We finally got through the border, which was a slow and frustrating experience. We were held up for several hours in a massive line of traffic on the Indian side, while the strict and bureaucratic customs procedures were carried out. We were issued with forms on which we had to list everything we were bringing into the country, including things like my little camera (I bought it in London for £4, including two rolls of film). The customs officers searched the whole car thoroughly. Found an iron and a mixer which Jeremy hadn't felt needed to be declared. But they missed a lot of photographic equipment which he also hadn't declared. They didn't search me, which was a good job considering the big chunk of hash I had on me.

As usual, Jeremy was highly annoyed at the whole procedure, but he was in better spirits at least. We drove on to Amritsar, where he dropped me off at the railway station.

Amritsar is the capital of the Punjab and the holy city of the Sikhs. It contains the Sikhs' Golden Temple, a site worth seeing. I considered staying, but decided that because I had overspent over the previous few weeks, it would be more prudent to head straight for Delhi. I could also stop off at the temple on my return (assuming I came back this way--assuming I came back...).

Today turned out to be another public holiday, so the student concession office was closed, and I had to pay full fair. Oh dear, more expense! Reserved a sleeper, for 5 rupees, and as the train was travelling overnight I consoled myself with the thought that I was saving myself a night in a hotel.

The food was cheap and a nice change from the previous few weeks. The station had at least two restaurants, one vegetarian and one Muslim, so I had a vegetarian chop and tea (served with hot milk) at the vegetarian. At the restaurant I re-checked my finances to ensure I was remaining within budget. Travelling by landrover had worked out about twice as expensive as public transport (though I can't remember what arrangement we had made for payment). The figures looked like this:
Kabul-Peshawar 100 Afs (90p)
Peshawar-Lahore 75p
Lahore-Amritsar 25p
Accommodation and food: £1

Total for the trip would have been about £2.90 with public transport.
Whereas I had paid Jeremy 600 Afs + $4 = £7

India was like a breath of fresh air after Kabul. I badly needed the change after the long trek through the Muslim countries--as mentioned earlier on, I had been getting travel-weary. One of the disadvantages of being on the hippy trail is that the locals are prepared, the touts are out, the shops are stocked with the usual trinkets, the hoteliers are waiting for you at the bus-station, the waiters are enticing you into their restaurant from the street. The hard sell grates after a while. In India I was no longer confined to the pre-defined bus-route, but could go where I liked.

Another great liberating feeling was being able to speak with the locals, most of whom spoke some English. There was no hustling in the places I visited, just friendly smiles and helpful information.

A historical incident in Amritsar in which an Irishman played a part is described in Massacre at Jallianwalla Bagh.

The train left for Delhi in the evening.

Sunday 14 September, Delhi

Arrived in Delhi about 7:00 feeling tired, not having slept much on the jolting train. Took a ricksaw to the Nenus hotel which had been recommended by a couple of people I had met along the way. This was in the old city and looked a little run down. The room (a double) was damp and cost 12 rupees a night. I didn't have the energy to go looking for someplace else, so took it on the spot. My attempts at sleep were interrupted all morning by an electrician running in and out trying to repair the fan. Eventually I gave up the attempt and went out to take a look at the city. The old city is teeming with people, small clothes shops nick-nack shops, hustlers' stalls, all jostling each other for attention. Everyone rushing somewhere except the beggars, which one sees everywhere. The poverty of some of the people can be seen in their clothes, where they live, the kids sleeping in the gutter. Lots of scraggy dogs everywhere, along with the inevitable cows. Outside the old city, where the buildings are just piled on top of each other, New Delhi is very spread out, and one needs a rickshaw to get around.

Monday 15 September, Delhi

Needed to get my Nepalese visa so headed for the Embassy and left in my passport. Then took care of the student concession, which gives cheaper rail fares.

Tuesday 16 September, Delhi

Once the Nepalese visa was secure, took another trip around the new city, where near Connaught Circus I bought a little hand-made purse from a young gypsy girl. I afterwards felt guilty that I had bargained, and given her less than she had sought. Towards evening took a long walk around Chandni Chowk, where I bought a silver ring for Wonnie. The ever- present crowds, though, were oppressive, and I was glad of the thought that I would be leaving on the morrow, to visit the Taj Mahal.

Wednesday 17 September, Delhi/Agra

Took the afternoon train to Agra and arrived around 7:00. The platform slowly scrolling past me was packed with people. As usual a dozen or so hands reached out, to help with my (tiny!) bag, begging, selling chai or bananas. Then the struggle through the crowd of porters, rickshaw drivers, taxi drivers and the purely curious.

I eventually made my way to a stone seat, occupied by a single elderly man smoking a bidi. Here I made the acquaintance of the only other white person in my vicinity, Bill, a 22-year-old American, and we went off together to find a hotel room. Bill was dressed in native attire, loose off-white pants and long jackt, with a saffron-coloured turban with a long tassle down the back, Afghan-style. Like most Americans ones meets in this part of the world he's a bit of an individualist--perhaps that's why I got on so well with him. He's from Detroit, by his own account a dive of the lowest order. He'd worked for two years in the auto factories, making a lot of money, and when he had enough saved headed for Holland, where he made more money by buying hash there and sending it back home in candy-bar wrappers. Until the F.B.I started taking an interest in the shipments. He then turned to bussing people from the 'Dam to Copenhagen before splitting for the East.

We met Beg. He was an unlikely-looking descendent of the great Moghul rulers. Short and slight, looking for friendship, maybe even sympathy--although he's only 21, he's getting married for the second time in a couple of weeks. He told us he was first married when he was 10. At that time he and his wife were the same size. His wife grew faster than he he did, and kept growing long after he stopped, so his father thought better of the arrangement, and gave back the dowry. And then, since we'd broached such intimate topics, we asked him what his new wife--she's 14, and still in school--would be like in bed? He'd teach her, he said, slowly and carefully. I get the idea that he looks upon making love with a 14-year old virgin as an ordeal. He took a liking to my watch, offering me 100 rupeehs for it. I told him it was broken (which it was), but in reality I didn't like parting with it for sentimental reasons. Anyway I didn't think he was serious in his offer. He fixed us up with a hotel.

Thursday 18 September, Agra

Beg arrived first thing this morning with the 100 rupees for the watch.

This time I did accept it.

Next stop was the Taj. We hired a bicycle richshaw and driver between the three of us and away we went. There was a slight drizzle. Everyone knows what the Taj looks like, but not many almost break their necks by slipping down the wet steps like I did.

The Taj was built in the 17th century by the Mughal King Shah Jehan in memory of his queen Mumtaz Mahal, who bore him a large number of children. A guide told me that it was camouflaged with a tarpaulin during the 1971 war with Pakistan. It took two days to wrap the Taj with the tarpaulin, which weighed over 18,700 lbs.

Then on to the Red Fort, this time with me in the saddle, and almost under a bus. We made it, but only just.

We explored the fort. The walls were 70 feet high, surrounded by a moat.

Afterwards around the town. Bill in the saddle, white baggy clothes billowing, the "tail" of his golden turban streaming behind in the wind. "Andere, andere, arriba, arriba!", hurtling through the traffic at breakneck pace. The crazy white rickshaw driver. "Arriba, arriba", scattering bicycles, avoiding cows, glancing off dogs, squashing fruit, the magic rickshaw speeds through the night. The poor driver was a nervous wreck when we left him.

We visited instrument makers, silk businesses, jewellers, and others. Bill ordered a load of stuff to be shipped back to the US. It was only later on the train when he started totting up the receipts, that he realized how much he had spent. He also mentioned that he had a sister who had worked in Iran, and who collected carpets, knew a lot about them as well. He had heard somewhere that there was some way of buying precious stones in India and then selling them at a good profit in Africa, and was thinking of trying it out. He was always thinking about the next money-making deal.

We departed from Agra that night, bidding farewell to the lonely Beg at the station, waiting for the next Westerners to arrive to alleviate his muslim isolation in this Hindu land.

Third class in the train was an impenetrable mass of staring, sleeping, wheezing, snoring, moaning, begging, chewing, spitting bodies. Couldn't even find a place to stand. We went into the first class, crawling on our bellies past the ticket-collectors sitting in their carriage.

Friday 19 September, Benares (Varanasi)

We changed back to a third-class carriage this morning before the ticket collectors came around. While the train was stopped at a small village, a policeman spotted us through the window--we were the only Westerners in the compartment. He decided to come in to search us for drugs, taking along a few of his flunkeys. This hassle was known to me from travellers I had met along the way. I still had Richard's chunk of dope with me, of course. While Bill the police up at the door, indignantly protesting at this intrusion, and refusing to allow our bags to be searched, I had time to toss the dope into a corner under the seat. Then, calming the "outraged" Bill down, allowed the police to search our bags, confident they would find nothing.

I was wrong.

Tightly wrapped in a ten-afghan note in a corner of my wallet was a tiny piece of hash that I didn't even realize was there. The police officer pulled it out triumphantly.

"Now, you must come along with us to the police station."

"But, I didn't even know it was there!"

"You can tell that to the judge! Though you will have to wait in prison for about nine months for the trial. You'll probably get I couple of years for this."

I was so shocked I was rooted to the spot. I couldn't speak. Fortunately Bill was quicker off the mark.

"Look officer, we'll give you twenty rupees," he said. The office turned away, herding his men out of the compartment. He shook his head.

"Forty rupees". The officer shook his head again.

"Fifty rupees," I piped up. He barely nodded. I handed him a fifty-rupee note and he followed his men off the train.

As the train moved off I collapsed back onto the seat in relief.

Bill smiled. "Where's the big chunk?"

"Under your seat."

He reached down, felt around the ground and then came back up with the dope in his hand. "Let's go have a blast to celebrate your escape," he said. And we did.

We got off at Banares, the Hindu holy city on the Ganges, where they go to die. Also known as Varanasi.

After getting our bearings we went down to the Ganges to watch the faithful bathe and have a bathe ourselves. We noticed a gathering for a cremation, and Bill said that he would like to get a picture of it. This was strictly forbidden, and I told him so.

"I know, but I'm going to risk it," he said. "Look, hand me your turban."

I carefully removed my turban and handed it to Bill, who placed his camera in the centre. He approached the gathering holding the turban in both hands, and moved to an open space in the crowd to get a shot of the body burning on the ghat. The corpse, wrapped in a white sheet, was aflame. I followed a few steps behind and to the side, so that I could observe Bill when he took his shot.

For a few seconds the wind fanning the flames died down, and there was a sudden quiet, then a very audible mechanical "click", and everyone within a few feet of Bill turned around. Just at that moment the turban unwrapped itself, exposing the camera. A cry went up from some of the men present. Bill retreated a few feet as they approached him, then he turned and ran. I could see him running for his life down the street, the golden tail of his turban blowing out behind, and the outraged relatives of the deceased in full pursuit. He disappeared into the maze of small streets that led away from the river, the cries of the outraged family members fading away as they disappeared from sight.

Discretion being the better part of valour, I moved quietly away until someone spotted me and blocked my path. Of course, I denied being with Bill, or knowing anything about him. They grudgingly accepted my explanations, and I slowly made by way by a roundabout way back to the hotel.

I thought that would be the last I would see of Bill, and my own turban, but he was waiting at the hotel on my return, after I had done a long walk around the bathing places.

Saturday 20 September, Benares

Liz teamed up with us. She was a nurse from the UK who had been travelling with some other people from Australia, via Bali and Singapore, but the others hadn't wanted to go to Nepal. She asked us if she could tag along with us. She was pretty "straight", ie, not into dope, alternative lifestyle, etc, like most of the travellers were, but was plucky and fine to travel with.

We visited the temples and other sites. Took the night train for Razaul on the Nepal border.

To be continued!

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Back to Contents

Back to the Golden Road Home Page