it was such a harrowing experience getting anywhere from our hotel through the crowded streets and scam artists.

Getting out of Delhi. It couldn’t have happened sooner. Our spirits lifted as soon as the train started moving. We got on the Janshatabdi Express to Haridwar — a very special place to Hindus alongside the holy Ganga. The weight of the last 48 hours in Delhi lifted with the thick black clouds and we caught our first glimpse of the Indian sunshine and electric green countryside — one of the benefits of visiting during the monsoon season.

Indian trains run like clockwork. Our train left the mayhem of platform 13 on the minute. The only reasons for bringing a jumper to this part of the world is for the air-conditioned coaches. It gets positively freezing.

Escaping the Haridwar station is an experience in itself. If you’ve been to an Indian train station you will know what I am talking about. The floor is covered in people sleeping, sitting, eating and and what looked to be dying. The colours are as bright as the smells are pungent. The noise is overwhelming and the rush of passenger traffic is frantic. Outside, the station is no less chaotic. Piles of garbage, cows and taxi touts crowd the entrance and there is the omnipresent Indian music blaring from a car radio or street-side shop.

After haggling with several taxi touts we eventually managed to secure a rickshaw to our hotel on the other side of Haridwar. Haggling with the people here is not fun. Westerners are seen to have an endless amount of money and as bewildered as you are when arrive in a chaotic place such as a station, you need to keep your head on straight, pick a price you are willing to pay and be patient. Somebody will eventually take your offer and more often than not it will be a lot more than the local price.

That night, Margaret came down with a bad case of Delhi belly. This was inevitable. Every traveller we have spoken to has had a case or two. Fortunately, we had brought a whole medicine cabinet along with us and had plenty of fluids.

The next morning while she was resting in the hotel, I decided to do a bit of sightseeing. After a cup of hot chai, I set off down the road toward the main ghats. Haridwar is a very sacred place to Hindus and is the location of the Kumbh Mela. An event held every ten years on the banks of the Ganga. It is the largest gathering of human beings on earth and quite often reach into the millions. Pilgrims from all over the country come to bathe in the river and perform Puja (prayers and offerings) at the riverside. When my trishaw stopped above the main ghat, I was shocked at what I saw. Thousands of Hindus swimming and washing in the fast flowing Himalayan waters. The crush of humanity is gobsmacking and there are crowds in every direction. The sick, the decrepit, the poverty stricken line the steps along with saddhus (holy men) and cows. Everything is covered in flies.

I took a few photos, got blessed by a suspicious looking holy man — who put a red mark on my forehead, barked like a donkey, hit me on the head and shoulders with a stick and then proceeded to ask for 100 rupees (I gave him 5 as that was all I had and I knew real saddhus never ask for money).

Haridwar is not a place that I would recommend traveller’s visit unless they have an interest in Hinduism. There is not much to do apart from walk around the ghats and on the busy main road. The place is filthy and there very few places that offer respite from the heat and crowds. It is an experience nonetheless and while I don’t think I will ever return, I am glad I came here. Watching and briefly connecting with the people and their religion has given me an insight into how deeply spiritual these people are.

“You like Lady Gaga?”, came a heavily accented voice from the front seat of the airport shuttle.
“Ummm, well, not really”, I replied, unsure of how to answer the question without offending.
“Sarawak loves Lady Gaga”, he replied. Very strange indeed.

This was the last place on earth I would have imagined I would have been asked this question. So far, with little idea of what to expect, Borneo has shredded any misconceptions I had about the place.

We left Bali feeling a bit gloomy with a bitter taste in our mouths due to being charged a $20 airport tax and then having to sit in an overpriced, dreary departure lounge. When I say overpriced, it makes any other airport I have been in look really cheap and it is only compounded further by the fact that Indonesia is considered a poor country. On arrival in Kuala Lumpur, and after a hellish bus ride from the airport, we checked into our hotel and immediately hit the street for something to eat. It was midnight and the only open places to eat were a small cluster of street vendors selling Tom Yam – the Malay version of the popular Thai seafood soup Tom Yum. You know you have arrived in Malaysia when you have your first meal – it was hot, spicy and full of flavour – simply delicious.

My memories from the last time I visited Malaysia started to flood back. If you don’t consider it one of the best food destinations in the world, then you are wrong. During our 2 days in Kuala Lumpur, we ate like royalty. Chicken rice for breakfast, the biggest Chinese buffet for lunch and to top it all off, a superb traditional Chinese meal from a well known restaurant down the road from our hotel near KL Sentral. We met up with our friend Chee Ming, who is Malaysian and we just let him order the food. It was incredible. Steamed fresh fish in ginger sauce, salted pork sausage with tofu and a really amazing noodle dish of which I cannot remember the name. Accompanied with a strong Chinese tea and Guinness Extra Stout. The food in Indonesia was dull and overpriced in comparison. Although, I don’t think I could eat this every day as it is rich and very fatty.

You are probably noticing the Chinese theme here. The reasoning behind it is that we will be spending a lot of time in India in the coming months, so we are avoiding Indian food in Malaysia and we were a little tired of the Malay staples of Nasi Goreng and Mee Goreng, which is in abundance in Indonesia.

We were only in Kuala Lumpur to apply for our Indian visas and to see a potential client, so our stay was fairly short. Before we knew it, we were on our back to the airport to fly to Borneo. I know very little about Borneo. Images of virgin rainforest, sweltering heat, muddy roads and misty mountains are what I had expected. Instead we were greeted by an ultramodern airport and a bustling city – the city of Kuching, the capital of the state of Sarawak. Borneo is divided up into four sections, the largest of which is Kalimantan, a state of Indonesia; Sarawak in the west and Sabah in the east are both states of Malaysia, with the tiny country of Brunei wedged between them. Kuching is set a little way inland on the Sarawak river. A brown, fast flowing mass of water that is quite impressive from the air. It is a modern, bustling city with high rise buildings, wide clean roads and a reasonably affluent population. It is quite laid back with a large Chinese population. Especially around the waterfront area.

The main tourist attraction in Kuching is the waterfront and this is obviated by the multitude of luxury hotels in the area. As I write this I can look up out of the window from my budget hotel at the 15-story Hilton. Despite this, the area does have a lot of Old World charm. There is a lot of evidence of the White Rajahs in the colonial buildings and forts. The roads are lined with old-style, Chinese shophouses, most of which are either selling curios, Chinese goods or are Kopitiams – coffee shops. We stopped in one to have a traditional breakfast of Wonton Mee and Beef Taiwan Mee, accompanied by strong, creamy coffee. We are definitely getting used to having noodles and chilly for breakfast of which this was one of the best we have had so far. It is very weird how every now and again you notice something so out of place, it makes you stare in disbelief. On the wall of this kopitiam, chock-a-block full of Chinese diners was a dog-eared, old poster extolling the virtues of Dr. Nortier’s Rooibos Tea – all the way from none other than the Cedarberg in South Africa. I don’t want to even start to try and figure out how Rooibos gets all the way from the mountains of the Western Cape to the island of Borneo, let alone how it can cost less in a café (R3.50 a cup) than in the country of its origin.

If you ever visit Kuching, then you are in for a culinary treat. It has some of the freshest, most delicious seafood I have ever seen. On our first night here, we made our way to the Topspot Food Centre. Perched on top of a 4-story parking lot, you will find a buzzing set of outdoor seafood restaurants selling the freshest seafood ever. Everything from Black Snapper, through to Stingray through to giant Tiger prawns (at least a foot in length!). There are cockles and crabs all cooked with fresh vegetables in giant woks. In comparison with the more rudimentary hawker centres in Kuching, it is a bit more expensive, but the quality shows. Feeling adventurous we tried Umai, a Sarawakian version of Ceviche – raw fish mixed with chilli and lime juice. The mixture was divine. We then had a plate of fresh King prawns, grilled in butter and garlic – probably the best prawns I have ever eaten!

Over the weekend, farmers and fishermen from the areas surrounding Kuching descend on the city to sell their wares. The market is huge and the quality and freshness of the goods is unrivaled. You can buy just about anything, from Leopard sharks to eels to lamb to every kind of vegetable you can think of. There are pet shops selling puppies and goldfish and in one corner of the market exotic orchids and jungle plants. You can pick up cheap Chinese knifes, toys and clothes, even antiques. The market buzzes with the ebb and flow of people searching for their favourites or a bargain. The market starts on Saturday afternoon and ends roundabout midday on Sunday. If you want some great food then the hawker stalls on Saturday evening are a must, where you can get a whole spit-roasted chicken for RM14 (US$4) or a whole fish, roasted on a stick for RM10 (US$3)!

So you are probably wondering why I envy the people of Kuching and Sarawak? I think it is because life seems so much simpler here. It is fairly remote but not completely cut off. The food is incredible, the atmosphere is laid back and there is a general feeling of content.

Next week we head off to find a jungle and experience a bit of the nature of this mystical island. Hopefully, we’ll see and get to photograph some Orangutans and some other interesting wildlife.

Frank Sinatra couldn’t have sung it better. Bali has that exact effect on you. Some people say that it’s easy to enjoy Thailand but Bali you need to earn. When we arrived here it was exactly that. It reminded me strongly of somewhere I had been before, which had the wrong effect on me. I didn’t get the sense that I was visiting somewhere exotic – like Thailand – nor did it feel like I was visiting an island paradise. It was all a bit hum-drum to be honest. It was busy, it was hot, it was certainly different from the cold and wet Cape Town we had left the day before, but somehow it didn’t feel new and exciting. I didn’t get that rush that I had gotten when I walked out of the airport of other countries for the first time.

I wasn’t disappointed, just a little deflated. Maybe it was the jetlag or the fact that everywhere in the southern parts of the island, you can’t walk around without bumping into a red-necked, speedo-clad, overweight westerner. Or get asked if you want transport or a massage. Maybe it was because I had too-high expectations which I had been building up inside of my head.

A week or so later we hired a car in Padang Bai, a small coastal town in the eastern part of the island, which is famous for being the main ferry port to Lombok. Unsure whether my driving skills could take on the maniacal truck drivers or the kamikaze scooters, we took the quieter route out of Padang Bai and headed along the coast, in the direction of Amed – a popular part of Bali for diving and snorkelling. It was along this quiet, narrow road that passes through tiny villages and crosses streams coming down the mountain that we saw what ‘Old Bali’ must have been like. Just about every person we passed stopped to wave and stare, their bright white smiles and yells of ‘Hello!’ disappearing behind us as we went around another bend. When we reached Lipah, the first main village before Amed, we caught glimpses of the colourful fishing boats (Jukungs) neatly arranged along the black-sand beaches. The area was quiet, laid-back and beautiful.

Reflecting back over my last 7 weeks here, I can pinpoint the exact moment I really started to really enjoy myself – the moment I got that feeling of excitement of being here. Arriving in Amed, in the hot afternoon sun, with views of the Jukungs sailing out for an evening of fishing it dawned on me: we were completely independent, we could sleep, eat and go anywhere without a care in the world. We stayed in the Amed area for 8 nights, and were invited to a Balinese baby-ceremony where we were treated to local delicacies. We sat on the floor around a large plate filled with satays, blood sausage, meat from a pig whose death screams had woken us up that morning before sunrise, vegetables and the Balinese staple, rice. To say that I ate a lot of mystery-meat that day is an understatement, but it was delicious and it was handed to us with such generosity and goodwill. The father even sat down with us and had his second fill, eating more than both of us combined!

This is why I love Bali. The Balinese are proud enough and friendly enough that they want you to experience their culture with them. That they display it everyday with their offerings at just about every building, temple or business. That they invite you into their homes to experience something new and different, but something very close to their hearts. So if you ever get the opportunity to visit this beautiful island, don’t come here only for the beaches or for the restaurants or for the nature, come here to meet the people.