My brother and my nephew came to visit last weekend. At this age, he is simply too cute and I couldn’t help taking a few pics. These were my favourites.

These are a few of the portrait shots from my journey in India.

The first two shots are taken in a slum in Delhi, home to a large artist’s colony. Theirs is a tough story, which I plan on sharing soon.

The third shot is taken in Mumbai at a small construction stall in a market area.

Moving to Pushkar, this old gentleman asked me to take a photo of him and his daughter as they filled up their kettle in the grounds of a temple.

The final shot was of one of the tailors we used in Mumbai.

I am in the process of finally sorting through all my images from my trip to India earlier this year. This is going to take quite some time, as there are a lot to sift through. Nonetheless, I have made a start with the very beginning of my journey in Mumbai.

Staying near Juhu beach, we joined the locals as they enjoyed the slight sea breeze that came in off the ocean and the very brave (or not so clever) paddled in the polluted water.

Having lived in Paarl in the Western Cape for almost a year (now based in Cape Town), it was finally time to head up Paarl Rock. Some call it the Ayer’s Rock of South Africa, which is perhaps a bit too grandiose of a title, but it is nonetheless an otherwordly experience to hike up to the top. These pictures are from my trip to the top on a cold, blustery winter’s day.

Judge me if you like. Call me ignorant, call me a typical negative privileged South African, but up until recently, the thought of commuting to and from work by train would have been unthinkable.

From as early as I can remember, I have always been told that the trains are terrible. Scary. Dangerous.

And this wasn’t unfounded – even if certain fears were probably over emphasised. For years the crime on trains, and getting to and from stations, has been a genuine cause for concern.

However, since 2006, Metrorail has made a couple of decisions that have made a difference. Like the introduction of the railway police and in Cape Town, the complete overhaul of the railway station. ( It has all the familiar trimmings and trappings of any international station). And according to an article with Prasa in the Financial Mail, they have seen reduced crime figures year on year.

But, just the other day – on Monday the 7th July in fact – a Zimbabwean man, Reason Wandi, told the media that he was thrown from a Cape Town train in what is thought to be a xenophobic attack.

This very bad news seems completely overshadowed by the hordes of triumphant train trumpeters – a category which I have also fallen into with abandon! Hundreds of foreign tourists and locals have been having a party on the World Cup train routes. They can’t stop singing the praises of the train.

I chose to commute to and from Cape Town rather than risk getting into a car accident while commuting for 2-3 hours a day on crowded highways populated by impatient hooligans driving up your bum.

The decision was further prompted by experiences of travelling in India. Seeing that billions of Indians commute by train and millions of South Africans commute by train – chances are most of them just want to get to work. The odds of meeting a mugger/attacker/thief are not really that high. Especially during rush hour . While the chances are certainly higher on deserted trains and at empty train stations,  the alternative isn’t too peachy either.

Muggings or car accidents? Which one will it be?

Nonetheless, I made the decision to “train” and was pleasantly surprised. I have been loving it – as much as you can love a commute. What us car owning folk tend to forget, is that traffic jams are a luxury. Having the funds available to afford your own personal transportation device is a privilege.

It was nice to feel like I was in touch with other South Africans. It seems that the people on the local train circuit become a little travelling community. Sitting together, chatting or reading. (Quite unlike the staid and isolated train journeys in Europe!)

And while the choice of reading material of my fellow travellers left much to be desired ( Medical Romances, Afrikaans large print romance, You, Drum and the autobiography of Steve Hofmeyer.) It’s been lekker. Especially being able to close my eyes for 40 winks along the way.

But, it would be naive, and possibly very dangerous, to ignore the ugly bits of train travelling in SA. There may be a sense of euphoria in the wake of the World Cup, but it is unfortunately not going to erase the hard issues we face.

That said. Take the train. It’s fun. Just keep your wits about you.

Today Pushkar Lake is considered one of India’s most sacred sites and is surrounded by hundreds of temples and bathing ghats. Each year in October and November, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims make their way to the waters in the belief that during this period the water will cleanse them of all impurities. This celebration coincides with the largest camel market in the world when more than 150,000 dealers and tourists come to the tiny city. (Thanks to Rough Guide for the facts).

Unfortunately, while I was there, the lake was virtually empty. Rajasthan has been severely affected by drought over the last few decades – with more than 32 million people suffering as a result. The state has to pipe in most of its water from other areas of India and holds only 1% of its own water. Speaking to a local restaurant owner, in the previous year there had been only 15 minutes of light rain – otherwise, not a drop has fallen. The Thar Desert is the most densely populated desert in the world, and the drought combined with a number of badly managed water projects such as canals and dams, has meant that many lakes have dried up, or are drying up. In addition, with the implementation of piped water to most towns, many of the age old frugal water usage traditions have been lost as people have come to rely on the government being able to provide water at all times.

Yet in spite of this, pilgrims still make their way to Pushkar and perform puja (prayers) at the many bathing ghats that surround the now dry lake. The scene is peaceful and powerful – bathers gather in the water while cows wander the steps and holy men provide flower petals and blessings to visitors.

Beware though – the Brahmin (priests) can be quite forceful in getting you to take part in Puja ( a repetition of prayers at the water’s edge including the throwing of petals, rice and the tying of a red cord around your wrist, followed by a donation). On my first visit to the ghat, a very proactive Brahmin took me through the prayers and blessing only to virtually demand that I donate a huge sum of money. For me, it made the experience quite unpleasant – while I understand that they have to raise money, it felt insincere and I couldn’t help feeling like I’d been suckered. Wherever you are in India, generally if any mystical looking person tries to tie a blessed cord around your wrist and dot your forehead with red or yellow, know that you are going to be expected to cough up funds.

Thankfully, once you’ve done your bit, you’re unlikely to be hassled by other Brahmins later on as they’ll be able to see your “Pushkar Passport” (your red thread).
Nonetheless, after that whole palaver, walking around the ghats, even without the holy lake glimmering in the afternoon sun, was inspiring and very relaxing in the warm dry air.
The 500 temples that surround the lake are connected to the water by 52 ghats – said to represent each of Rajasthan’s maharajis. These rich old men would build their own guesthouses and hire priests to do their religious business on their behalf.

Interesting facts include the fact that Mahatma Gandhi and Jawaharlal Nehru’s ashes were sprinkled into the lake from the main ghat. In addition, Brahma ghat is supposed to have been Brahma’s very own worship spot.

Temple Hopping
With over 500 different temples in Pushkar, if it’s your thing, you could spend days visiting all of them. I quite enjoyed walking up a nearby hill to the Gayitri temple which was built for Brahma’s wife. The story goes that Brahma was going to marry Savitri, but she was late for the ceremony and Brahma had to quickly find someone else to marry at the gathering of the deities, yagya. The only eligible woman was Gaytri, from the untouchable Gujar caste. In order to purify her, they passed her through the mouth of a cow (gaya means cow, tri means through).

Savitri, understandably, was rather upset with this change of events and cursed Brahma, saying he can only be worshipped at Pushkar. She also said that the Gujar caste could only be liberated after death if their ashes were scattered into the lake. This tradition still persists and Pushkar is the site of the only Brahma temple in India. ( I may be wrong on the last fact!)

In any case, Savitri flew off in a huff to the temple that now stands on the high hill across the way from Gaytri’s temple, while the main Brahma temple sits near the water’s edge. The walk up to Gaytri Temple take about 20 minutes, while that up to Savitri apparently takes around an hour and a half.

Holey Hippies
Pushkar, being a holy city, is entirely vegetarian. No eggs, meat or alcohol are allowed in Pushkar and drugs are frowned upon. However, that doesn’t stop the pleasure seekers and tourists from enjoying whatever their poison may be.

As a vegetarian, this meant that every restaurant we went to had many delicious options  and we found ourselves visiting an assortment of eateries and rooftop restaurants.
The destination is popular with tourists and you could see quite a number of young travellers looking as though they had consumed far too many bhang lassis (like a marijuana milkshake). Beautiful, thin women with dirty dreadlocks and bloodshot eyes sat in corner cafes with their bearded and dusty partners. I found it difficult to imagine coming to India simply to smoke as much dope as possible and float around in a stoned haze.

From speaking to a number of locals, it seems that Israelis in particular have a very bad reputation and are not well liked. They tend to travel in large groups, living cheaply and spacing out on drugs. It is one of the popular countries for Israelis who have just finished their national service in Israel and India is their country of choice for getting lost. I found it quite amusing that many of them had fake dreadlock extensions added to their hair. In any case, I am not quite sure what it is that they do that so irritates the Indians, as there are many other travellers who are also intent on losing themselves through hallucinatory experiences, but they haven’t done much to inspire respect.

In any case, back to the eating.

We had a few hits and one terrible miss. The Satyan served a vegetarian Thali ( kind of like a mezze platter with a few different dishes) that tasted burnt, old and reheated. My mother’s paneer (cottage cheese) dish was inedible and tasted awful. While this was the only bad experience, guide books do say that this is common in Pushkar with the myriad rooftop restaurants in the town.

On our last day however, we discovered Dreamland Roof Top restaurant run by Ashok Mittal. The woman in charge made the most delectable dishes, and after speaking to her for a while, she told us that she would never hire a chef because, “ I know if I make good food, people will come back.” Yum – vegetarian’s paradise made even better by the beautiful views.

And, while alcohol is officially outlawed, if you really feel like a drink, most restaurants can get you a beer.

As we were in Pushkar during off season, accommodation was cheap and the main bazaar area, which has silver jewellery, clothes, fabric and curio shops as well as food stalls, was not overcrowded. There were amazing clothes and stunning silver jewellery. If I had a larger suitcase, I would have gone shopping crazy. We also had some comfortable cotton slacks made up by one of the local tailors for next to nothing.

Tailor Made
On that note, the tailor culture in all the places I visited was something I really enjoyed. In Pushkar, every second shop has a small old foot powered Singer sewing machine and every item in the shop can be made up for you, “No problem” in a couple of hours. Later, in Manali in the mountains where warm fleecy jackets are very popular, you can also choose your fabric and style to be made to fit. The speed at which items are completed is remarkable, especially considering that most of the sewing machines are foot powered.

After 20 hours on the train, we finally arrived at Ajmer station.

To get to Pushkar, you have to take either a taxi or a local bus. On leaving the station, we were immediately hounded by taxi drivers trying to get us to drive direct with them and rickshaw drivers asking for exorbitant amounts of money to take us to the bus station 2 km away.

It was quite frenetic, and I felt more eyes staring at us than I had in Mumbai. Our first port of call was to buy our ongoing train ticket to Delhi on the much fancier Shatabdi Express. One nice thing about travelling by train in India is that at all reservation offices there is a special line for foreigners, senior citizens, disabled persons etc. This means that you can skip most of the long queues and is definitely one perk to being foreign. Also, in order to make travel easier for foreigners, the train companies reserve a certain percentage of tickets for tourists, meaning that you can generally book your ticket on the day or the day before for even the most popular train routes.

The tickets bought (about Rs 600 for one adult, Rs 300 with senior citizen discount of 50%), we headed outside into the thick of the taxi drivers.

Disorientated by the yelling from all directions, it’s easy to be rushed into choosing a taxi to escape the madness as soon as possible. But its far cheaper and takes just as much time to take a rickshaw to the bus stand and catch the local bus to Pushkar ( The taxi was overpriced, Rs  50 for 2km, but the bus is only Rs10 per person and leaves every 10 minutes). Once on the bus, it’s a leisurely ride through Ajmer, where you drive past a beautiful lake and crawl up over a winding mountain road to the town of Pushkar itself.

After spending a few days in Mumbai sorting out travel arrangements and what we wanted to do, we decided to venture to Pushkar in Rajasthan before heading to Delhi and further north to the mountains.

Visiting Rajasthan during April is not usually recommended as it’s hot and dusty. For the most part, tourists will only visit during the cooler months. Rajasthan is well known for its forts and palaces, and while I didn’t get a chance to visit many of the sites, places such as Jaisalmer and Jaipur look like they came straight of storybooks.

But, as we wanted to get up to the hill country in the northern state of Himanchal Pradesh as quickly as possible, we only stopped in Pushkar for a few nights.

Leaving from Mumbai, we took the overnight train on sleeper class rather than the more popular tourist choice of air-conditioned second or first class carriages. This was quite the experience. Arriving at the station, we found the train and our seats. I admit that if I’d been on my own, I may have freaked out. The station was dirty and young beggar children continually asked for food and money. We were at the station two hours before the train was scheduled to leave and the sun was just beginning to set. The compartments were dark and dingy. The fans, which at this stage were not on, were encrusted with dirt and I couldn’t imagine spending 24 hours holed up in this grimy train.

After some time sweating on the plastic benches, the lights turned on, the fans began to spin and the train filled up with passengers. My mom and I were sharing with a young family with two kids and a man travelling alone. Nobody spoke English, but the atmosphere was quite festive. People milled around and chatted, food was hauled out of suitcases as passengers settled down for supper, and chai wallahs walked up and down selling tea and food. As we headed further out of Mumbai, cooler air wafted in through the open windows as we rushed past smaller and smaller stations and towns.

Being the only white faces on the train meant that we attracted quite a few stares, but unlike later experiences in Delhi (in which young boys threw a lime at the back of my head) nobody made any untoward comments or made me feel uncomfortable – in fact it was quite the opposite and my mother and I were made to feel safe and welcome.

At around 11 pm, the lights went off and everyone retired to sleep on the three tier benches. I covered myself with a shawl and was rocked to a fitful slumber by the motion of the train. While I didn’t quite fit in a solid night’s sleep, I think with enough practice, it could be quite easy to sleep soundly and wake up refreshed in the morning light.

It was interesting to see how the seasoned sleeper class passengers travelled – with blow up pillows, blankets and bars of soap and tiny towels for morning ablutions. During the night an additional traveller had joined our coupe. Pasha, as we later learnt, was a fire extinguisher salesman from Mumbai. He, like many Indians, spoke very good English and he and his friend, Shabbar, were goodcompany for the rest of the journey.

Pasha was incredibly hospitable, treating us to chai and cooldrinks throughout the trip and giving us advice on what we should and shouldn’t do when we headed further afield. It quickly became clear that he had nothing good to say about anyone hailing from Delhi. Pasha claimed they were all criminals. He cautioned us not to accept food from others and not to trust anyone because they’ll just want to cheat us. While this is quite obviously a very broad statement, the short time that I did spend in Delhi didn’t manage to completely counter Pasha’s negative descriptions.

During the day, small groups of musicians would walk up and down the aisle playing drums, tambourines and singing traditional Indian songs. Lying on my bunk melting in the midday heat, I floated off to sleep listening to the wavering, haunting voices of the young musicians.

Taking sleeper class, unlike the more expensive air-conditioned carriages, gives you a taste of how average people in India get from place to place. And because of the open windows, you get a real feel for the landscape and terrain. For some, sleeper class could be a little too overwhelming due to the heat and the human closeness. It was hot, it was not particularly clean and I was rather tired by the end of it. But it was cheap, interesting and fun and is definitely recommended, even if you only take sleeper class once. That said, I imagine that if I was travelling alone I may have found it more daunting.

Practicalities:

• The price of sleeper class from Mumbai to Ajmer was about Rs 350 (R60) per person and is a very cheap way to travel.
• There are “western style” and “eastern style” loos, but the western ones are generally filthy.
• You can buy food along the way, but we brought our own snacks with us.
• Luggage is stored under your seats. We bought a lock and chain and attached the bags to the seats just to be safe.
• It’s a good idea to have a sarong or large, thin shawl handy to cover yourself while you sleep.

On our first evening – a Saturday – we head to the beachfront. The sun is sinking behind a cloud of dust and pollution so thick,  that the entire sky appears orange. The beach is packed with locals enjoying the slight breeze off the ocean. Couples sit together on the sand. Families pose for photographs in the small shore waves and hundreds of hawkers stroll the shoreline selling ice cream, kites and balloons.

Yet, even with the volume of people out on the beach and the endless high rise buildings and dirty, narrow roads that lead onto the beach, the atmosphere is fantastic. Everyone seems in good spirits, laughing and chatting. Playing cricket in the sand and taking advantage of a balmy evening as the sun sets.

But, despite the fact that there were a couple of children playing in the surf, I don’t think that I would venture even a toe into the ocean as it is likely filled with rubbish and human filth. It seems quite amazing that in such a wealthy city, (they produce 40% of India’s GDP) everyone still throws their rubbish onto the streets and the rivers run black with filthy, reeking water.

Venturing into Mumbai by train

Staying only about an hour’s train journey from the centre of Mumbai, it seemed like a good idea to jump into the thick of things and take the local train from Andheri station to the popular tourist area of Coloba.

A half hour rickshaw journey takes us through the dusty and busy roads and we find ourselves at the station. Stalls selling fruit, books, clothes and food line the road while rickshaws jostle for customers.

The station looks like it hasn’t changed much in many years. I have never been to a local train station before, and while there are some signs in English, I have no real idea where to go and how to proceed.

But, I join the long, quick moving queue and wait. Suddenly the counter window in front of our queue shuts, and everyone in the queue quickly takes two steps to the right and merges with the next queue. It happened so fast, and somehow I managed to get myself a spot.

Surprisingly quickly, we are at the counter and buy two tickets to Churchgate station. The cost? Rs 16 ( about R1.50 each) for a 30 minute train ride. Public transport in India is very cheap compared to prices elsewhere and is also very efficient. While the Western Railways line in Mumbai didn’t seem particularly modern, the trains run efficiently, on time and make getting around the city very easy.

One of the great things that I notice about the public transport, is that there are concessions made for all sorts of different sectors of society. On the local train, there are “ladies only” coaches ( which was great for us two ladies travelling without a male chaperone!), “senior citizen” only coaches and then, very interestingly, there were also coaches reserved for disabled persons and cancer patients. There is something so special about the layers of respect for different groups of society who they know have a hard time.

On a similar note, throughout India, the people help disabled people by giving alms to the many disfigured and struggling people who ask for money on the roads and at stations. I was terribly embarrassed when, while sitting in a rickshaw waiting for the lights to change, an old disabled man asked for money, and our driver passed us Rs2 to place in his cup! While it is quite disconcerting to be constantly asked for money, mostly by very poor children, I felt so small minded by not giving over a few coins to that old man.

So, we had our tickets and headed to the platform and so began the terrible train trip number one. Being the first time that I had ever negotiated the local train network, I was understandably a bit anxious. Thankfully it was a Sunday and there were not too many people on the station.

But, we were not sure where to sit! We first got aboard the first class coach by mistake, to be told we were on the wrong coach by one of the well dressed ladies sitting there. At this point, I didn’t know that there were ladies only coaches and so we tried to get on the “man’s coach”. Again we were told to head further down the platform and eventually we get to the much busier ladies only coach for the average Indian. I hop on and as I do so… the train begins to move.

This is a scene with all the markings of “holiday gone wrong” moment. My mom was just a step behind me, but the train had already begun to move and next minute, she is hanging on the train railing while myself and another women haul her into the compartment. Someone must have seen something, because the train comes to a stop and a young hawker comes running towards us with the ticket that was dropped in the rush.

That could have ended very, very badly. Somewhat shaken up, we sit done and a woman on the train kindly tells us, “Don’t worry, you never have to run for a train. There will always be another one. Rather wait for the next one than try to get onto the train.” We didn’t know just how frequently the trains departed, but learnt a good lesson. If you miss a local train, just wait for the next one.

In any case, the disaster was avoided and once we were settled we could enjoy the ride. The train we were on was obviously a nice new one. Later train trips in Mumbai were on old, dark and dirty trains where we were crammed into the coaches, and had to watch the stations anxiously to be sure that we got off at the right place. But, for now, we both had somewhere to sit and the stations were announced in Hindi as well as English over the onboard announcement system.

We were on our way to Churchgate – the nearest station to the popular tourist area of Coloba.

Before I arrived in Mumbai I had been given lecture upon lecture about the danger of scammers and dodgy dealers who will accost me as soon as I leave the airport. But, not only are there giant signs all over the airport telling you that you must not go with any taxi other than the government sanctioned prepaid taxis, but there were no hordes. No seething masses standing around outside the airport. If anything, the airport felt far less frenetic than JHB international.

But, at the suggestion of others, I had arranged a car to collect us and take us to the hotel we were staying in just outside Mumbai central near Juhu beach. Ironically, the taxi that fetched us seemed far less professional than the taxis waiting at the airport and ended up costing a fortune in Indian standards.

That said, it is a well known fact that taxi and rickshaw drivers can spot first time visitors to India immediately with their keen eyes. Obviously this is made particularly easy if you have white skin, but even Indian visitors to the city are taken advantage of by the quick thinking drivers looking for a few extra rupees.

As a foreigner, you’re pretty much going to have to get used to paying at least double the metered price. And really, who can blame them? When a taxi would cost a local Rs 15 and you pay Rs 50 – what difference does that really make to you? R3 or R10 split two ways? It seems petty to try and haggle at every turn and sometimes it’s best to let it go. If you think you can afford the price, even if you are getting ripped off by the locals, then why not? After all you are in a hugely overcrowded country with millions of people living on next to nothing each month.

That said, always agree to a fare before getting into any taxi otherwise you might be royally ripped off, which doesn’t feel very pleasant.

Iskcon, Juhu Beach: On the roads of Mumbai
In any case, our polite driver is waiting patiently with a handwritten sign. We spot each other and he quickly walks off towards the dark recesses of the car park and we are hardly able to keep up with him. We feel immediately suspect, especially as this pathway takes us over a drain from which emanates the infamous Mumbai stench – thick, sweet sewage.

And so we stop and wait. Thinking that maybe we should go back and get a prepaid taxi. Suddenly he comes running, gesturing us onwards and we find his air-conditioned car waiting. We get in and I prepare for my first taste of the mayhem of Indian roads.

Again, this is something often talked about by visitors to India. But nothing can quite prepare you for the pace and the perfectly timed squeezes – mere centimetres – as auto rickshaws, taxis, cars, trucks and people weave their way through the streets. It’s an organised chaos. Each individual absolutely confident of the point that their vehicle ends and another begins, and they stop, start, swerve, and scream along the potholed roadways. Hooting constantly. It’s madness. And everyone is Indian. Sitting in the relative luxury of our air-conditioned ferry, rickshaw drivers and passengers stare openly at our pale flesh, so strange amid the beautiful and smooth brown skin of the women and men of Mumbai.

The hotel: Isckon Hare Krishna Temple

The Iskcon Hare Krishna temple, only 5 minutes walk from the beach, was a welcome relief from the hot streets. While the prices are extraordinarily high compared to other Indian hotels, we were glad of the clean, comfortable room and functioning aircon.

As an active temple, there are constantly religious ceremonies taking place in a beautiful and peaceful marble courtyard. “Hare Hare Krishna. Krishna Hare” mingles with the smells of incense, the clanging of bells, the steady beat of drums and the voices of Hare Krishna followers as they pray, dance, sing and clap hands. The vibrant colours of the traditional saris, mix with chains of marigolds and daisies and the orange and white robes of the Hare Krishna gurus.

The old marble courtyard, houses two towering trees, the base of their trunks painted white, creating a peaceful and tranquil space for worship. (While I would have loved to take photos of the temple and the beautiful scenes, unfortunately, most temples in India don’t let you take photographs and I wouldn’t have wanted to insult anyone by going against that request.)