Sipadan

Recently voted as the world’s number 1 dive site, Sipadan, Borneo, would hopefully raise the bar even further on some excellent diving in Thailand and the Philippines. However, diving the shockingly rubbish-strewn waters of nearby Mabul island as a warm-up for the main event left me thinking: Would it be worth the hype?

The sea was as flat as a pancake as the speedboat bombed it over to Sipadan. An epic storm the previous night had taken the punch out of the water, which was great for the boat journey, but what about the current? Sipadan is renowned for sharks and turtles  but these mainly come out to play when the ocean gets going. 

Fingers crossed.

After a quick buddy check, our super-chilled Dive Master, Susannah, gave us the nod and one backwards roll later, we were off the boat and ready to descend. Our group of 6 quickly maneuvered to the edge of the huge reef wall and let the gentle current carry us along as we marveled at the variety of coral canvasing the rocky surface. This was my first ever ‘drift’ dive and it was a great feeling to casually float past all the marine life, using minimal effort. Schools of fish began floating past us, including herds of blue triggerfish and my favourite ‘standard’ exotic fish, the moorish idol, appeared in huge numbers of dazzling colour. The excitement level got cranked up a notch shortly after as the first shark effortlessly swam past us. White-tip and grey reef sharks appeared out of the blue with surprisingly regularity and were completely non-plussed by our existence in water. If I stopped moving all together and just let the current take me, the sharks would come within a couple of metres for a nice close-up shot. I was attempting to use an underwater camera for the first time, which was more difficult than I thought, but at least the sharks were happy to pose and make my task slightly easier. As we finished the dive, there was even time for a big green turtle, gracefully swimming past us, to put some extra gloss on an amazing dive.

The next dive was at the Hanging Garden site. I handed the camera over to another guy in the group, meaning I could fully enjoy the relaxing sensation of gliding through the underwater world without the hassle of taking pictures. I can never decide which aspect of diving I enjoy more; the feeling of weightlessness and being part of a world you don’t naturally belong, or the incredible stuff you get to see. This dive was definitely about the former, or maybe that was because of the lack of sharks and turtles this time round! Still a nice dive but maybe the lack of strong current was keeping most of the bigger creatures away.

There was one dive left, Barracuda Point, the particular site which drew the recent praise for world’s number 1 dive spot. This is due to the immense barracuda and jackfish ‘tornados’ which are created by huge numbers  of fish moving in unison. But would they appear today? This time, everyone had their fingers crossed. However, any anxiety about not seeing this awesome sight was quickly banished as we descended right next to a huge cluster of jackfish numbering in their thousands! They are about a foot long each and the proximity to each other creates a seemingly impenetrable wall of fish. We watched from a distance, just in case any close contact disrupted this staggering sight vision. We continued to move across the shallow reef and soon after the second dive-master, sharp-eyed, “Small” John Wong, spotted what appeared to be a dark cloud in the distance. We all kicked our way enthusiastically for a closer inspection and the dark ball of matter revealed itself to be a giant school of the famous barracuda. As we watched these creatures huddle together, they almost read our minds and dutifully, began to form the synchronsied ‘tornado’ we had all been hoping for! It was an awesome natural spectacle and if I had had the power to speak underwater, I would have been rendered speechless anyway! Still keeping my distance, I swam underneath the tornado, turning over so I was lying on my back facing up at the mass of fish. As I passed underneath it, the Sun was actually blocked out and sea went dark for few seconds, such was the density of the fish. Amazing. 

Eventually, we left the barracuda and continued along the reef wall and once again the sharks came out to play. They seemed even less bothered by us this time and I was able to swim almost side by side with one of this impressive animals for a few seconds. We then passed a giant moray eel, a huge boxfish with sticky-out, cartoon eyes, as well as other big schools of smaller, but more beautifully vibrant fish. This was already the best dive of my life, but there was still time for a big finale. Others in the group began surfacing after the safety stop but I still had plenty of air left and I wasn’t about to leave Sipadan prematurely. I swam a little away from the group, scrutunising the coral and peering into all the nooks and crannies, searching for ‘macro’ creatures. However, there was something far more engaging just up ahead, another huge tornado of jackfish! Although once again impressive from a distance, this time I had the jackfish all to myself. I wasn’t about to let this final opportunity go to waste, so I swam hard directly at the cloud. At first the school wobbled and buckled slightly, before forming a portal which I duly swam through. Incredibly, as I turned around, the portal closed around me, I was fully encapsulated in the jackfish cyclone! It was an incredible feeling, being alone in my own personal whirlwind of jackfish. A huge highlight of my travels and a memory I won’t be forgetting in a hurry. Sipadan was definitely worth the hype.

Iwahig prison

Ever since reading Marching Powder, a tale of one British guy’s experience behind bars in a Bolivian jail – which ultimately resulted in profitable prison ‘tours’ – the darker side of my curiosity had been desperately wanting to visit somewhere similar. So, you can imagine my delight, upon reading about Iwahig Prison and Penal Farm, an ‘open’ penitentiary on the island of Palawan. It was with a healthy mix of excitement and trepidation that Sarah, a nice Brazilian girl called Daniella and myself set off by motorised tricycle towards our destination.

We reached the (wide open)  prison gate and headed past the two sleepy guards who barely registered our existence, let alone check our ID, note down our names, or even search our bags! This is a prison?! Insane. We bounced along a rocky track, flanked by beautiful forested mountains and wide open fields. Surely an incongruous setting for a prison, not to mention rubbing their faces in it! It must make imprisonment even tougher when the ‘free’ world looks so wonderful. After a few minutes, a large building with “Minimum security” emblazoned on the roof came into view. However, it seems we were headed for bigger things as our driver hurtled past and continued down the track. After two minutes and we came to a manicured grassy square, around which were a wooden church and other large wooden buildings. It appeared we’d arrived in the American deep south in the 1940s! This was not what we were expecting.

A prisoner greeted us as we pulled up next to the biggest building. This in itself was an unusual event. This guy was milling around in the sunshine, soaking up the afternoon rays. Where was his cell? Or at the least, his guard? In fact his prisoner status was only denoted by his orange “minimum security” t-shirt. Otherwise he appeared to be a local tourist. We entered the building and were greeted by other smiley jailbirds and rows upon rows of trinkets, carvings, paintings and all manner of souvenirs. As we wondered what the hell was going on in this place, the prisoners buzzed around us, churning out sales patter. This was all very bizarre, surely we had come to enage with the prisoners , not buy tat to take up valuable backpack space? How was such a blatant capitalist venture allowed to flourish in prison? Surely this is all an unorthodox plan by the Philippines government to help boost the national coiffeurs?  Although a bit confused, we played along for the time being, hoping prisoner interaction would occur after the attempted money-making.

As we walked towards the end of the hall, pop music, 90s band Steps of all people, suddenly blasted out of speakers. Simultaneously, multiple prisoners appeared from nowhere, jumped into position and launched into a choreographed dance routine! All we could do was gawp in stunned surprise as these flamboyant young men gyrated to the music. I noticed next to the stage a poster asking for donations for the “Thriller” dancers of Iwahig prison. Now it all made sense, this was the prison which achieved worldwide “fame” when hundreds of inmates performed a structured dance to MJ’s hit, the video going viral on the Internet. And now the entrepreneurial authorities were cashing in on this fame!

A little bewildered by all this, we sat down with a bottle of water to try and make some sense of this. No-one still seemed like they wanted to chat with us, except an older prisoner who was keen to sell us cigarettes for the prisoners. Considering we had refused to buy any souvenirs, we hoped buying some smokes would help grease their vocal chords. And surprise, surprise, it worked! Albert, a 26 year old prisoner (although he looked 10 years older, which is rare for a Filipino) sat with us and after some perfunctory chit-chat began to tell us his life story. He had been in prison since he was 16 and still had 4 years left. Sarah and I looked at each other. Should we ask why? Of course we had to. Albert candidly informed us that he had killed someone to protect his German employer. So just like that I was having my first conversation with a known murderer. I had previously thought that sharing a conversation with someone who had killed, would be at the very least, awkward. However, Albert was so matter-of-fact about the event, he had no shame or pride about it, it just came down to one thing – loyalty. Even though Albert had lost 10 years of his life to prison, you could tell this extreme form of devotion was paramount to him and I had a strong feeling he would do the same again, no question. Other than the murdering part he was nice guy! He had learnt good English through interaction with tourists (which he also used to hone his flirting technique with Daniella) and we were able to quiz him about this bizarre prison system in place. Albert explained that all prisoners start jail life as maximum security, but only over time and with good behaviour can prisoners earn medium and the minimum status and the privileges this brings. Also, the money made from sales in the prison, goes towards financing prisoners when they fly the nest, hopefully minimising their chances of re-offending. I can definitely see the logic in this, maybe the Philippines government does know what it’s doing.

After an hour or so of chewing the fat with Albert, we spoke to some other prisoners. The older guy was in for life (which he didn’t seem too down about, I suppose he’s had time to accept it) for drug trafficking – Asia seems to take a harder line on potential deaths than real ones. We spoke to other guys about their families and it seems many of them have fathered children whilst in prison. Now either their wives aren’t telling them something, or conjugal rights are very much alive and well in the Philippines prison system. Going by what I’ve seen and heard here, I favour the latter explanation. One prisoner – who happened to be the best dancer – openly told us in front of all his peers that he was gay. I’m pretty sure this wouldn’t have been received well (excuse the pun) in a U.K. prison, but the other prisoners joked about it, Albert even called him his “secret wife.” It’s great to see the Filipino open-mindedness is alive and well even in such an intense space as prison.

Although we were originally disappointed not to have interacted with prisoners in their cells or the yard, it was certainly an enlightening afternoon, one of those experiences you just couldn’t have in the Western world. After waving goodbye to our new jailbird buddies, they played us out with a super-camped up dance to Backstreet Boys. It seems the infectious Filipino love for life has even penetrated incarcerated world of prison.

Whale sharking in Donsol

It's high time I wrote a blog from the Philippines, which is quickly shaping up to be our favourite country so far. Okay, it’s pretty Westernised in comparison to other South East Asian countries, which was not what I was after when we set off traveling, but Filipinos are just so god-damn lovely and the scenery so good, it’s hard to resist. I really should blog on the amazing trekking around ancient rice terraces that went down in the first 2 weeks of being here, but instead here’s a quickie about our whale shark experience on Monday, one of the primary reasons I wanted to come to this archipelago of 7000 islands in the first place.

The name whale shark, or butanding in the local lingo, is perfectly simple, but entirely appropriate. It’s like a whale; it’s big and slow but really it’s a shark, it breathes through gills and has the trademark fin on top of its body. Fortunately, it shares more similarities in character to a whale; it’s gentle and eats plankton, meaning we can jump in the water with it, without fearing for our trailing limbs. And this is exactly what happens in Donsol, South Luzon, which is pretty much the premier whale shark watching spot in the world, these giants can’t get enough of the ample plankton around the bay, especially at this time of the year. According to the ever-reliable Lonely Planet, “during the peak months of March-May, it’s not a question of seeing a whale shark, but how many you will see.” However, since we’ve been in the Philippines, we’ve heard many stories of people missing out, so it was with a healthy amount of anxiety we set out that morning. After teaming up with 4 other tourists and briefly meeting the boat crew, we had a few seconds to go over the rules and regulations of whale shark interaction.

Sorry, it’s the best picture i could find online, I would just like to draw your attention to 2 rules in particular; only 1 boat per whale shark and maximum of 6 swimmers per whale shark. However, when we headed out onto the water we were greeted by a sight more like this:

Okay, obviously that’s an exaggeration, but when our boat finally pulled up to the action, there were literally about 30 tourists, mainly Korean and Filipino, thrashing and flapping around in the water with the lifejackets on. Hmm. . . . . probably not ideal for the whale shark, but we weren’t about to be the only ones missing out, so before our captain even had time to say “ready?”, our snorkels were in and we swam out to join the meleé. We managed to cut a way through the splashing crowd and have a look under the water. Lo and behold there was the world’s biggest fish not more than 3 metres below us! Sarah and i managed to swim in time with it, directly overhead for a good minute or so, before a new group of Koreans smashed into our path. Steady, we’re not on the Seoul underground now guys. Soon after they gate-crashed the party, the whale shark dove to deeper depths and was out of sight. I had mixed feelings of elation at sharing the water with such a big beast, which were dampened slightly by the massive flouting of the regulations and the subsequent over-crowding. However, I couldn’t be too down-heartened; if the rules weren’t flouted we’d never have been in the water in the first place and after all, WE SAW A WHALE SHARK! After a few confused minutes trying to work out which of the tens of boats was ours (we really should have made a mental note of the boat name!) we clambered back on deck and then the chase was on again. Another one had been spotted! This time, our boat crew was a bit cuter, maneuvering the boat almost into the path of the whale shark, this meant when we jumped in we got an awesome, full head-shot as it swam towards us. Amazing. We then hastily turned around and gave chase, but a predicted clash of groups resulted in confusion as to which way the gentle giant had headed. Bugger this, it’s every man for himself now, I put my arm in front of my head, Superman style – more to protect myself from a fin to the face than in an heroic attempt to save the whale shark. We managed to enjoy another minute or so swimming above it before it too had enough of all these flapping fish nearby and dove deeper.

It was awesome to realise a mini-dream to swim alongside these awesome creatures but it wasn’t enough! (I know, never happy. . . . !) Definitely going to check out where it is even remotely possible to dive with them and hopefully get some more quality time with the wonderful butanding.

Sikkim

We finished up our “Indian taster tour” with stint around the foothills of the Himalayas, a location so contrasting to our last stop, Varanasi, that it may as well have been on a different planet. Noise, chaos, hassle, heat and mind-boggling stimuli, gave way to peace and quiet and friendly, unobtrusive people, cold weather and spectacular mountain scenery. We spent a few days around the gorgeous hill station of Darjeeling, overnight trekking to 3000m Nepali village and taking in views of Kanchenjunga (world’s 3^rd highest mountain), before going even deeper into the region, to the far North-East state of Sikkim.

Our first stop was Gangtok, the surprisingly modern (especially compared to the rest of India) capital town, where we aimed to meet up with others to jeep share up to the picturesque mountain landscape of the Yumthang valley, near the Tibetan border. However, we only had an hour to find willing travellers and get our permits approved so it was looking unlikely. Just when we thought it was only the two of us, we bumped into Petra, a Dutch girl we met in Darjeeeling, who managed to steamroll the travel agent into pushing for her permit, way, way after the deadline. Awesome. The next morning, we then hooked up with our shy yet amiable guide/driver Bema and off we set on the mere 120km journey. The bumpy, mostly unpaved road was extremely windy, snaking around mountains and over picturesque wooden bridges adorned with colourful Tibetan prayer flags. These flags are ubiquitous over this border region, much to our delight, as they add a human touch and splash of colour to an already incredible backdrop. It was also great to have another companion, Petra is just on a short trip from Holland and her fresh enthusiasm was infectious, just what a couple of jaded travelers like us needed! The longer the journey continued, the more mouth-watering the scenery became, huge mountains loomed over us from all angles and Bema was happy to oblige with numerous photo stops. Five hours into the drive we had still only covered 100km, but no-one was complaining. The next part of scenery was continuously more impressive than the previous, the final section saw us clinging to the side of the mountain with pretty towns captured in the valley beneath us. The night was drawing in as we reached our destination for the evening, Naremchu Nest, in the mountain town of Lachung.

Dinner wouldn’t be ready for some time, so we entertained ourselves in the charming shop cum bar cum restaurant cum meeting place, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in rural North Wales. Petra was a good laugh and we drank to our fortuitousness in stumbling upon each other again for the trip. (well that and the fact it was the only way to keep warm). Whilst drinking we met, Lama and Sonam, 2 guys who were supposedly cooking up our supper. Lama was young and wide-eyed, whereas Sonam is about my age with a contagious smile and easy-going manner. We joined them in the kitchen, where 3 other friendly, yet shy young guys, were also cooking up our feast. Not caring for a second about possible cultural sensitivities, Petra got right amongst the boys, making little Lama sit on her lap for photos and just generally being boisterous. None of the boys had a clue how to handle her, the local lassies might be a little more retiring, but they thought Petra was hilarious and really enjoyed sharing a bottle of Old Monk rum with us and a little party began in their primitive kitchen amongst the curry-cooking. All this tomfoolery inevitably delayed our dinner, which was eventually served up at 10pm, but everyone was pretty merry by this point and couldn’t care less. A great night meeting the boys from Lachung.

The next morning, after a breakfast of cornflakes and hot milk (?!)– Sonam had wanted to boil them up for us! – we clambered into the jeep with Bema towards the Yumthang Valley. The drive-up yielded our first yak sightings, as the jeep veered between traditional tin housing on the ever-winding road. About 10km past Lachung, we spotted several jeeps parked up on the road ahead. Goodie, we thought, must be an excellent viewpoint to warrant so much activity. However, our hopes were dashed as we heard the fearful words, “avalanche” whispered through Bema’s open window as we approached the other jeeps. Tragically, our path to Yunthang had been cut-off by a serious avalanche and now instead of a road to take us thorough we greeted by tens of Indian tourists sliding around on the unwanted blockage. Fortunately, the incredible scenery took the edge off the crushing impact of the avalanche and we happily snapped away at the awesome mountains. Almost sensing our residing disappointment, our intrepid guide, hoisted us over the avalanche and we began to progress towards the Yumthang Valley on foot. Five minutes of walking and we’d left the crowd far behind, meaning we had all this staggering scenery to ourselves. Our group was in high spirits as we crossed the threshold into the valley, launching ourselves off rocks into foot deep snow, chucking snow at each other and making angels. All this fun in the unspoilt powder, with mountains flanking us on both sides was a truly memorable experience. After 2km of walking, our route was sadly blocked again, this time by an even deeper avalanche, but we were eternally grateful to Bema for taking us this far.

Back at Naremchu Nest, we had some tasty yak for lunch and then visited other places of interest around Lachung. Most interesting of all, was the Tibetan monastery which featured imposing paintings throughout, but most scarily of all a “Hell door”, behind which were even more terrifying pictures of beasts with their eyeballs hanging out. Bizarre. Take a look. Despite lunch, we all had a craving for the Nepali favourite, momos (similar to Korean dumplings). Fortunately we found a lovely sweet lady who was happy to indulge us and her and Bema (was there no end to this man’s hospitality?!) cooked up an absolute mountain of them. Her inviting home was a cosy place to rest and inquisitive locals kept appearing to have a look at Mama’s unusual guests! Sikkim has the friendliest people we’ve met in India, shy, yet warm and open. After the feast, we waddled out, endeavouring to find a nice tea shop. Within minutes we had found another wooden home with another exceptionally accommodating host. The young female proprietor was so happy to see us and also had the cutest kid possible, to which Sarah became literally attached for the next 2 hours! After a steaming cup of tea, we enjoyed a tonga of chaang, which is hot, local beer made from millets in front of the roaring fire and once again found ourselves the centre of attention as more jolly locals appeared in the log cabin. It felt like we knew the whole town already and I was more than a little sad that we would have to say goodbye to all these wonderful people the next day. Back at the guesthouse, we were quickly reminded of how different the “low-lander” Indians are to their mountain brethren but we still enjoyed one last supper with our great hosts, Sonam and the boys. Definitely finishing India on a real high note.

Varanasi

A combination of nightmare sleeper trains, crooked touts of all description and some would say an overly ambitious travel itinerary, left us feeling pretty angry at the North of India on more than one occasion. It really is the most stressful place I’ve ever been to at times, the epitome of frustration occurring when having to hard bargain for bog roll! Not really the kind of mindset we wanted to be in when arriving at Varanasi, arguably the most chaotic place in this most chaotic of countries. However, we were determined to cast our bad feelings aside and immerse ourselves in this unique city.

Things didn’t start off too well when our auto driver dropped us off in the completely wrong part of the old city. This led to a crash course on Varanasi’s perplexing labyrinth of narrow alleys. Colourful people of all descriptions cram the claustrophic walkways making it a real struggle to find our way. What we needed to do was drop off our heavy backpacks then dive back into all this joyful mess. The problem, however, was finding the Ganpati guesthouse, the alleys kept leading us onto Chowk Road, a congealed mess of rickshaws, bicycles and people with the worst dust and horn honking yet. And that’s saying something. I didn’t think it was possible to have a least favourite road, but this monster has filled this dubious title. We literally had no idea how to get to our destination, India has a high number of people with English skills and usually someone will come to your rescue. However, here even the auto drivers had little or no English skills and despite them constantly surrounding us to take us somewhere, anywhere our attempts quickly melted down into public frustration and plenty of shouting and swearing. Eventually we found someone to point us back into the confusion of the alleys armed with the vaguest of directions and 15 minutes later, we somehow, by sheer fluke, found the tranquil haven amongst all this pandemonium that is Ganpati guesthouse.

Thankfully, events from here dramatically improved, starting with our balcony, which overlooked the famous ghats and the snaking river Ganges. Ghats are public bathing areas which are prominent throughout India and an important part of communal living. Varanasi, being the holiest city in India, features the daddy of all ghats, a huge network stretching for miles along the Ganges. After finally chucking down our bags, we got down amongst the ghats and soaked up all the random action that is offered here. As Varanasi is the centre of Hinduism, pilgrims throughout India visit here to cleanse their sins, offer pujas (prayers) and wash their clothes in the holy water. In addition to all this action, there is plenty of boat-touting, hand-massaging, postcard-selling and weed-peddling men to deal with, but the positive activities at the ghats more than make up for it though. As we strolled along trying to take in all this visual excitement, other aspects of daily life began to rise in prominence the further we walked. Men tenderly bathed their buffalos and goats, whilst women did the family laundry, the lifeline of the Ganges the heart for all manner of domestic deeds. Other sections of the ghats are consumed by inpromptu cricket matches, complete with haphazardly propped bamboo wickets.

The individual ghats are renowned for different activities, some solely for prayers and offerings, some for washing but the most impacting of these have to be the burning ghats. Here, a constant stream of public cremations unfurl, for a Hindu, being burnt here releases them from the perpetual cycle of reincarnation. This is where Varanasi is most affecting, the pile of burning wood in the distance reveals itself as a flaming corpse upon closer inspection. At first, I found this to be an unsettling experience, but the lack of emotion displayed by those nearby (grieving most occur in privacy beforehand) , makes the event almost commonplace and after witnessing this a few times seems ordinary, or just another crazy component in a crazy place.

Wandering back at night-time, the ghats are even more atmospheric, painted Sadhus smoking big chillums, white Western hippies playing wok like instruments and wailing like banshees, fire and puja performances and boat cruises and floating candles, make Varanasi even more special. Faith in India has been restored by this truly unique and mesmerizing place.

More Mumbai

So much to do in Mumbai, but so little time, as we were due to move onto Goa this evening. To try and maximise our time here, Sarah and I set our alarms for the ridiculous time of 5:30am. We desperately wanted to join in with the Mumbai Laughing Club, an informal pre-work get-together involving yoga breathing techniques leading to mass-hysteria as a form of stress relief. Unfortunately, circumstances conspired against us, such as forgetting to bring the map in the first place and being told a different direction to go by every head-wobbling Indian, alas we did not make it to the laughing club. However, so as not to entirely waste our early morning enthusiasm, we headed to Sassoon Dock, a stinking, pre-dawn fish market, buzzing with activity. The dock was rammed with men and women rushing and bustling past us, frantically bartering for the freshest fish and then balancing huge catches on their heads. We definitely got some wide-eyed stares here, but I can’t blame them. Why the hell were 2 foreigners there before the Sun had even come up?! As I forced myself not to gag, I asked myself the same question. We were attracting particularly stern looks from one suspicious looking guy, who was paying extra-attention to the rather large Canon dangling around Sarah’s neck. He sidled up to us and in an interrogatory manner began asking us what our purpose was for being here and suchlike. After telling him we just wanted to watch the market, he introduced himself as a police officer and commanded that photography was strictly forbidden. Obviously we obliged, but then I got to thinking why was a policeman needed at the fishing docks anyway? And why was photography so strictly forbidden? Smuggling maybe? Who knows? It’s certainly a bit fishy if you ask me. . . .sorry. What I did know was that the stench was far too much for this time of the morning so we sauntered back for some breakfast. On the way back, we were treated to an even more unsavoury sight, a homeless guy masturbating through his trousers. Nice. Maybe pride is your last concern if you’ve been on the streets for a long time. We tried to shake the image from our minds and then woke up Jitka, who had wisely decided to lay in.

After a hearty breakfast we were ready for the next event; the Dobi Ghats, India’s largest open-air clothes washer. To get there, we needed to negotiate Mumbai’s city trains for the first time. On the walk to the station, we saw another public display of masturbation! By this time it was broad daylight on the busy streets of Colaba, did this man have no shame whatsoever? This guy even had a lookout, who obviously wasn’t very good at his job as his mate was caught out. By just about everyone. The logic of this scenario bamboozled me, why have a lookout when you are on a busy street and people can see what’s going on? But then I suppose if you’re the kind of guy who likes to wank in public, logic doesn’t really apply. The train itself was were pretty straightforward, apart from me inadvertently ambushing the women’s only carriage and then having to wait until the next stop before I could sheepishly jump off and go to the men’s compartment. Strange, that a city needs segregated carriages. Do the local men have a problem keeping their hands to themselves as suggested by female foreigners? Or is public masturbation so prevalent here the men and women cannot be in confined spaces together? We were soon to find out.

We exited Malahaxmi station and rounded the corner for the Dhobi Ghat, looking for the viewing area to watch washing on a massive scale. Bizarrely, the viewing area from the bridge was packed with Indians, all trying to get a glimpse and we had to push through to catch a view. This struck me as unusual, normally this kind of activity is only of interest to foreigners, surely this is everyday life to local people? Without concerning ourselves too much further, we joined in with the crowd and observed a serious amount of clothes drying on washing lines and huge piles waiting to be washed. Oddly, not much actual washing seemed to be going on, just some guy on a microphone barking out orders, so we went into the action to have a better view. Sadly, as we were foreign we were told we could not stay. Obviously this enraged our Western equal rights sensibilities and we refused to leave, almost resulting in physically being ejected from the area. Everything made sense when we realised a TV company was filming the ghat! They didn’t want us white skinned folks ruining the authenticity of the shot. Boo. By now, it was turning into an uncomfortable crush. I wanted to give Indian men a fair go and not prejudge them all as lascivious perverts waiting to get their hands on a piece of exotic flesh as widely reported by the backpacker community. However, the sheer numbers of blokes there meant that I found myself just keeping an eye on the girls to make sure no funny business went on. I was relieved to discover the deviants were keeping their hands to themselves, other foreign travellers had been exaggerating and maybe I could relax a little from now on. But then just as I let my guard down, some guy grabbed Sarah’s crotch as we were leaving. It happened so fast, I didn’t even know anything untoward went on, but Sarah delivered an instinctive slap to the back of his head as he disappeared into the crowd. Just as a shocked Sarah explained what happened, unbelievably, another bloke thought he would have a feel, less than 30 seconds later! This time there was nowhere to hide, adrenaline coursed through my veins, but I managed to hold back on the beating he deserved and just let rip a furious tirade. He pathetically tried to claim it was an accident (hmm, unintentional crotch grab?), but soon slipped off when a crowd of people heard what had happened. Poor Sarah was obviously shaken up and I was absolutely raging, how are we going to travel this country if this kind of thing is going to go on? The worst part about it is that Sarah dresses respectfully here, long baggy trousers, long-sleeved shirt and scarf and these guys still thought it was okay to have a touch. Unbelievable. Our early time in Mumbai had been great until this point, but these incidents left doubts as to how much we could enjoy this country if this turned out be a frequent event. Still seething, we tried to put it to the back of our minds as next up was a visit to the Dharavi slum, which we had been looking forward to since we organised it back in Bangkok.

The Dharavi slum was made famous by the film Slumdog Millionaire (although only a tiny portion was actually shot there), however, thankfully life there seems more hopeful than the onscreen representation. The slum has grown to be so well-known that organised tours now profit from taking tourists there, but for our tour, Sarah had acquired the services of a local ‘guide’, Mohammed, who actually lived in Dharavi. Mohammed is a mere slip of a lad at 21, but possesses excellent English skills and the entrepreneurial attitude needed to make this kind of venture a success. Now, when I think of a ‘slum’, rightly or wrongly, I picture extreme deprivation, stealing, begging, a constant struggle for survival amongst disease and squalor. I actually found the reality to be far removed from this blinkered image; firstly, most people in Dharavi have some kind of a job, so they are supporting themselves. True, these jobs are extremely underpaid and often involve dangerous working conditions but at least people aren’t begging or stealing, they have something that is theirs and the pride that can bring. Most of the tour actually focused on the different industries within Dharavi, plastic recycling being the largest but there were also factories working with textiles and fabrics. The workers, mostly young men, were only too happy to stop for a few minutes (everyone likes an extra tea break) and tell us about their jobs, but also quizzed us on life in the U.K. It was a good experience to have this brief cultural exchange through the mediation of Mohammed, who was obviously well-liked by the community of Dharavi and had an excellent rapport with the workers there.

After we finished looking at the industry of Dharavi, next up was the residential area, which from a voyeuristic point of view was the part I was most looking forward to. Here I expected to see the ‘real’ Dharavi, the shit and the squalor as portrayed in the film. But once again, I was pleasantly surprised, the conditions of the concrete ‘shacks’ were certainly cramped and open sewerage drains were exposed (as in many places in Asia), but people definitely weren’t living in boxes or on the street. Everyone here had some kind of permanent home and what appeared to be a network of support involving friends and family We’d actually come across far worse poverty and desperation on the streets of the city, people with absolutely nothing but the ragged clothes just about still draped over their emaciated bodies. This infamous slum seemed almost like paradise in comparison to this existence. Mohammed led us down small roads and we squeezed through tiny alleyways, past surprised, yet friendly locals and happy children still dressed in their school uniforms. We eventually emerged for a well-needed cold drink, where we got to know Mohammed a little better. He’s a sweet guy, who saw an opportunity, learnt English and now his business is doing well, fair play to him, I reckon he’s the real-life Slumdog Millionaire! We then walked down the main road towards Mohammed’s house which was to be our final stop. Despite the open air, the street felt more claustrophic than the tiny alleyways, the Sun was intense, traffic seemed to come from every direction, churning up dust clouds as it moved on through the mass of bodies going about their lives. Next to the road was a guy face down in the dirt, motionless. He may just have been the local drunk and the way everyone just walked around or stepped over him would suggest this was the case. Looking back on it though, we really should have stopped to help him, but because no-one else seem bothered, we shamefully carried on towards Mohammed’s house. It just seemed kind of natural that he was there, just part of the scene, I regret not stopping now though. I suppose this was more of what I expected to see in a Mumbai slum, so the reality wasn’t all rosy.

We eventually made our way to Mohammed’s house, which was a very basic one-room dwelling, in which 5 people all slept tightly packed on the floor. Mohammed revealed his keen business instinct and not only insisted on us filling in questionnaires about the tour, but also filmed an interview on his mate’s phone, so future customers could see our feedback. We didn’t begrudge him this; he has a tough job against the official tour groups, so we were happy to help him out. We then paid him the agreed 300 rupees each (4 pounds) and he kindly escorted us back to the nearest train station. Dharavi slum had been a great experience, not what I had been expecting at all, but the reality seemed far more positive than what we envisaged. Of course, it’s possible we had a tour to the more Western friendly parts of the slum and didn’t really get to the real core of Dharavi, but from what we saw the people were more than just existing. We then headed back on the train (the total cost of our rail journeys today was 32p!) to make our night bus to Goa.

The Lonely Planet, although by no means infallible, states that the Mumbai to Goa bus journey is definitely one to avoid, so it was with slight trepidation that we clambered aboard. However, our double berth was pretty comfy, so I settled down with a book I thought,”this ain’t so bad.” Traffic was diabolical and it took us 3 hours by the time we’d even left Mumbai. It was pitch black outside by the time the driver could put his foot down. Unfortunately, the road was ridden with pot-holes and the driver was employing a brake-at-the-last-possible-second strategy and it quickly became apparent why Lonely Planet gave such advice. A few minutes later, the driver flew over what must have a crater in the road, as everyone shot up half a metre in the air and actually hit the ceiling of the bus! What comes up, must come down, which resulted in disaster for one Indian guy, who began hollering in pain from behind his curtain. One no-one immediately rushed to his attention (we were still a bit shocked to have been catapulted into the roof), so he literally threw himself onto the floor of the bus, yelping even louder as he clutched his back in agony. Another local passenger came to his aid and much to the annoyance of the bus driver, it was decided the victim had to go to hospital. However, there can’t have been anywhere appropriate nearby, as the guy was taken to the local maternity ward! The bus now stopped for 45 minutes whilst they tried to patch him up, but his injury must have been too severe for him to carry on, his bag was sent for and the bus sped on again at the same relentless pace. That bus had put that man in hospital and we didn’t even crash! Madness. Let’s just say it was a sleepless night, but at least there were no more incidents and we arrived in Goa the next day with no further passenger injuries.

India – First Impressions

There are countless more events from the previous few months that have made it into my hand-written journal but are yet to appear in blog form, which i should probably write first. However, these events seem slightly tame in comparison to our first few days in India, so next up is Mumbai. I get to type this on our first train journey in India and its gorgeous scenery of mountains, jungles and waterfalls with plentiful wallahs of all kinds keeping me topped up on energy. i may never take a bus again in India, this is how traveling should be.

Mumbai

Vague feelings of trepidation on the flight from Bangkok were quickly replaced when Mumbai came into view. The city skyline at first reminded me off Seoul, white tower block after tower block, but the fact these structures were arranged along a sprawling coastline with dotted with palm trees quickly ended any resemblance. As we flew closer to the city, the blanket of apartment blocks was broken up by various flat, multi-coloured sections, which upon closer inspection revealed themselves to be some of Mumbai’s rubbish-strewn slums, one of which, Dharavi, we would be exploring in 2 day’s time.

At baggage claim we got talking to Jitka, a sweet girl from the Czech Republic. It was her first time in India too, so we decided to band together and share a taxi towards our Mumbai home, the traveller’s centre of Colaba, for a hopefully less stressful initiation into India. Mumbai airport has a great pre-paid taxi scheme, which rules out any chances of a rip-off as soon as you land. What was less certain was our chances of actually making it there, driving is manic throughout Asia, but this was taking things to another level. The girls almost soiled themselves numerous times due to the brake at the last possible micro-second method employed by our driver. I chose to avoid the extra stress and admire the manic new world I was now a part of. The city itself appeared to be an amalgamation of various cities I’d been to before, but most strikingkly reminded me of Bangok, Dubai and even Birmingham all rolled into one. Far more interesting than the structural elements were the people comprised within it. The streets were a throbbing mass of bustling businessman and beggars with the women in their gloriously colourful garb cleansing the dirty streets. There were religious people of various strains, Hindus, Sikhs, Muslims all ramming the streets together and going about their affairs. The journey continued through filthy concrete ‘shacks, new high-rise apartments, cool neighbourhoods with tons of character until suddenly the city metamorphised, bizarrely, into London! We had suddenly reached the affluent area of Churchgate and it looked incredibly like England’s capital. Huge, grand buildings to rival some of London’s finest, tree-lined avenues and even red double-decker buses made my brain struggle to comprehend where the hell I actually was. I was expecting to see some British influence in parts but certainly not on this scale. The first 1 hour of the journey I definitely felt like i was in India, now I felt like I was back in the bosom of Britannia, very surreal.

We managed to find our chosen accommodation without too much difficulty and we ‘checked in’ at the Salvation Army hostel. By ‘checked in’, I mean we had to go and find our own dorm beds in this huge dilapidated building as the staff had a tough job keeping tabs on what was going on. The dorm rooms were huge, each containing about 25 bed-bug infested beds. The place was buzzing with activity with locals and travellers alike. However the place was so big it was totally anonymous and I religiously used the locker supplied to me. It certainly was not my first choice of residence, but the price was right (225 ruppees inc breakfast - 3 quid) and we wanted to stay together, particularly as Jitka was a solo female first-timer to India. We had been really excited about our first Indian meal in the taxi, but the thali we were served up was bland and a massive let-down. We finished up the evening with a very pricey beer by Asian standards (2 quid) at the much celebrated Leopold’s cafe, one of those traveller’s institutions’, glorified by the Lonely Planet, that mugs like me just can’t seem to get enough of for some reason and continue to line their heavy pockets! Before long,the fuzzy effects of a full belly, beer and the flight took over and we went back for a early night, hoping for a good nights kip to be fresh for a first full day in Mumbai tomorrow. When i was denied access to the bathroom by the hostel manager as there were “groups in there” (not quite as sordid as it sounds, I think Indian boys were showering together, there was literally 4 showers for about a hundred people), i could tell I was in for a restless night. I’ve had more good than bad experiences in hostels, but his one definitely fell into the latter, Indian teenagers were inexplicably playing A-Kon on their phones outside my dorm, snoring hippies that I kept having to shake out of their slumber and ladybird sized bedbugs keeping me up scratching all night. I’m getting too old for this! I finally managed to get about 4 hours sleep and was then rudely awoken by screaming Indian boys at 6am. Welcome to India!

Determined to not let my lack of sleep spoil my first proper day of Indian madness, I had an early breakfast and was greeted by Sarah and Yitka about 8am, 2 fully-rested and chirpy ladies. Apparently the segregated ladies floor was a veritable haven of peace and tranquility. Bitches. After a couple of hours trying to sort out an onward train to Goa, heavily booked carriages meant we had to reluctantly settle for an over-priced sleeper bus, I had my first masala dosa, the much-championed snack of spiced potato wrapped in bread. This time I wasn’t disappointed. As Sarah says frequently, “Delici-oh-so!”. By this time it was getting baking out on the busy streets and we took sanctuary in Coffee Day, what I can shamefully see turning into a Western haven for us when you just need to escape the hecticness for half hour or so. After refueling on caffeine and sugar, it was time for a proper explore of Mumbai and what better way than a casual roam around the city? I don’t think I have ever experienced so much stimuli, it really was the full sensory attack on the senses I had been told about. Colourful people from every angle, saris, burkhas and turbans jostling for space amongst cheeky schoolchildren, cows ‘parked’up on the side of busy roads and peddlars and beggars competing for income. All this fervent activity was set to a cacophony of horns blaring and engines revving whilst the Sun beat down, hot and strong. My head was swiveling like the Exorcist child trying to take it all in. It was a wonderful mess. We managed to find some respite from these stimuli amongst the cute backstreets and neighbourhoods of pretty painted houses, getting merrily lost in this sanctum somewhere in the middle of the city. Further strolling revealed the chowpatty (beach), the skyscrapers hugging the East shoreline denoting the wealth contained within this city of extremes. The beach front itself tells a different story, desperate beggar children combing the debris for anything they can salvage amongst the rusting boats, stopping their activity to plead with passers-by for hand-outs. This sad story was once again juxtaposed by next neighbourhood we came to, the affluent Malabar hill, with it’s gleaming new high-rises. We hadn’t come all this way to pry on Mumbai’s better-offs, hidden within this beacon of Indian modernity was a spiritual core, the vast communal bathing tank, which takes pride and place as the centre-piece of the neighbourhood. Indeed, many locals believe this place to actually be the centre of the world as signified by the wooden pole rising from the centre of the tank itself. Although we hadn’t chosen the best time to view (washing en masses occurs in the morning)), the huge stone steps rising from the pool in the middle provided a serene backdrop and we whiled away a few hours, just watching patches of life go by. Some people sat alone with their thoughts, Indian women shared tales of family life with their neighbours and children sharpened their cricket skills in the background. Nobody seemed too perturbed by our presence, in fact I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the overall lack of staring we’ve received in this short time here so far, not what i was expecting at all. We soaked up the serenity for an hour or 2, hardly believing we were in such a calm surrounding. As the Sun was beginning to fade, power-walking grandfathers took to the perimeter and an inquisitive child and grandmother came to share our space on the steps, the happy old woman gabbling away in a mixture of broken English and Hindi. Drums could be now be heard from the far end of the tank, investigation revealing uniformed teenage boys rattling out drum rolls on snares attached to their bodies. Evening practice or something more celebratory?

We took a stroll down some back alleys, chatting to friendly kids and adults alike and found our way to the local beach/rubbish dump/toilet. The Sun was glowing red over the ocean, brilliantly juxtaposed against the unsanitary scene below it. After the overpowering stench became a bit too much, we strolled back to the public square and were greeted by a large group of men pouring down the narrow streets, still in business attire, but most covered in red paint. Had Holi started early? No time to question it as a huge group of women donning their most extravagant saris flooded down the street after the men, the drummers in full flow by this time. When the groups converged in the centre, the rhythm overtook their bodies and the streets were amass with dancing bodies, the men particularly flamboyant in their movements. Once again we just could not believe what we were seeing and beaming at our luck in encountering such an amazing scene. To the delight of a group of teenage boys, I took part and let one of the kids give me a healthy dosing of red paint. It was a wonderful atmosphere and great to be a part of it. After the procession continued through the town, we took a taxi back to Colaba to reflect on an amazing first day in India.