Dear followers
Most of you probably don't require the wisdom of the Sage to point out the inherent absurdity of the Eurovision Song Contest. Unlike the rest of the continent, the British and Irish view this event for what it is, a ridiculous high camp pageant populated by over-excitable foreigners belting out dreadful slices of hi-energy pop pap or cringingly over the top power ballads, normally while wearing a silly costume and surrounded by dancers who look like they've been recruited in an Amsterdam S&M club. And of course, it's not really a competition at all, as everyone just votes for their neighbours regardless of whether their song is any good or not.
So it was with a heavy heart that the Sage settled down on his Stockwell sofa last night armed with a family pack of Hula Hoops to watch this year's event unfold in all its customary awfulness. Things got off to a bad start when it became apparent that Eurovision 2011 was being hosted by the Germans, which meant a presenting team consisting of two towering, impassive ice maidens and a bearded man who looked like he'd be much more comfortable sat in a Bavarian bierkeller in a lederhosen, yet is apparently 'Germany's answer to Simon Cowell'. At least us Brits had cheeky chappie Graham Norton's bitchy observations to entertain us, although it was disappointing that Norton occasionally seemed to be enjoying himself, while his predecessor Terry Wogan never failed to make clear he knew it was all utter tosh.
Anyway, before long we were into the acts themselves, kicking off with a very earnest blonde Finnish youth singing a drippy little song about saving the planet. Then it was on to the usual line up of caterwauling Lithuanians, Hungarian drag queens and Georgian death metal, with Blue and Jedward thrown in for good measure. The pre-event favourite was apparently France, which was somewhat bizarre as their singer had clearly entered the competition by mistake after taking the wrong exit off the autobahn on the way to the Berlin State Opera. Unsurprisingly he fared very badly, prompting his countrymen to stick two fingers up to the organisers by being the only nation to announce their votes in their own language rather than English, which should have resulted in instant disqualification.
In the end, Azerbaijan's dreadfully bland, inoffensive ditty saw off the challenge of the Italian jazz band and the Swedish rent boy to win the crown, following the usual voting farce which the decision to decide 50% of each country's verdict by an expert jury made absolutely no difference to whatsoever. So the Portuguese still voted for the Spanish, the Austrians voted for the Germans and the host of new post-communist nations voted randomly for each other. How tiresomely predictable.
In the Sage's view, Moldova should clearly have won. A hilarious combination of tuneless shouting, frantic trumpeting and preposterously large dunce hats, their song was comfortably the worst of the night and should have been rewarded accordingly. The British and Irish, as stated previously the only two nations who grasp the true purpose of Eurovision, recognised this fact and both placed the Moldovans in their top three.
A word or two about Blue, who avoided the humiliation of many recent British entries but still only finished in mid-table. Clearly the thinking was that an ageing but still game boy band who have a decent fanbase around Europe would stand a good chance of doing very well. Wrong. That Blue are bad enough to mount a strong bid for the Eurovision title is not in question. They are and always have been terrible. The problem is, they don't know it, and insist on maintaining they are serious artists instead of recognising they're shit, relaxing and camping it up for all they're worth. You don't win Eurovision by trying to be good, you win it by jumping around manically and gurning at the camera while wearing the sort of outfits that would have been rejected by the Village People as too extreme.
Britain has another overwhelming disadvantage when it comes to the Eurovision Song Contest. Unlike the rest of Europe, we actually produce good music. It's important to understand this point and also to remember that the artists we routinely dismiss as laughably bad on Eurovision are genuinely regarded as the cream of their nation's talent by our continental cousins and are what most of them actually enjoy listening to all the time. The need to cater for this market gives them a huge range of suitable representatives from which to choose, all of whom know instinctively how to appeal to the cross-border masses of Europeans with no taste.
In short, the nation that gave the world The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, David Bowie and Led Zeppelin quite simply doesn't stand a chance.
Regards
The Sage
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Friday, 29 April 2011
The Sage's Royal Wedding
Now before you ask, The Sage hasn't been suddenly snapped up by an ageing and desperate cougar countess from Scleswig Holstein. But in my view today's royal wedding was an extremely significant moment in British history as, rightly or wrongly, it secured the future of the monarchy for the forseeable future.
My views on the royal family are somewhat ambivalent. Looking at the subject logically, there's really no place in a modern democracy for such an outdated anachronism, an institution that promotes both sexual and religious discrimination by clinging on to the highly dubious practices of primogeniture and barring both Catholics and those married to a Catholic from the succession. The House of Windsor stands at the apex of an age-old, debilitating class system that is still the biggest barrier to a genuine meritocracy in the UK.
On the other hand, only the most fervent republicans would dispute that our royal family, by far the most famous in the world, is integral to the image of Britain across the globe, a unique selling point that makes us stand out from both our European neighbours and 'new money' nations like the US. The Civil List can be seen as grossly unjust, but at a cost of just under 70p per person per year many would argue that they're good value considering the amount of tourism revenue they bring into the country and the roles of some more worthy family members as national ambassadors.
Struggling with these two opposing viewpoints, The Sage sat down on his Stockwell sofa this morning with a Guatamalan coffee and tuned into the coverage, which was the usual mix of glittering pageantry, sycophantic gushing from fawning commentators and breathless interviews with often hysterical Union Jack clad spectators. William looked nervous and awkward as usual, Kate scrubbed up rather well in her lovely dress, the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh continue to look remarkably spry for octogenarians and Prince Andrew's ghastly ginger daughters were the runaway winners of the worst hats competition.
The throngs of well wishers lining the Mall and outside the Abbey, some from as far afield as the Americas and the Antipodes and prepared to camp out for hours or even days to catch a glimpse of the newly weds, are the main reason the monarchy won't be abolished any time soon.
The royal obsessives are simply so much more numerous, vocal and committed than the still thin voices of republican dissent. Such is the hope and love they feel for William, with his Diana connection and his pretty new English rose 'commoner' bride, they'll be able to grit their teeth through the reign of his far less popular father to wait for their true king to ascend triumphantly to the throne. Which with the longevity of the Windsor genes will probably take us to at least 2050. Only in that distant future will the next generation of royals be scrutinised more thoroughly.
In the meantime, those of us in the middle will continue to view the monarchy with largely benign detachment, taking a passing interest in the great occasions of state (apparently today wasn't 'a state wedding' ... yeah right, obviously the father of the bride paid for everything didn't he?) but lacking the will to rock the constitutional boat. The British people seem to feel most comfortable harking back to what we perceive as our glorious past, rather than looking forward to a more uncertain future in the world.
On that note, the Sage intends to make another coffee and turn the TV back on, probably to be confronted by Fern Britten interviewing a man who once sold a pint of milk to the new Duchess of Cambridge in a St Andrews Tesco Metro.
God Save The Queen!
Regards
The Sage
My views on the royal family are somewhat ambivalent. Looking at the subject logically, there's really no place in a modern democracy for such an outdated anachronism, an institution that promotes both sexual and religious discrimination by clinging on to the highly dubious practices of primogeniture and barring both Catholics and those married to a Catholic from the succession. The House of Windsor stands at the apex of an age-old, debilitating class system that is still the biggest barrier to a genuine meritocracy in the UK.
On the other hand, only the most fervent republicans would dispute that our royal family, by far the most famous in the world, is integral to the image of Britain across the globe, a unique selling point that makes us stand out from both our European neighbours and 'new money' nations like the US. The Civil List can be seen as grossly unjust, but at a cost of just under 70p per person per year many would argue that they're good value considering the amount of tourism revenue they bring into the country and the roles of some more worthy family members as national ambassadors.
Struggling with these two opposing viewpoints, The Sage sat down on his Stockwell sofa this morning with a Guatamalan coffee and tuned into the coverage, which was the usual mix of glittering pageantry, sycophantic gushing from fawning commentators and breathless interviews with often hysterical Union Jack clad spectators. William looked nervous and awkward as usual, Kate scrubbed up rather well in her lovely dress, the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh continue to look remarkably spry for octogenarians and Prince Andrew's ghastly ginger daughters were the runaway winners of the worst hats competition.
The throngs of well wishers lining the Mall and outside the Abbey, some from as far afield as the Americas and the Antipodes and prepared to camp out for hours or even days to catch a glimpse of the newly weds, are the main reason the monarchy won't be abolished any time soon.
The royal obsessives are simply so much more numerous, vocal and committed than the still thin voices of republican dissent. Such is the hope and love they feel for William, with his Diana connection and his pretty new English rose 'commoner' bride, they'll be able to grit their teeth through the reign of his far less popular father to wait for their true king to ascend triumphantly to the throne. Which with the longevity of the Windsor genes will probably take us to at least 2050. Only in that distant future will the next generation of royals be scrutinised more thoroughly.
In the meantime, those of us in the middle will continue to view the monarchy with largely benign detachment, taking a passing interest in the great occasions of state (apparently today wasn't 'a state wedding' ... yeah right, obviously the father of the bride paid for everything didn't he?) but lacking the will to rock the constitutional boat. The British people seem to feel most comfortable harking back to what we perceive as our glorious past, rather than looking forward to a more uncertain future in the world.
On that note, the Sage intends to make another coffee and turn the TV back on, probably to be confronted by Fern Britten interviewing a man who once sold a pint of milk to the new Duchess of Cambridge in a St Andrews Tesco Metro.
God Save The Queen!
Regards
The Sage
Thursday, 28 April 2011
The Sage's Albums of 2011 to date
Dear followers
During his Indian travels the Sage had scant opportunity to stay in touch with the latest album releases - bar the occasional Bollywood soundtrack - so having had the chance to catch up back in my South London abode, here's my thoughts on the best new CDs so far in 2011.
In no particular order...
The Vaccines - Well What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?
Despite a ridiculous amount of hype for a band only formed last June, The Vaccines' debut album is impressively assured. There's nothing particularly original here, with most of the tracks falling somewhere between the terrace singalongs of the Fratellis and the widescreen bombastic miserabilism of Glasvegas, but those in search of an uncomplicated, tuneful indie-rock album to sing along to this spring should check this out without delay. However, they really do need to come up with a better title for their next record.
PJ Harvey - Let England Shake
It's almost 20 years since Ms Harvey's first album (1992's Dry) and it's a breath of fresh air to see an artist producing her best ever work at a stage of her career when many contemporaries have long since ran out of ideas. A sometimes challenging but never pretentious reflection on the impact of war, many of Let England Shake's songs focus on the brutal conflicts of World War I and Gallipoli in particular. The raw, jagged beats and riffs are appropriately stark yet naggingly infectious, with Harvey's supple, expressive voice providing a melodic foil throughout. A significant work that shows pop music can be both intelligent and accessible at the same time.
The Low Anthem - Smart Flesh
Fleet Foxes' stellar 2008 debut has made folk-rock hipper now than at any time since the early 70s heyday of Crosby Stills, Nash and Young, and perhaps the best of the American bands to break through in their wake is Rhode Island's The Low Anthem. Fourth album Smart Flesh was recorded in an abandoned pasta factory, and the end result is a sparse, atmospheric sound that soars and echoes around the vast open spaces where it was recorded. Often slow and stately, the tracks here take time to grow on the listener but you're unlikely to hear a better record of this type this year - well until Fleet Foxes themselves return next week at least...
The Unthanks - Last
From American folk to British, and Northumbria's Unthank sisters continue their evolution from their north-east traditional song roots to something of altogether broader appeal. The centuries old murder ballads are still there, as are the haunting vocal harmonies, but lusher orchestration, more expansive arrangements and some innovative covers of rock artists (for example King Crimson and Tom Waits) elevate Last far beyond the work of your stereotypical folk troubadours. Often bleak, but very, very beautiful.
Anna Calvi - Anna Calvi
Like the Vaccines, this diminutive Anglo-Italian was hotly tipped going into 2011, and her debut album shows that most of the fuss was justified. Blessed with both a powerful voice and fabulous guitar playing ability, Ms Calvi effectively uses both qualities in a darkly atmospheric collection of songs that drip with passion. Often abandoning conventional song structures and incorporating elements of classical and famenco as well as rock, this is a dense, sometimes confrontational record that signals the arrival of a major new talent.
For my full review of Anna Calvi on BBC Music, please click here.
Here's some links to performances/recordings of tracks from all the albums I've mentioned above:
The Vaccines
PJ Harvey
The Low Anthem
The Unthanks
Anna Calvi
And finally - one for you all to avoid. I hate emo...
Twin Atlantic - Free
Regards
The Sage
During his Indian travels the Sage had scant opportunity to stay in touch with the latest album releases - bar the occasional Bollywood soundtrack - so having had the chance to catch up back in my South London abode, here's my thoughts on the best new CDs so far in 2011.
In no particular order...
The Vaccines - Well What Did You Expect From The Vaccines?
Despite a ridiculous amount of hype for a band only formed last June, The Vaccines' debut album is impressively assured. There's nothing particularly original here, with most of the tracks falling somewhere between the terrace singalongs of the Fratellis and the widescreen bombastic miserabilism of Glasvegas, but those in search of an uncomplicated, tuneful indie-rock album to sing along to this spring should check this out without delay. However, they really do need to come up with a better title for their next record.
PJ Harvey - Let England Shake
It's almost 20 years since Ms Harvey's first album (1992's Dry) and it's a breath of fresh air to see an artist producing her best ever work at a stage of her career when many contemporaries have long since ran out of ideas. A sometimes challenging but never pretentious reflection on the impact of war, many of Let England Shake's songs focus on the brutal conflicts of World War I and Gallipoli in particular. The raw, jagged beats and riffs are appropriately stark yet naggingly infectious, with Harvey's supple, expressive voice providing a melodic foil throughout. A significant work that shows pop music can be both intelligent and accessible at the same time.
The Low Anthem - Smart Flesh
Fleet Foxes' stellar 2008 debut has made folk-rock hipper now than at any time since the early 70s heyday of Crosby Stills, Nash and Young, and perhaps the best of the American bands to break through in their wake is Rhode Island's The Low Anthem. Fourth album Smart Flesh was recorded in an abandoned pasta factory, and the end result is a sparse, atmospheric sound that soars and echoes around the vast open spaces where it was recorded. Often slow and stately, the tracks here take time to grow on the listener but you're unlikely to hear a better record of this type this year - well until Fleet Foxes themselves return next week at least...
The Unthanks - Last
From American folk to British, and Northumbria's Unthank sisters continue their evolution from their north-east traditional song roots to something of altogether broader appeal. The centuries old murder ballads are still there, as are the haunting vocal harmonies, but lusher orchestration, more expansive arrangements and some innovative covers of rock artists (for example King Crimson and Tom Waits) elevate Last far beyond the work of your stereotypical folk troubadours. Often bleak, but very, very beautiful.
Anna Calvi - Anna Calvi
Like the Vaccines, this diminutive Anglo-Italian was hotly tipped going into 2011, and her debut album shows that most of the fuss was justified. Blessed with both a powerful voice and fabulous guitar playing ability, Ms Calvi effectively uses both qualities in a darkly atmospheric collection of songs that drip with passion. Often abandoning conventional song structures and incorporating elements of classical and famenco as well as rock, this is a dense, sometimes confrontational record that signals the arrival of a major new talent.
For my full review of Anna Calvi on BBC Music, please click here.
Here's some links to performances/recordings of tracks from all the albums I've mentioned above:
The Vaccines
PJ Harvey
The Low Anthem
The Unthanks
Anna Calvi
And finally - one for you all to avoid. I hate emo...
Twin Atlantic - Free
Regards
The Sage
Thursday, 21 April 2011
The Sage's India: Part 4 - In praise of pachyderms and a Keralan camera catastrophe
Dear Followers
Anyone who visits India expecting a Jungle Book-style tapestry of abundant wildlife is, the Sage can confirm, set for a major disappointment.
Sure, there's plenty of monkeys bounding around many of the major cities, but the most common variety are rather ugly, red-faced little runts, rife with an impressive range of unpleasant diseases and more likely to steal your packed lunch than pose cutely for a photo. Then there's the cockroaches and geckos, inevitable companions in many hotel rooms and train carriages, and on the domesticated front the omnipresent cows, dogs and cats.
But in a wildlife park, one would reasonably expect to see a rather more impressively exotic array of creatures. Regrettably for the Sage, two early morning jeep drives and jungle walks in south India yielded up the following meagre tally:
i) A giant squirrel, like the ones in the park opposite my flat on steroids
ii) One herd of deer, which looked suspiciously like the ones at the bottom of my mate's garden in Berkshire
iii) The legs and rear ends of some Indian bison, barely visible through the trees 100 yards away
iv) A variety of almost entirely uninteresting birds. Our jeep driver was clearly approaching desperation stakes when, having spotted absolutely nothing all morning, he stopped the vehicle to proudly point out a peacock.
Now to be fair to the Indian tourism industry, their flagship animal - the tiger - has sadly been hunted with such systematic cruelty over recent decades that the wild population in the country has fallen to below 1500. One guide told us that in over 10 years in one national park he had seen a tiger just once - hardly promising odds for our brief visit. But would it have been asking too much to see something that wouldn't be found ambling around the grounds of Chatsworth House or Richmond Park - a bear perhaps, or a leopard, or even a wild elephant??
Aaaah, the elephant! Is there any more noble beast? The African elephant, a larger and more aggressive character than his Indian cousin, generally roams the savannahs and jungles free from the yoke of man, but the Asian variety is often to be found employed in a variety of roles.
In days of yore, elephants formed a vital part of many a maharaja's war machine, as Alexander The Great would testify. But as they've been rather superceded militarily by modern innovations like tanks and aircraft, today's tusked talent generally engages in more peaceful pursuits, such as working in timber yards, or giving rides to giggling tourists.
The Sage experienced the latter in the beautiful state of Kerala,and thoroughly enjoyed his close encounter with Roopa, a female resident of Periyar National Park. Straddling her proved somewhat difficult with no seat or stirrups, but I soon got comfortable just above her legs and held on behind her ears to ensure I wasn't dismounted. All in all, it was a most pleasant ride, although Roopa had to stop half way through to take a slash of such awesome volume and power it could have extinguished the Great Fire of London. I declined the opportunity to feed and bathe her afterwards, as the Sage believes in the old adage of treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.
The pinnacle of any pachyderm's career however is to become a temple elephant. These revered animals can be found in Hindu places of worship all over India, with colourful markings on their faces and often clad in resplendent robes and glittering golden head dresses. Other than looking splendid, the main task of the temple elephant is to bless the faithful with its trunk, and consume offerings of food made to them by their numerous admirers.
Every summer in Tamil Nadu, around 200 temple elephants are given a month off and are taken to the state's Mudulumai National Park, where they spend a well-earned break eating, wallowing and chilling. One can only applaud a country so enlightened that non-humans are given holiday entitlement like any other employee, and it is indicative of the prestigious status of the temple elephant profession. The Sage himself would quite like to be a temple elephant.
After four weeks on the subcontinent, my Indian adventure was nearing an end. All that remained was a relaxing few days on the beach in the idyllic Keralan town of Varkala. Or so I thought.
The Sage lay sprawled on the sand without a care in the world, ipod in one hand, John Keay's excellent History Of India in the other, sun beating down from a cloudless blue sky. The flag indicating the current tidal level was at least 20 yards down the beach...
Suddenly without warning the Sage was soaked up to the waist and most of his belongings were floating out towards the Maldives, the result of an unexpected tidal surge. After frantically scampering around the beach to reclaim my flip flops, sunhat and other items, further investigation revealed that my camera, ipod and Blackberry were all rendered inoperable. The Sage cut a sorry figure as he clambered back up the cliff in his salt water and sand sodden shorts, fearing a month of Indian photographic memories (not to mention an exhaustively esoteric collection of eccentric music) had been lost for ever. Thankfully viewers of my Facebook page will see that my memory card survived intact, and after extensive drying out my Blackberry spluttered slowly back into life. The insurance claim for the other items remains 'in progress'...
So a somewhat frustrating end to a five week odyssey that the Sage will never forget. From the captivating madness of Delhi to the peaceful calm of Kerala's lush jungle backwaters, from the magnificent architecture of the Taj Mahal to the simple charms of rural village life in Madya Pradesh, India is a place like no other. Trying to make a country of 1.1 billion people with numerous religions and languages work as one nation in the modern world is a daunting task indeed, but the Sage for one hopes and believes that India can continue to go from strength to strength. I hope you have enjoyed my musings, and if you haven't been to India yet, I hope you're able to do so one day and experience it for yourself.
Goodbye for now.
The Sage
Anyone who visits India expecting a Jungle Book-style tapestry of abundant wildlife is, the Sage can confirm, set for a major disappointment.
Sure, there's plenty of monkeys bounding around many of the major cities, but the most common variety are rather ugly, red-faced little runts, rife with an impressive range of unpleasant diseases and more likely to steal your packed lunch than pose cutely for a photo. Then there's the cockroaches and geckos, inevitable companions in many hotel rooms and train carriages, and on the domesticated front the omnipresent cows, dogs and cats.
But in a wildlife park, one would reasonably expect to see a rather more impressively exotic array of creatures. Regrettably for the Sage, two early morning jeep drives and jungle walks in south India yielded up the following meagre tally:
i) A giant squirrel, like the ones in the park opposite my flat on steroids
ii) One herd of deer, which looked suspiciously like the ones at the bottom of my mate's garden in Berkshire
iii) The legs and rear ends of some Indian bison, barely visible through the trees 100 yards away
iv) A variety of almost entirely uninteresting birds. Our jeep driver was clearly approaching desperation stakes when, having spotted absolutely nothing all morning, he stopped the vehicle to proudly point out a peacock.
Now to be fair to the Indian tourism industry, their flagship animal - the tiger - has sadly been hunted with such systematic cruelty over recent decades that the wild population in the country has fallen to below 1500. One guide told us that in over 10 years in one national park he had seen a tiger just once - hardly promising odds for our brief visit. But would it have been asking too much to see something that wouldn't be found ambling around the grounds of Chatsworth House or Richmond Park - a bear perhaps, or a leopard, or even a wild elephant??
Aaaah, the elephant! Is there any more noble beast? The African elephant, a larger and more aggressive character than his Indian cousin, generally roams the savannahs and jungles free from the yoke of man, but the Asian variety is often to be found employed in a variety of roles.
In days of yore, elephants formed a vital part of many a maharaja's war machine, as Alexander The Great would testify. But as they've been rather superceded militarily by modern innovations like tanks and aircraft, today's tusked talent generally engages in more peaceful pursuits, such as working in timber yards, or giving rides to giggling tourists.
The Sage experienced the latter in the beautiful state of Kerala,and thoroughly enjoyed his close encounter with Roopa, a female resident of Periyar National Park. Straddling her proved somewhat difficult with no seat or stirrups, but I soon got comfortable just above her legs and held on behind her ears to ensure I wasn't dismounted. All in all, it was a most pleasant ride, although Roopa had to stop half way through to take a slash of such awesome volume and power it could have extinguished the Great Fire of London. I declined the opportunity to feed and bathe her afterwards, as the Sage believes in the old adage of treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.
The pinnacle of any pachyderm's career however is to become a temple elephant. These revered animals can be found in Hindu places of worship all over India, with colourful markings on their faces and often clad in resplendent robes and glittering golden head dresses. Other than looking splendid, the main task of the temple elephant is to bless the faithful with its trunk, and consume offerings of food made to them by their numerous admirers.
Every summer in Tamil Nadu, around 200 temple elephants are given a month off and are taken to the state's Mudulumai National Park, where they spend a well-earned break eating, wallowing and chilling. One can only applaud a country so enlightened that non-humans are given holiday entitlement like any other employee, and it is indicative of the prestigious status of the temple elephant profession. The Sage himself would quite like to be a temple elephant.
After four weeks on the subcontinent, my Indian adventure was nearing an end. All that remained was a relaxing few days on the beach in the idyllic Keralan town of Varkala. Or so I thought.
The Sage lay sprawled on the sand without a care in the world, ipod in one hand, John Keay's excellent History Of India in the other, sun beating down from a cloudless blue sky. The flag indicating the current tidal level was at least 20 yards down the beach...
Suddenly without warning the Sage was soaked up to the waist and most of his belongings were floating out towards the Maldives, the result of an unexpected tidal surge. After frantically scampering around the beach to reclaim my flip flops, sunhat and other items, further investigation revealed that my camera, ipod and Blackberry were all rendered inoperable. The Sage cut a sorry figure as he clambered back up the cliff in his salt water and sand sodden shorts, fearing a month of Indian photographic memories (not to mention an exhaustively esoteric collection of eccentric music) had been lost for ever. Thankfully viewers of my Facebook page will see that my memory card survived intact, and after extensive drying out my Blackberry spluttered slowly back into life. The insurance claim for the other items remains 'in progress'...
So a somewhat frustrating end to a five week odyssey that the Sage will never forget. From the captivating madness of Delhi to the peaceful calm of Kerala's lush jungle backwaters, from the magnificent architecture of the Taj Mahal to the simple charms of rural village life in Madya Pradesh, India is a place like no other. Trying to make a country of 1.1 billion people with numerous religions and languages work as one nation in the modern world is a daunting task indeed, but the Sage for one hopes and believes that India can continue to go from strength to strength. I hope you have enjoyed my musings, and if you haven't been to India yet, I hope you're able to do so one day and experience it for yourself.
Goodbye for now.
The Sage
Monday, 11 April 2011
The Sage's India: Part 3 - From naked northerners to singing southerners
The Sage's stint in north India was nearly at a close, and as I drew into Varanasi station after a 12 hour overnight journey devoid of sleep thanks to the cement mixer snoring of the dishevelled T-shirt salesman opposite, my flight down south to the relaxing beaches of Kerala couldn't come quickly enough.
Varanasi is arguably India's second most famous sight after the Taj Mahal, in particular due to its ancient ghats (steps leading to down to a river) where Hindus still go in droves to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges and in some cases cremate their dead. No visit to Varanasi is complete without dusk and dawn boat trips to witness these age-old but still vibrant traditions taking place, but while they are certainly uniquely atmospheric, the Sage found the whole experience a little uncomfortable.
A Hindu cremation is a simple affair, with little pomp and ceremony as the male relatives of the deceased assemble around a wood pyre, which is slowly engulfed in flames and burns for several hours until only the ashes of the corpse remain. These are then scattered into the Ganges river.
Somehow the presence just offshore of a dozen or more boats of tourists, however respectful their observance, seemed to me an unwelcome intrusion upon an event that in Western culture is a very private matter. Yet the differences between the fundamental beliefs of a Europe rooted in austere Christianity and the more open, elemental ethos of Hindu India are such that the latter almost certainly don't see it that way.
On the subject of religion, close to Varanasi is the small town of Sarnath, the location of the Buddha's first ever sermon in the 6th century BC. More intriguing to the Sage however was his visit to a Jain temple, which led me to conclude that of all the world's organised faiths, this is surely the most bizarre.
Jains, if you're not familiar with their ideas, are strict vegetarians who believe that no harm should be inflicted on any living creature. In fact, they go even further and shun the consumption of root vegetables too, as digging up an onion or potato from the ground is apparently the equivalent of cold blooded murder.
Many adherents of Jainism carry a a peacock feather to sweep the ground in front of them so they don't inadvertently tread on any innocent insects, and filter water to make sure other diminutive invertebrates that may be contained therein are not accidentally drowned. Their highest order of priests renounce all material items, so walk around completely nude, only eat once a day without using any utensils and sometimes fast for months at a time to prove their spiritual purity.
Only in India could such a baffling religion requiring such levels of devotion have over 10 million followers, and its perhaps unsurprising that it's by and large failed to catch on elsewhere. But imagine if you will a world where Jainism replaced Christianity or Islam as a major global religion. Pest control businesses would have a tough time and there'd be a few more naked men strolling round the streets, but wars, suicide bombings and book burnings would be few and far between.
It was time for the Sage to leave northern India and catch a flight to Cochin, the main city of Kerala, on the south-west tip of the subcontinent. Within a few minutes of arriving in the south, it became evident that it's effectively a different country to huge, impoverished mega cities of the north. Palm trees are generously sprinkled around cleaner, more orderly streets where traffic generally flows at a reasonable speed in the direction it's supposed to. You can walk along the street without being harassed by hordes of howling hawkers and the sheer volume of people is greatly reduced. Basically, if you want to chill out in the sun, south India's the place to be.
After a very pleasant 48 hours exploring Cochin's Portuguese churches, Dutch forts and Chinese fisihing nets, the Sage headed for the hills. Some of the best tea in the world is grown in plantations in the mountains on the Kerala/Tamil Nadu border, and my base was Coonor, a hill station popular with the British as a summer retreat during the days of the Raj and featured in the film A Passage To India. The views here were stunning, but the highlight was an hour long steam locomotive journey on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, which turned into a combination of an Edwardian period drama and an episode of Glee.
On the same carriage were a class of Indian schoolchildren of around 10-11 years of age, all impeccably turned out in neatly pressed blue shirts and ties with matching ribbons in the girls' plaited hair. Unlike the foul-mouthed embryonic thugs that are sadly so common among youngsters of a similar age in Britain, these children were inquisitive yet unfailingly polite and respectful, many already demonstrating flawless English. To make the Westerners feel welcome, we were treated to a series of enthusiastically performed Tamil folk songs during the journey, conducted with great applomb by the class teacher.
Once their repertoire was exhausted the British were invited to respond with our own ditties of choice, and the Sage and two fellow choristers treated the locals to a spirited medley of Swing Low Sweet Chariot and When The Saints Come Marching In. Sadly, our audience got off before I've Got A Brand New Combine Harvester and the Chicken Song, but by that stage the singing reputation of the former colonial power had been well and truly upheld. Unless of course it wasn't actually their stop.
NEXT TIME: The Sage mounts an elephant!
Varanasi is arguably India's second most famous sight after the Taj Mahal, in particular due to its ancient ghats (steps leading to down to a river) where Hindus still go in droves to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganges and in some cases cremate their dead. No visit to Varanasi is complete without dusk and dawn boat trips to witness these age-old but still vibrant traditions taking place, but while they are certainly uniquely atmospheric, the Sage found the whole experience a little uncomfortable.
A Hindu cremation is a simple affair, with little pomp and ceremony as the male relatives of the deceased assemble around a wood pyre, which is slowly engulfed in flames and burns for several hours until only the ashes of the corpse remain. These are then scattered into the Ganges river.
Somehow the presence just offshore of a dozen or more boats of tourists, however respectful their observance, seemed to me an unwelcome intrusion upon an event that in Western culture is a very private matter. Yet the differences between the fundamental beliefs of a Europe rooted in austere Christianity and the more open, elemental ethos of Hindu India are such that the latter almost certainly don't see it that way.
On the subject of religion, close to Varanasi is the small town of Sarnath, the location of the Buddha's first ever sermon in the 6th century BC. More intriguing to the Sage however was his visit to a Jain temple, which led me to conclude that of all the world's organised faiths, this is surely the most bizarre.
Jains, if you're not familiar with their ideas, are strict vegetarians who believe that no harm should be inflicted on any living creature. In fact, they go even further and shun the consumption of root vegetables too, as digging up an onion or potato from the ground is apparently the equivalent of cold blooded murder.
Many adherents of Jainism carry a a peacock feather to sweep the ground in front of them so they don't inadvertently tread on any innocent insects, and filter water to make sure other diminutive invertebrates that may be contained therein are not accidentally drowned. Their highest order of priests renounce all material items, so walk around completely nude, only eat once a day without using any utensils and sometimes fast for months at a time to prove their spiritual purity.
Only in India could such a baffling religion requiring such levels of devotion have over 10 million followers, and its perhaps unsurprising that it's by and large failed to catch on elsewhere. But imagine if you will a world where Jainism replaced Christianity or Islam as a major global religion. Pest control businesses would have a tough time and there'd be a few more naked men strolling round the streets, but wars, suicide bombings and book burnings would be few and far between.
It was time for the Sage to leave northern India and catch a flight to Cochin, the main city of Kerala, on the south-west tip of the subcontinent. Within a few minutes of arriving in the south, it became evident that it's effectively a different country to huge, impoverished mega cities of the north. Palm trees are generously sprinkled around cleaner, more orderly streets where traffic generally flows at a reasonable speed in the direction it's supposed to. You can walk along the street without being harassed by hordes of howling hawkers and the sheer volume of people is greatly reduced. Basically, if you want to chill out in the sun, south India's the place to be.
After a very pleasant 48 hours exploring Cochin's Portuguese churches, Dutch forts and Chinese fisihing nets, the Sage headed for the hills. Some of the best tea in the world is grown in plantations in the mountains on the Kerala/Tamil Nadu border, and my base was Coonor, a hill station popular with the British as a summer retreat during the days of the Raj and featured in the film A Passage To India. The views here were stunning, but the highlight was an hour long steam locomotive journey on the Nilgiri Mountain Railway, which turned into a combination of an Edwardian period drama and an episode of Glee.
On the same carriage were a class of Indian schoolchildren of around 10-11 years of age, all impeccably turned out in neatly pressed blue shirts and ties with matching ribbons in the girls' plaited hair. Unlike the foul-mouthed embryonic thugs that are sadly so common among youngsters of a similar age in Britain, these children were inquisitive yet unfailingly polite and respectful, many already demonstrating flawless English. To make the Westerners feel welcome, we were treated to a series of enthusiastically performed Tamil folk songs during the journey, conducted with great applomb by the class teacher.
Once their repertoire was exhausted the British were invited to respond with our own ditties of choice, and the Sage and two fellow choristers treated the locals to a spirited medley of Swing Low Sweet Chariot and When The Saints Come Marching In. Sadly, our audience got off before I've Got A Brand New Combine Harvester and the Chicken Song, but by that stage the singing reputation of the former colonial power had been well and truly upheld. Unless of course it wasn't actually their stop.
NEXT TIME: The Sage mounts an elephant!
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
The Sage's India: Part 2 - A Taj tainted by tourism and meeting Maharajas
The Bengali poet and philosopher Tagore described the Taj Mahal as 'a tear on the face of eternity'. A splendidly evocative phrase, the Sage will concede, but this particular scribe experienced his own tears of frustration when visiting the building often considered to be the most beautiful in the world.
There's no doubt the Taj Mahal is stunning, luminous and fairy tale like with its gleaming white exterior, wonderfully subtle decoration and dimensions of perfect symmetry. It stands proudly above 300 metre square gardens lined with fountains, water pools, flowerbeds and tree lined avenues, equally meticulous in their construction. Yet it's difficult to truly absorb the sheer magnificence of the Taj when a) it's pouring with rain and b) you're sharing the moment with teeming hordes of multinational tour groups jostling their way around the site like rush hour commuters.
I'll start with the weather. It's common practice for visitors to the Taj to arrive at dawn (around 7am) to see it at its most atmospheric as the sun rises above its towering dome and minarets. Unfortunately, the day I picked was probably the only day this year when there was no sun at all. Bleary eyed after a 5.30am start, I found myself splashing through puddles with plastic bags on my feet, shivering as the wind and drizzle did its worst around me. It certainly felt like February - but in England, not India.
And then there's the tourists. OK, OK - I know I was one too, and travelling on an organised tour as well. But there's something depressingly mechanical about the vast, 50 strong Japanese groups that surge around the Taj like cultural locusts, coalescing into one collective entity of Oriental aggression that ruthlessly elbows aside all in its path in a relentless bid to break the world record for the highest number of photographs ever taken in one place. Oh, and they wear name badges too, just in case they still can't remember who's who after three months of barging their way around the world's great historical attractions together.
I do hope I don't sound insensitive singling out Japanese tourists for my irascible tirade just after their country has undergone such a terrible tragedy, and I know there's plenty of annoying people from other places too. But one of the joys of travel is having room to breathe and move and take in the sights and sounds of where you are at your own pace. At mega sites like the Taj, this just isn't possible because of the huge numbers of people there at the same time, many of whom sadly seem somewhat less inclined to pause for a moment of reflection.
Rather more to the Sage's liking was the unheralded, predominantly rural state of Madya Pradesh, in the centre of India. With the exception of Khajuraho, the home of the famously indiscreet Kama Sutra-inspired temple carvings (even horses get in on the fun...) there was barely a foreigner in sight during our four day stay in the region, and those in search of a 'real' India of traditional villages and oxen carts would be well advised to pay it a visit, before everyone else finds out about it.
Be warned though - in the otherwise serene riverside town of Orcha, I was the victim of an unexpected, completely unprovoked assault - at the hands (or rather the hooves) of an adolescent cow with clear anger management issues. I had innocently posed for a picture alongside the beast when the belligerent bovine suddenly and without warning charged at me head first, depositing a hefty dollop of saliva and snot on my leg. Thankfully no more serious injuries were sustained, but the laughter of the watching locals suggested to me that I would have certainly been left to my fate had my assailant opted to mount a more concerted attack upon my person.
As most of you will know, the cow is sacred in India, and this ancient status seems to have given them the freedom to do whatever they please. In almost every town, these holy herbivores randomly roam the streets, eating rubbish, wandering into shops and stepping in and out of the traffic with all the carefree nonchalance of a Victorian aristocrat out for an afternoon stroll. This is a much more serious matter for the motorists, who face the same penalties for hitting a cow as they do for running over a human. What's more, if the mooing masses ever tire of dining on rotting vegetables and withered grass, Hindu customs dictate that the first chapati cooked in each house should be offered to a cow before the family can eat, so there's never long to wait before a dutiful father emerges around the corner clutching a generous helping of piping hot homemade bread.
Also held in high regard in India are the Maharajas, the ancestral rulers of many of the country's historic kingdoms. These titles were technically phased out after independence in 1947, but their descendants often continue to live in the palaces of their forefathers and remain individuals of significant wealth and influence.
One such man is the Maharaja of Alipura, whom I met while staying in his palace, some of which has been converted into a hotel rich in period character. A devout man, he had returned home from Madya Pradesh's state capital, where he is a leading politician, to attend a Hindu festival in his village. We enjoyed a most stimulating conversation about the development of tourism and conservation in the region, and I went to bed hopeful that His Highness was impressed by the intellectual and moral fibre of the kind of people he had welcomed into in his princely abode.
Any such impression was rudely shattered the following lunchtime when the Maharaja decided to take a walk onto his roof terrace and was met by the unedifying sight of The Sage clad in nothing but a pair of shorts, swilling a bottle of lager with a bikini-clad young lady sat on either side. He took one look at us before walking downstairs without a word, and thus my brief encounter with the ennobled elite of India's society was over.
NEXT TIME: The Sage Goes South...
There's no doubt the Taj Mahal is stunning, luminous and fairy tale like with its gleaming white exterior, wonderfully subtle decoration and dimensions of perfect symmetry. It stands proudly above 300 metre square gardens lined with fountains, water pools, flowerbeds and tree lined avenues, equally meticulous in their construction. Yet it's difficult to truly absorb the sheer magnificence of the Taj when a) it's pouring with rain and b) you're sharing the moment with teeming hordes of multinational tour groups jostling their way around the site like rush hour commuters.
I'll start with the weather. It's common practice for visitors to the Taj to arrive at dawn (around 7am) to see it at its most atmospheric as the sun rises above its towering dome and minarets. Unfortunately, the day I picked was probably the only day this year when there was no sun at all. Bleary eyed after a 5.30am start, I found myself splashing through puddles with plastic bags on my feet, shivering as the wind and drizzle did its worst around me. It certainly felt like February - but in England, not India.
And then there's the tourists. OK, OK - I know I was one too, and travelling on an organised tour as well. But there's something depressingly mechanical about the vast, 50 strong Japanese groups that surge around the Taj like cultural locusts, coalescing into one collective entity of Oriental aggression that ruthlessly elbows aside all in its path in a relentless bid to break the world record for the highest number of photographs ever taken in one place. Oh, and they wear name badges too, just in case they still can't remember who's who after three months of barging their way around the world's great historical attractions together.
I do hope I don't sound insensitive singling out Japanese tourists for my irascible tirade just after their country has undergone such a terrible tragedy, and I know there's plenty of annoying people from other places too. But one of the joys of travel is having room to breathe and move and take in the sights and sounds of where you are at your own pace. At mega sites like the Taj, this just isn't possible because of the huge numbers of people there at the same time, many of whom sadly seem somewhat less inclined to pause for a moment of reflection.
Rather more to the Sage's liking was the unheralded, predominantly rural state of Madya Pradesh, in the centre of India. With the exception of Khajuraho, the home of the famously indiscreet Kama Sutra-inspired temple carvings (even horses get in on the fun...) there was barely a foreigner in sight during our four day stay in the region, and those in search of a 'real' India of traditional villages and oxen carts would be well advised to pay it a visit, before everyone else finds out about it.
Be warned though - in the otherwise serene riverside town of Orcha, I was the victim of an unexpected, completely unprovoked assault - at the hands (or rather the hooves) of an adolescent cow with clear anger management issues. I had innocently posed for a picture alongside the beast when the belligerent bovine suddenly and without warning charged at me head first, depositing a hefty dollop of saliva and snot on my leg. Thankfully no more serious injuries were sustained, but the laughter of the watching locals suggested to me that I would have certainly been left to my fate had my assailant opted to mount a more concerted attack upon my person.
As most of you will know, the cow is sacred in India, and this ancient status seems to have given them the freedom to do whatever they please. In almost every town, these holy herbivores randomly roam the streets, eating rubbish, wandering into shops and stepping in and out of the traffic with all the carefree nonchalance of a Victorian aristocrat out for an afternoon stroll. This is a much more serious matter for the motorists, who face the same penalties for hitting a cow as they do for running over a human. What's more, if the mooing masses ever tire of dining on rotting vegetables and withered grass, Hindu customs dictate that the first chapati cooked in each house should be offered to a cow before the family can eat, so there's never long to wait before a dutiful father emerges around the corner clutching a generous helping of piping hot homemade bread.
Also held in high regard in India are the Maharajas, the ancestral rulers of many of the country's historic kingdoms. These titles were technically phased out after independence in 1947, but their descendants often continue to live in the palaces of their forefathers and remain individuals of significant wealth and influence.
One such man is the Maharaja of Alipura, whom I met while staying in his palace, some of which has been converted into a hotel rich in period character. A devout man, he had returned home from Madya Pradesh's state capital, where he is a leading politician, to attend a Hindu festival in his village. We enjoyed a most stimulating conversation about the development of tourism and conservation in the region, and I went to bed hopeful that His Highness was impressed by the intellectual and moral fibre of the kind of people he had welcomed into in his princely abode.
Any such impression was rudely shattered the following lunchtime when the Maharaja decided to take a walk onto his roof terrace and was met by the unedifying sight of The Sage clad in nothing but a pair of shorts, swilling a bottle of lager with a bikini-clad young lady sat on either side. He took one look at us before walking downstairs without a word, and thus my brief encounter with the ennobled elite of India's society was over.
NEXT TIME: The Sage Goes South...
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
The Sage's India: Part 1 - Discovering Delhi and Retching in Rajasthan
Dear followers
First of all, apologies to those of you who were expecting a frequent flow of finger on the pulse live travelogues from the Sage during my five weeks in India. Despite my best intentions, intermittent half hours of internet browsing seemed to evaporate into a flurry of Facebook updates and football score checking, leaving no time for more detailed (some would say bloated and verbose) musings.
Now I'm back on home soil and with plenty of time on my hands as I dip my toe unenthusiastically back into the employment market, I will do my best to update you on my travels through a series of unapologetically self-indulgent ramblings.
Rewind nearly six weeks, and I stepped off an overnight flight to Delhi and ambled straight into my first experience of the Indians' impressive persistence in trying to sell you things you couldn't possibly want. After introductory pleasantries (where are you from, what is your job, are you married, what are the names of all your family and their life stories etc) I was asked by my taxi driver if I wanted to go and buy a carpet as he could get a very good price. Now let me think about this. I've just got off a 9 hour flight, I've been up for nearly 24 hours and I probably smell. So, with the greatest of respect, I think I'd rather just go to my hotel and get some sleep, thanks all the same.
"How about a scarf. I have very nice scarves, very good price." Errr... still no I'm afraid. "Perhaps a shirt for you sir, very good price." That's very kind, but I have everything I need thanks, please can you take me to my hotel now. "Yes sir, no problem sir. But first, do you want to buy a carpet?"
I was begrudgingly dropped off at my destination and the first person I met as I stepped out of the cab was a beggar with no legs. "Welcome to India sir," he said in flawless English. Delhi is certainly no place for those in search of a sanitised, perfectly manicured city break. The roads are a chaotic maelstrom of honking tuk tuks, fume-spluttering cars and kamikaze cyclists, with no traffic system whatsoever to control it. I swiftly learnt that the only way to get anywhere was to simply stride out confidently into the sea of vehicles and hope they decided to drive around me rather than through me. Surprisingly, this system works rather well for both pedestrian and motorist, and I found that in India in general the kind of hair raising incidents that would provoke severe road rage in the UK are simply shrugged off as part and parcel of trying to get from A to B.
Delhi is also widely considered to be the most polluted place on earth, and after a few hours there, my throat felt like I'd gone back to my 20 Marlboro Reds a day habit of my student years. The city's pavements also need to be negotiated with care, not just because of the yawning potholes and cracks big enough for an elephant to fall down, but also the streams of urine sprayed onto the street by the local population, who seem willing to unzip with a cock-flapping abandon that rivals the most weak-bladdered Saturday night drunk. And then there's the grinding poverty, not just individual beggars, some with horrific deformities, but whole families living together in makeshift shacks of cloth, wood and scrap iron, mothers cooking and children playing as the rest of the world walks past seemingly oblivious to their desperate yet strangely orderly lives.
Despite all of these things, I loved Delhi. There's no better place to immerse yourself in the whole spectrum of Indian society, which lest we forget has more dollar billionaires than the UK and one of the fastest growing economies in the world as well as an estimated 250 million people living below the poverty line. New Delhi's grand government buildings and wide, leafy boulevards would not look out of place in Paris, while the old city's labyrinthine bazaar, ancient mosques and temples are typical of India's rich cultural heritage. Historical sites of interest are everywhere, from the serenely peaceful Gandhi Smrti (where the great man was assassinated) to the awe-inspiring Qutb Minar mosque complex, which boasts the world's tallest minaret.
I could quite happily have spent another few days exploring India's capital, but the tour I'd joined was now underway and my next stop was Jaipur, the famous Pink City of Rajasthan. This really is the quintessential India many of us will have seen in the history books - impossibly grand and colourful palaces and forts, occupied by fierce native princes perched imperiously on their war elephants. India's a republic these days, but many of the old royal families still reside in their ancestral homes, making sure the memories of their illustrious past are kept alive.
While there was much to see and enjoy in Jaipur - I made a characteristically uncoordinated attempt at Rajastanhi folk dancing, and even tried on a sari - the city will for me forever be associated with my first (and thankfully last) bout of Delhi Belly.
I was sticking to my pre-trip pledge to go veggie, and had sailed through my first few days in India without the slightest hint of a rogue bowel movement. But as I sat down to my aloo gobi after a most enjoyable evening at a Bollywood cinema (watching, somewhat bizarrely, a Hindi film about a British Asian cricketer in London) I knew that something was wrong as I felt a surging sickness moving up from my stomach. I barely left the bathroom for the next 9 hours, which developed into a ghastly combination of an industrial mudchute on overdrive and an audition for the part of the possessed girl in The Exorcist. The next morning I was so drained I could barely pack my suitcase, and it took all my remaining energy to drag my Immodium-riddled body onto the bus where I lay pitifully hoping that my pants would survive the forthcoming three hour journey.
I later concluded that the culprit was not some devilishly spiced Indian concoction, but rather a humble vegetarian pizza , consumed in a supposedly reputable Jaipur restaurant which also claimed several other victims in our group over the next 24 hours. The Sage spent the next 24 hours on a frugal diet of water and rehydration tablets, weary but determined to mount a full recovery as his visit to the Taj Mahal drew ever closer.
TO BE CONTINUED...
First of all, apologies to those of you who were expecting a frequent flow of finger on the pulse live travelogues from the Sage during my five weeks in India. Despite my best intentions, intermittent half hours of internet browsing seemed to evaporate into a flurry of Facebook updates and football score checking, leaving no time for more detailed (some would say bloated and verbose) musings.
Now I'm back on home soil and with plenty of time on my hands as I dip my toe unenthusiastically back into the employment market, I will do my best to update you on my travels through a series of unapologetically self-indulgent ramblings.
Rewind nearly six weeks, and I stepped off an overnight flight to Delhi and ambled straight into my first experience of the Indians' impressive persistence in trying to sell you things you couldn't possibly want. After introductory pleasantries (where are you from, what is your job, are you married, what are the names of all your family and their life stories etc) I was asked by my taxi driver if I wanted to go and buy a carpet as he could get a very good price. Now let me think about this. I've just got off a 9 hour flight, I've been up for nearly 24 hours and I probably smell. So, with the greatest of respect, I think I'd rather just go to my hotel and get some sleep, thanks all the same.
"How about a scarf. I have very nice scarves, very good price." Errr... still no I'm afraid. "Perhaps a shirt for you sir, very good price." That's very kind, but I have everything I need thanks, please can you take me to my hotel now. "Yes sir, no problem sir. But first, do you want to buy a carpet?"
I was begrudgingly dropped off at my destination and the first person I met as I stepped out of the cab was a beggar with no legs. "Welcome to India sir," he said in flawless English. Delhi is certainly no place for those in search of a sanitised, perfectly manicured city break. The roads are a chaotic maelstrom of honking tuk tuks, fume-spluttering cars and kamikaze cyclists, with no traffic system whatsoever to control it. I swiftly learnt that the only way to get anywhere was to simply stride out confidently into the sea of vehicles and hope they decided to drive around me rather than through me. Surprisingly, this system works rather well for both pedestrian and motorist, and I found that in India in general the kind of hair raising incidents that would provoke severe road rage in the UK are simply shrugged off as part and parcel of trying to get from A to B.
Delhi is also widely considered to be the most polluted place on earth, and after a few hours there, my throat felt like I'd gone back to my 20 Marlboro Reds a day habit of my student years. The city's pavements also need to be negotiated with care, not just because of the yawning potholes and cracks big enough for an elephant to fall down, but also the streams of urine sprayed onto the street by the local population, who seem willing to unzip with a cock-flapping abandon that rivals the most weak-bladdered Saturday night drunk. And then there's the grinding poverty, not just individual beggars, some with horrific deformities, but whole families living together in makeshift shacks of cloth, wood and scrap iron, mothers cooking and children playing as the rest of the world walks past seemingly oblivious to their desperate yet strangely orderly lives.
Despite all of these things, I loved Delhi. There's no better place to immerse yourself in the whole spectrum of Indian society, which lest we forget has more dollar billionaires than the UK and one of the fastest growing economies in the world as well as an estimated 250 million people living below the poverty line. New Delhi's grand government buildings and wide, leafy boulevards would not look out of place in Paris, while the old city's labyrinthine bazaar, ancient mosques and temples are typical of India's rich cultural heritage. Historical sites of interest are everywhere, from the serenely peaceful Gandhi Smrti (where the great man was assassinated) to the awe-inspiring Qutb Minar mosque complex, which boasts the world's tallest minaret.
I could quite happily have spent another few days exploring India's capital, but the tour I'd joined was now underway and my next stop was Jaipur, the famous Pink City of Rajasthan. This really is the quintessential India many of us will have seen in the history books - impossibly grand and colourful palaces and forts, occupied by fierce native princes perched imperiously on their war elephants. India's a republic these days, but many of the old royal families still reside in their ancestral homes, making sure the memories of their illustrious past are kept alive.
While there was much to see and enjoy in Jaipur - I made a characteristically uncoordinated attempt at Rajastanhi folk dancing, and even tried on a sari - the city will for me forever be associated with my first (and thankfully last) bout of Delhi Belly.
I was sticking to my pre-trip pledge to go veggie, and had sailed through my first few days in India without the slightest hint of a rogue bowel movement. But as I sat down to my aloo gobi after a most enjoyable evening at a Bollywood cinema (watching, somewhat bizarrely, a Hindi film about a British Asian cricketer in London) I knew that something was wrong as I felt a surging sickness moving up from my stomach. I barely left the bathroom for the next 9 hours, which developed into a ghastly combination of an industrial mudchute on overdrive and an audition for the part of the possessed girl in The Exorcist. The next morning I was so drained I could barely pack my suitcase, and it took all my remaining energy to drag my Immodium-riddled body onto the bus where I lay pitifully hoping that my pants would survive the forthcoming three hour journey.
I later concluded that the culprit was not some devilishly spiced Indian concoction, but rather a humble vegetarian pizza , consumed in a supposedly reputable Jaipur restaurant which also claimed several other victims in our group over the next 24 hours. The Sage spent the next 24 hours on a frugal diet of water and rehydration tablets, weary but determined to mount a full recovery as his visit to the Taj Mahal drew ever closer.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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