Travel: Is it worth it?

Downloaded the BBC Sounds app. I listened with great interest to “Lynne Truss on travel: Is it worth it?” (from Radio 4. (Trusst – sorry – me it’s better than the mediagasm that the news programmes are having over Brexit today).

The first episode is a one-to-one is with Geoff Dyer who writes beautifully on – among other things – travel matters as befits a man who has spent much of his life on the move. (A man with a “wandering eye.”) With a smiling nod to my last post on criss-crossing, I note he’s from Cheltenham where we lived for almost a decade. Eloquent and with “a wagging tail” he referred to Annie Dillard who wrote;

“We are here on the planet only once and might as well get a feel for the place.”


Of course, I knew my own answer to the question in the headline before listening but it was heartening and fascinating to hear the take of another as if in conversation. And he put it better than I ever could.

Am looking forward to the forthcoming brace of episodes in lieu of any actual traveling…

BBC Sounds? It works for me, but check out this delicious Twitter exchange.

Jenny Eclair BBC Sounds

W1A: life imitating art? Or the other way around?

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Criss-crossing our paths

First born has recently returned from a trip with the Rangers* to Marlborough Massachusetts and locale. A child no longer.

Part geek, part concerned parent, part on-call taxi service I tracked the progress of her transatlantic flight as it made landfall heading to LHR.

(Several ways of doing this these days on the internets. I tend toward the easy to use – yet mind boggling – Easy to use? Just search for the flight by it’s call-sign (VS12/VIR12E on this occasion) and watch it make progress. Mind boggling? You can lose hours just randomly tracking flights to/from obscure locations just by clicking on the iccle aircraft avatars. Also, zoom out: so very many planes. I’ve heard it said that at any one moment these days, there are over a million people airborne. What a time to be alive. (Yes, a great work avoidance device too. Also, have you seen – OMaG –! My day wasted, right there…))

Criss-crossing #1

First up, the trip involved a spot of NYC which is where we were (en famille) this time 12 months ago. Lovely for Josie to find her way around Manhattan without Mom & Pop weighing her down. Riding the Staten Island ferry, mooching around Central Park. Cool.

Criss-crossing #2

As their Dreamliner (Flight VS12) made it’s into British airspace I noticed it went plumb overhead Auntie Susan’s pad in Mumbles, Wales. A beautiful clear autumn morn, where the locals wondered what a giant white hand icon was doing hovering above them. (The bluey line across the image shows the aircraft routing.)

VS12 routing

VS12 routing over The Mumbles and Wiltshire

Criss-crossing #3

Then the flight made a direct run across Wiltshire. Where Josie was following on the screen map – they are very good on the 787 – and took a photo out of the biiig window purportedly of Marlborough. Can you see us waving back?


That be Marlborough that be I reckon

Meanwhile, yours truly was leaning out of the loft window taking a photo of her.


Wot no zoom? VS12

Criss-crossing #4

As the flight was transferred to the guidance of the LHR tower it’s routing took it over Surrey (ultimately taking a big u-turn over the City of Laaaandun for a Westerly final approach to Heathrow). I even took a wee screenshot and clumsily annotated it:




  1. the hospital Josie joined the human race in September 2001: Frimley Park maternity unit
  2. the house we lived in then: 1 Cromwell Road, Camberley
  3. the flight she was currently on October 2018.

17 years ago, carrying a bundle of joy from 1 to 2 I didn’t pause to think she’d be passing by the front door. Especially not at 10,000′ clocking 330knots.

Criss-crossing our paths we jolly well go.

*Rangers? Bigger, tougher, more angsty, less manageable Girl Guides.


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Time to watch Blade Runner again

Like all science fiction fans, I am partial to a bit of Dick. That said, it was the stunning Ridley Scott neo-noir cinematic realisation of the future in the 1982 movie Blade Runner that shaped, nay, warped my teenage mind, not the 1968 text. To teenage Ian, the film is how the century ahead would be: the night-time skyscape – and it was always night-time – seared my impressionable brain with a vision. Fast forward to 2018 and whilst androids are not yet dreaming of electric sheep, this evening, for a moment, I feel like I have been transported.

There are detail differences between Scott’s classic and this Dubai night: it is dry here for starters and the sky is not filled with autonomous giant led-screen blimp drones (more’s the pity). As for the presence of “skin jobs” – that’s replicants or synthetic humans to you- the jury is still out because I have seen a few sights. I feel very much the stranger in a strange land with some impossible looking specimens of the human race thronging the Dubai Mall.

What really made it strikingly as if it t’were Ridley Scott himself directing my evening is the evidence in video below.


Okay, okay, the music is not Vangelis, but it is a dramatic soundtrack playing in stunning hi-fi around a giant artificial desert lake (in a desert) as thousands gawp to the heavens at the monumental Burj Khalifa lit up in truly spectacular fashion.

Then it strikes me: I am at once astounded, transported and dismayed.

Astounded? How could you not be by the stunning precision visual display and vast scale of the illumination. The animation made incredible use of the building as a canvas with great sound to boot.

Transported? I genuinely felt like a pre-pubsecant again for a second and gasped to catch my breath. How so? Because it was – for a fleeting moment – like being back inside the Blade Runner universe of my youth. I was dizzied by the sensation.

Then… Dismayed? Because it’s a bloody advert.

Dear reader, my reverie bubble was well and truly popped as the brilliance of the production revealed itself to be a promotion for a (Chinese) smartphone. Paradoxically, this makes it all the more Blade Runner-esque because the floating screens of that fictional future were little more than giant billboards (moodily ignored in the movie by the troubled anti-hero Deckard).

If you do get to see the video above, you’ll hear my disdain which I found impossible to keep to myself. You may also – rightly – accuse me of being a bit slow on the uptake. I was so away with the fairies that it took me a good few seconds to cotton on to the message. Ridiculous, because there is surely no more commercial a place on earth than here? I finished recording at that point. (What a rubbish cameraman I’d make, judgmental, fickle, easily bored.) This means that you are not treated to the whoopin an a hollerin that follows the conclusion of the AV show. You are also spared the sound of a forty nine year old curmudgeon exclaim an audible holier-than-thou tut. Again, ridonculous because it’s all a sponsored show right? I’ve not paid an entry fee. The backers are entitled to push their message: they’ve paid for it. Kudos too to the production company: you know your stuff.

The future is here, that much is clear. It’s just that I’m not cool with it [sigh].

Ho hum, better watch Blade Runner again. One of the seven versions…

PS: Another witness has made a longer video which captures the crowd response: I also note Samsung have also used the building this year for their S-whatevs launch. So this advertising thing works then, because I’ve just shared a video or two. D’oh!

PPS: BladeRunner is REAL in Dubai. Just not as you might expect. Click here.

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Small World Take 4: Dubai John

My first time in the middle east: Dubai.

A new client, new programme, new timings, their schedule (where we are unexpectedly helping out due to sharp turn in circumstance). We were supposed to go out last night following class to do our research work, but a number of the team couldn’t make it, so we re-scheduled for tonight at the last second.

We take a car to the hotel, idle in traffic, wait an extended time for one of the party to freshen up and then – purely when the whole mini-caravan is ready – ship out with a stroll to the venue. A research trip it most definitely is. (Admittedly it might appear more like air-quotation and theatrical wink “research.” Like “testing” the “all you can eat” buffet. Or seriously exploring if “Happy Hour” really is enough to make one cheerful.) So here we are in the fully-paid-up-bonkers – in so many ways – Dubai Mall in the name of work. We wander discreetly among the hoards with firm mission, strong intent but sans schedule.

Presently we corral at the plush sofas on the gently rarefied concourse near to the Burberry store to compare notes on luxury brand performances, our interpretations, reflections and conclusions.


Effectively, then, you find me sat on a random couch, outside a place I’d usually not visit, at a random time, in a random place on – to me – a new, random continent.

Within seconds of taking the weight off, I arise, take all of 10 steps forward, tap a fella on the shoulder and as he turns I quietly say…

“Small world eh John?”

“Mister Beer… Let me introduce you to _____ _______ from _______.”

My experience of John? Always the calm, collected character, with that wholly admirable grasp of situations. Understated and measured. Cool. So naturally he greets me like we saw each other last Tuesday and swiftly includes me in conversation with his client nary skipping a beat.

John: you’ve not lost it.

Especially since we consider the facts. I last saw John around five years ago for a quiet early Tuesday curry in Rusholme, Manchester, planet England (near where he resides). We worked together at the turn of the century and stayed in touch for many years.

We converse for a few moments, with John informing his dinner partner that I have recently been to India of late and am in the UK as infrequently as he is. (The other side of John: social media stalker.) We agree to – genuinely – catch up and that’s it: I go back to my team, John & co take a table at a nearby restaurant.

Whilst this seems an unlikely story, let me tell you: this kind of thing happens more often than you think…

New Zealand

New York

Kanazawa (Japan)

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Dubai. It’s just not Delhi is it?

Coming up to 24hours in the UAE and I can’t help noticing it’s most definitely Dubai.

I mean obvs, it’s not Delhi. But seeing as that was the last long haul city I visited earlier this month… it is, therefore, an accidental yardstick. Even if this is a work trip. I have had the luxury of a day to normalise after arriving in the small hours. Unfortunately, this has had the unintended effect of rocking me on my heels.


The view as I entered the hotel last night

If you’ve not been here, then a written description is going to fall short. As a scene setter how about we take the following ingredients:

  • 1 X Las Vegas – scale, desert climate, sheer chutzpah. (Discard the gambling.)
  • 1 X Emirate – muslim heritage, laws, huge oil wealth, middle eastern culture and a taste for bling
  • A big bunch of apparently every flavour of extreme architecture mankind can currently muster, with some radical, comic-book structures. (Like CGI of an alien, technologically utopian planet from a Marvel movie.) A Shanghai/Manhattan/Singapore mashup.
  • 1 X blind eye: for the origins/conditions of labour that built it all, means of electricity generation, the amount of pollution and waste. (Where does all the water come from?Where does all the sewage go?)

Mix well, leave to marinade against the backdrop of whatever meandering trajectory the global economy is heading on.

Wandering is a great way to learn a new place, don’t-cha-think? I have walked and walked today. In 35C? Well, outside it may have been, but the Dubai Mall and walkways to the metro are all air-conditioned. (Plus the desert heat is less oppressive; now it’s late October. Bearable, even at midday.) From the chilled metro carriages raised above the city sprawl we barrel along a full 25km to Dubai Marina. Huge roads pass beneath us. So very many cars. So many high end motahs: Rolls’, Lambos’, Ferrari’, McLarens and – heavens – even the occasional Porsche. Ringed by vast condos, the marina itself is filled with glistening motor-yachts. Pausing for a delicious Lebanese lunch, I get a mini-lecture from the proprietor about the evils of sugar in Pepsi. (Imagine if it was beer I washed the shwarma down with!?) I stand at the head of the carriage on the return trip – no driver to block the view – and boggle at the cityscape as it envelops our train. (Have seen Tomorrowland with Clooney?)

The overhead corridor to Dubai Mall is hundreds of metres from the station. It is cool, wide and thronging. If you kneel at the temple of retail, this place is surely a global shrine judging by the vast number of disciples herein. Outside – 8PM – the Dubai Fountain dances to pulsating music with light and the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa. (The structure manages to look impossibly tall and unimposing at once. It will visually rhyme with the coming-soon Dubai Creek Tower which is similarly nuts. Dial crazy settings to batshit.) How many thousand marched in London today against Brexit? Well, many thousands marched here too, firm in their intent to oooh-ahh at fountains, get dinner and buy expensive impractical shoes.

Rocked on my heels then by jetlag, arid heat, scale, unhindered consumerism, architectural egotism and conspicuous wealth. Worlds away from Delhi in one direction. A world away from rural Wiltshire in the other.

Hey ho, off to work tomorrow. How long before this all feels normal?

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Delhi Belhi?

It’s funny how we know stuff to be true. Absolute clarity in our minds. Facts lodged in our brains. Things that just are because, well, we know they are.

Here are some facts then.

  1. 25% of Indian trains are over 2 hours late*
  2. 20% of Indian hotels cost £200+ a night**
  3. On the Delhi Metro you are 100% likely to get pickpocketed***
  4. Brits don’t like spicy food****
  5. Everyone who goes to India get Delhi Belly*****

Boom! Mic’ drop. Glad we’ve cleared that up then. Go back to your lives proceeding safely with the absolute knowledge and certainty that the above is all true.

Happy trails.


* Based on a sample of 4 separate train journeys taken this September.

  • New Delhi – Kalka (Train #12011 Shabadi Express: 3 hours, on time).
  • Kalka – Shimla (Train #52455 “The Himalayan Queen”:  5.5hours, on time).
  • Chandigarth to Jaipur (Train #12984 Chg Ali Rath Sleeper 10.5 hours, on time).
  • Agra – Harzat Nizamuddin (Delhi South) (Train #12643 Nizamuddin Express: 3 hour journey, train originates from Kerela – 2800km away! It’d already been en route for a day and a half. A DAY AND A HALF! It was miraculously only 2.5hours late.)

Indian train travel is quite the experience. Now that’s a fact. In my many thousands of kilometres travelled across the subcontinent, their punctuality is actually pretty darn good. And it is soooo much more fun than taking the bland aircraft option.

Want more rail facts? Try these.

** Based on a sample of five hotel stays with a per room budget range from £17.00-£200.00

Conclusion? OMG hotels in India are super expensive! No. No they aren’t. But yes, you can spend a lot of money if you really want to.

We went full decandance for 3 days and stayed at the utterly glorious Samode Haveli in Jaipur, Rajasthan. It was a special treat that we awarded ourselves as a holiday within our tour. Were we in LA, Miami, Nice, Hong Kong such a stay would’ve cost £000s/night. Even so, the difference is that this jewel of a place actually feels 5*. Yet I have paid more to stay in a London Premier Inn. Sadly though, in each big Indian city there is a proliferation of giant faceless hotels in outlying compounds. Global brands where you pay western prices for a luxury cell in a fortified complex. Not here.

If you exclude this one anomaly, the average per room for our jaunt is £34.50 which is more representative of Indian “tourist” accommodation. That’s £17/night per person. In fact, we “saved” a hotel night by taking a sleeper train which was £30 – that’s £7.50 each – including agency fees.

*** 11th September 2018. Traveled two stops on the New Delhi metro at rush hour and got pick-pocketed.

I was so busy looking out for the team that I failed to take care of myself. £20 or so gone. Lesson learned: next day it was money belt to the fore.

Context: In 4 trips to India with a duration of some 5 months, spanning 24 years, covering huge swathes of the country it was the first time I experienced any crime. (Although every rickshaw/tuk-tuk/taxi ride has a whiff of tourist rip off I grant you.)

**** It seemed to us that (almost) every time we sat down to order some nosebag, the staff would bobble gently and enquire “spicynotspicy?” When we replied “oooh, spicy please” they’d double check. One can only imagine that lots of delicate flower Western tourists have taught them to err on the side of caution.

Every “spicy” plate of food that was served was richly flavoured, but none was inedibly fiery. (I’ve eaten curry in the UK that melts your face, causes unpleasant sweatiness, coughing and fear of the next visit to the loo. I recommend a loo roll in the fridge with the scrunch and dab technique if you are a victim of nuclear grade chili.) We experienced some revelatory tastes that made veggie meals come alive in ways I’d not dreamed of and brought out the flavours in fresh breads.

***** Delhi Belhi? Wrong. Just wrong dammit. Where are the facts?!

This is just straightforward confirmation bias. Sure, we all know – sometimes only anecdotally – someone who knows someone who turned inside out, but it’s not a dead cert’ by any means.

Annoyingly then, it’s pretty much the first question that people ask when you mention travel to India. “oooOOooh, did you get Delhi Belly?” There is a certainty in the knowledge that you are definitely going to fall really, really ill. No question. Is this because it has its own special name and people can think of nothing else? 

Seriously: GET A GRIP. When you eat in India, other things can happen apart from 100% inevitable diarrhea. I am more suspicious of a UK city centre “world buffet” restaurant than a typical Indian street cafe. I have been REALLY ill from a barbecue restaurant in Camberley (now closed, unsurprisingly) and Mrs B still talks about another BBQ incident that lingered with her for months in 2002 from a solitary dodgy sausage.

Apologies to those who’ve been ill due to food poisoning, clearly. In 1994 after 2.5 months on the road I got careless and was waylaid for a few days. But for the most part? Follow basic/common sense hygiene practice and get delicious food, great value. I have now accompanied my Mum, sis, wife, kids and two friends around the sub-continent without a loo related blip.

Oddly if I travel to the Lake District, no one asks if I’ve had the shits there.

I have.

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Stamps and Postcards

Now that we live in the future, with electric cars, drones, the internet, Donald Trump and whatnot there are some facets of yesteryear that have been all too readily forgotten.

Standing on The Mall in the famous, curious, ex-British Himalayan town of Shimla you cast your gaze hither and thither viewing architectural features that are more akin to a Victorian England. This is no surprise as that’s exactly what they are. The parade ground on The Ridge is perhaps, Sandhurst or Dartmouth Naval College airdropped onto a mountaintop. The alpine backdrop is dramatic, incongruous, ill fitting the scene in the foreground.


A walking trail around the town notes and celebrates railway buildings, the post office, churches, a command house, the sanitarium. It’s a uniquely preserved military/government base. It’s certainly a destination for modern Indians who flock here, definitely an escape from the intense, unrelenting heat of the plains to the south and west.

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As the Channel 4 series Indian Summers – set here in 1932 – creator Paul Rutman noted:

“Shimla was an entirely British invention. In the middle of the nineteenth century the Brits who were out there decided to build the town in their own image. It wasn’t a holiday destination; it was a summer retreat, somewhere where people could go to crash out. I would compare it with Ibiza, because in a way it was a party town. The other half of the story is of a town where a lot of work got done, of ruling and administrative stuff.”

Consider this: at its peak, this small, uber remote, twee town was the governmental centre for a fifth of the human race.

All this nostalgia leaves me with a sudden urge to send a postcard.

Standing at Scandal Point, the post office (1883) is but a few steps away. The dilapidated building is open for business. Within seconds – much to my surprise – I have a clutch of stamps in my hand. Then normal “service” resumes and the operative reverses into the back office to retrieve some change. Far be it than a customer counter to have a cash float. In the following lengthy  minutes I watch as she visits various desks and drawers. Ancient cash drawers are accessed and shrugs offered. Eventually we conclude our transaction and I am the proud owner of 56p worth of stamps.

Now, for some picture postcards. (Before you ask, yes, this was queried in the Post Office. No, IndiaPost doesn’t offer such collateral. Now please move along.)

Context: we are in a tourist town, with – apparently – not a single shop that is for anything other than frivolous visitor spend. Yet can I buy a postcard? Of course I can’t. In fact we enjoy a breathless – it’s at altitude – magical mystery tour of this remarkable architectural, cultural relic with a cheery battle cry: “Do you sell postcards?”

And nobody does. And really, why would they these days? It’s a dying, specialist market.

Consider this: in 2018 who do you send a postcard to?

Mum (obvs). Nan. An elderly friend/neighbour. A collector. That particular friend who you’ve a running theme with. And… Forgive me, but nobody else gives a shit. Instagram et al has simply removed the need for them. The kids are likely to be 99.9% unimpressed. We could have purchased any number of selfie-sticks, phone chargers and smartphones on our quest. Of course, it’s not just postcards who’ve been left behind. I spied a specialist camera shop whose facia and staff shared a shabby, forlorn look. I expect they can remember the day when they last sold a canister of 35mm film (to someone who wasn’t a bloody hipster).

We end up – a day and a half later – in a charming bookshop (ironically) 50m from the post office. (Sixth largest publish nation in the world they say, India is the second largest English-language print book publisher with over 9000 publishers. Looking ahead, more than 70 per cent of publishers in India have digitised their content to produce eBook versions. After all, everyone has a smartphone…)

Guess what they sell? Cue an unseemly scrabble to purchase their last remaining books of postcards before an inevitable rush. (As if.)

Settled into a cafe minutes later we are faced with another dilemma. What to write?


Sweet Lime Sodas for the authour

Pithy, relevant, contextual one liners that are uneditable and solitary. That is the demand of the small blank space on the left. It’s like a Tweet with no reply function and 2 week lag between pressing send and the reader logging in.

“Weather’s here wish you were beautiful.” No.

“oOoooh, I think I left the gas on?” Niche humour, but no: you had to be there.

We end up with the consoling thought that the lovely image on the picture side says it all and simply sign “with much love” or similar.

Input phase completed. We march up to the Scandal Point postbox and deposit a clutch of ‘cards. They clunk to the bottom of a seemingly empty receptacle. Immediate questions: when will they arrive? Will they arrive at all? Writing this some days later: where are they now I wonder…


Wish you were here.


The Beers

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Apps for India

During this trip to India I’ve lost track of the number of apps that I’ve used. On reflection, pretty much my first act on emerging from Arrivals was to buy an Airtel – local mobile’ provider – SIM.

So with data safely in hand we have Google Maps, GMail to keep up with business/reservations, GooglePhotos, Facebook, WordPress (Blog), WhatsApp for our little travelling circus plus keeping in touch with the offspring and Granny Pat. Dammit, I even used the device as – hold something solid folks – a phone. Y’know, for like, talking.

In 1994 we traversed the subcontinent armed solely with a copy of The Lonely Planet guide to India.

But in these enlightened times, our evening unfolds thus:

Where are we eating? Let’s have a look on (Some great overly picky reviews on there BTW.) At the restaurant “How was your dinner?” My dear Mr Patel at the Jaipur Hawk View bar. Fear not sir, I will write a nice review. Thanks for your card and asking me to do it. Yes, I heard you the first time. No, no, I won’t forget. Then, how are we getting home? Abdul Najim has given me his card and we SMS him as we pay the bill (where we could use an app to settle up). He’s then magically waiting outside. (Damn right he is, we pay multiple rates of local punters and I sense we’ve made his financial day/week with our clueless haggling. Although it grates when he enquires “when you are leaving?” and then informs that it’s an appropriate time for a giant tip. 10/10 for chutzpah. Minus several out of ten for rubbing your customers noses in it.)

Our train travel is digital too, albeit slightly less successfully.

Foreigners book travel on Cleartrip and I have an account on IRCTC which we could use to show the ticket inspectors. (Feedback on those apps: once your tickets are issued, they don’t auto update with any train schedule changes, which kinda negates the point of an app right? Might as well carry a paper copy and be done with it.)

And the above are merely a flavour of a (digital) foreigner about town. What of the locals?

A quick Google – obvs – reveals a plethora of “The top X killer apps for the mobile Indian.” Yet instead of considering them technically/functionally, I am struck by what it says about the present/future. In the UK we seem to have fallen for Amazon et al. Yet here the lack of infrastructure blocks adoption of some click-to-physical activities. Such as a nationwide delivery service to usurp the postman. (For now.) I am quietly bewildered with the way in which India has leapfrogged/dispensed with/ignored/bypassed stuff we grapple with in Europe.

Paying for stuff. Why visit the bank or carry cash when you can use an app? You’ll be needing a UPI squire. 

Food. Get it delivered via the Zomato app or book a table. Uber your ride.

Landline? Hundreds of millions of people here have ever had one. And never will. They don’t need to use the phone as a telephone either: use it for VoiceOverIP. IE: Calling via the web on WhatsApp/FB Messenger et al.

The “Top 50…” app listings by category includes camera, entertainment, productivity and then a whole bunch of stuff that I’m unsure what they are for… The fact is everyone has a mobile. The tuk-tuk pilot blaring his horn – normal Indian business – as the seemingly prehistoric loping bullock cart ahead baulks us.

There’s something momentarily surreal about the scene as the ‘cart driver in filthy overall, barefoot, red turban skew-if turns and we see that he’s on a call. Probably to his (Indian) stock broker.

What kind of phones can people afford? Smartphones everywhere. Every flavour except iPhone unless you’re a) a tourist or b) showing off your bling/excess disposable income or c) both.

Finally, there’s the ubiquitous, overt and covert selfie culture. The blonde team members were stopped and asked how many times for a photo? In 2012 it turned our son into an 8 year old rock star, it’s even more established now. I am curious to imagine the “holiday snaps” conversation. “Who’s the big bald fellow?” “Oh, just some random white guy.” Then there are all the no-permission selfies a la paparazzi. Annoying, but only as a buttoned up Brit. Indians and their relationship with personal space is, to put it mildly, different.

I feel like a mere amateur with the technology. And that’s coming from a guy who – in a former life – was a technical trainer for the world’s (then) biggest PC manufacturer.

India marches on regardless with us trailing in their wake…

Or am I just, well, old?


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For Pat & Susan

Break. Fast. Yet mostly lunch. (But I had dinner there three years ago it turns out.)


Monday. Jaipur.

After an intoxicating morning at the Amber Fort with it’s mind boggling designs, raison d’etre and sheer scale we are wilted. Then there was the amazing Hinglish, witty, knowledge rich, rapid-fire delivery from our guide (who made us all cry). Need I mention it was also melty-hot. Without a bye nor leave Gilly stepped in and stepped it up a gear by deftly navigating the handicrafts emporium and easing our driver away from the regular tourist orbit. We make for a more local eatery.

How on earth we are in need of sustenance after our decadent breakfast and this climate is a minor mystery. After much persuasion we are deposited outside the Shri Ram Hotel. Persuasion? Don’t think that you get to choose destinations when you have a driver in India. Nope. They know what you want, what’s best and – side order of cynicism, table two – where they get a little kick back from. Us paying customers calling the shots is gently against the playbook here. Also, unlike anything in Europe, the kitchen at this august establishment is outside, up front, on show. You have to walk through it to sit inside. And what an inside!

Hygiene certificate? Health and safety? Try another universe.

Neat-niks? Clean freaks? Look away NOW.

With some amusement we are ushered to white upright dining chairs with their clear protective plastic on. I say white, I say clear, I mean the very definition of grubby. (Who knows when the day to remove the covers will be?! What an occasion.) The menus, the plastic tablecloths all look like they’ve spent 30 years being handled by clumsy old skool car mechanics. The whole place has the kind of patina that wouldn’t shame the underside of a motorway flyover. Only with dining furniture. At least the haphazard electrics – seemingly installed by a cack-handed surrealist – manage not to self-combust as the fan whirls overhead.

In essence? Loving it. It’s bloody brilliant.

Outside, er, in the kitchen… Is this what hipsters call street food? The gas-fuelled, charcoal topped burner is like an angry scale model volcano, the tandoor gently rumbling like a jet awaiting take off and radiating a mirage of heat. We’ve ordered various veggie curries, fried rice and a selection of tandoori breads. I shoot the (hot) breeze with the cheery kitchen staff and oggle at their cookery as traffic noisily passes.

The ingredients seem CGI enhanced. Their freshness evident, their colours vibrant. The fellas – they are all fellas – swing into action. (We were denied several choices on the extensive menu and I twig that’s because they simply don’t have the fresh supplies. I wish more UK restaurants operated thus.) Even writing here I have started salivating again. As the pans heat, the ghee splashes in and the veggies join them. I wish you could’ve smelt it. Bugger. Am hungry AGAIN.


Ask a traveller what’s grand about Indian food you might well get a seemingly odd answer.


Bread?” [you ask.]


Without knocking the UK food and curry industry, there is something extra special about an almost too hot to eat butter naan straight out of the tandoor on an Indian roadside. I note with a smile we are all eating ravenously, appreciatively, unselfconsciously. The restaurateur is highly concerned about the mains: “it’ll be too spicy!” he exclaims with a head bobble. It isn’t. It’s flavoursome. He’s a lovely, warm chap with an easy smile and appears to be wearing clothes that haven’t been washed, well, ever. His industrious team seem to be having the time of their lives too. We eat a little more. He arrives again with more fresh, hot bread.

He hands it to me. No, no, not the plate. He hands me the bread.

‘Scuse fingers I think with a chuckle.

(Medic! A germaphobe has fainted at table three! Bring the jumbo vat of extra-strong hand sanitiser.)

We pay. It’s 1426IRP. For four. Fifteen quid with a tip.

I then realise that three or so years ago I randomly walked in here with my Mum and sister. We stayed in a hotel nearby, went for a stroll and – via an Indian wedding – ended up here by following our noses. By the power of Gilly we are somehow delivered here again at random. Jaipur is massive by the way. What are the chances?

Although these small world things keep happening to us… again and again… oh, and again.

So, Shri Ram Hotel. Highly recommended for a good value lunch if you’re passing.


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Old Delhi 2018 – (still) every kind of nuts.

These days when you fly into New Delhi, it’s likely on a spanking 21st century airliner and you are ushered into a modern terminal on arrival. With only mild disorientation you get your eVisa okayed and it’s identikit duty-free all the way to the baggage carousel. All very international and none the better for it.

You have the option of the metro – 21st century airport express – but we opted for a complimentary airport pickup because a) duh, complimentary and b) I’m too lazy to walk the last 400m from the Metro station to our digs.

Annnnd let the games begin. Gently at first.

When we eventually RV with our chap – of course there are 2 meetings points with the same id number about 200m apart – he ushers us to a careworn (aka beaten-to-shit) Maruti-Suzuki micro-van. We fill it, crank up the A/C and head towards town. It’s my 4th visit and I note that, if anything, the traffic has got worse. A growing (westernising?) economy and booming middle class = more cars. So very many. Luckily everyone ignores all road markings and traffic rules, not to mention laws of physics. We ooze into non existent spaces, swerve onrushing trucks/cars/buses/tuk-tuks/motorcycles/yak-carts, cheerfully straddle white lines, give way to no one and all the while beep the horn like a frustrated morse’ radio operator.
I have written about this at length some years ago, still feels current: click here.

On this trip we have a twist: 2 India virgins. So naturally we ditch the bags at the hotel, grab two auto rickshaws (tuk-tuks) and head for Old Delhi proper. The simple act of crossing the bridge from DB Gupta Rd over the New Delhi Rail Station tracks into Chawri Bazaar is like pressing the crazy button on a time machine.

Away team, adjust phaser craziness settings to “batshit”.

It’s so difficult to make the fully paid-up bonkers appear in words don’t you think? Photos aren’t terribly helpful either, because the circus-like, festival intensity requires all senses to be engaged. (I am also a mediocre photographer at best.) Intellectually, y’know that there are 1.2 billion souls in India today. But somehow y’don’t expect them to all be on the same street as you. On a Tuesday lunchtime.

After some time – “jack knifed cow, mahousive snarl up on Chandi Chwok guvnah” – we de-tuk, er, tuk-tuk, tuk at the Jama Masjid. The biggest mosque in India is impressive and offers a great vantage point. We head up the steps to take it in, take a break and reset. At which point our blonder travelling companions are transformed: instant rock star status. Every dude with a smartphone – IE: that’ll be pretty much every bloke then – wants a selfie. Some ask, some just do, many gawp.

Personal space? India? Ha! Forget it. (But not in a bad way.)

It’s just gone noon, it’s post monsoon and it’s a humid thir-tee-five. Here come the bloke only half afl… (Oops, sorry, but it is Madness here.) The stone floor of the mosque courtyard area is difficult to walk on barefoot. Had we a frying pan it’d fry an egg on it. September now and each massive block has spent months soaking up the summer heat. The European brain is easily addled in these conditions. (Jet-lag is no help.) We need to get a perspective and opt to climb the Minaret. Rapidly, our newbies are noticing the (expected) lack of safety measures. It is always surprising even though you know it to be the case. The appropriate response is to simultaneously laugh manically and pay careful attention to every step as you attempt not to fall to your death.

The reward for such great bravery (!) and sweaty climbing is a clinging to the flimsy railing panorama of the jumbled, disordered, architectural dogs-dinner that is Old Delhi. With a stiff, warm wind blowing visibility is pretty good (for here) and the notorious haze is lifted. The Red Fort main gate has a proud Indian flag filled with the breeze. (In winter the fug is thick and you can hardly make out the imposing ramparts a scant few hundred metres away.)

From up here you soak it all in spying comically haphazard electricity cables, gridlocked traffic, crumbling rooftops, soaring Black Kites, litter strewn alleyways, bazaars with countless shops, stalls and – of course – people. Add to that the soundtrack: the cacaphony of engines and horns is like a toothache that never quite goes away in this town.

It can’t possibly all function can it? Yep, here it is happening all day every day. I return – now, 3 years later – and the buzz is still turned up to 11 on the dial. I find myself imagining if it’s real at all: it’s akin to a hyper-realistic immersive theme park ride. Surely nowhere on earth is this intense?

Old Delhi just is.

As if to prove this to ourselves we then get stuck in a bicycle rickshaw traffic jam. We edge along and – yes – it would’ve been quicker to walk. But the raised seat of these torturous, inefficient contraptions is a perfect vantage point to take it all in. These jalopies are not used purely by tourists. It’s part of the regular transport… System is not the right word. Let’s say ecosystem, okay? (As I only partly understand how they work too.)

Presently we reach the spice market and it takes our breath away. IE: involuntary spluttering and coughing as the aroma a thousand of chilli catch your throat. Piled displays of nuts, masala, ground spices, sack upon sacks of chillis. We climb up and around the building, boggling at its dilapidation and shocking condition. The locals flow around us making spicy business, porters trolleys stacked high with colourful and spicy ingredients, others with sacks on their heads barrelling down slippery dark stairwells in flip-flops.

Suitably bamboozled we throw in the towel and head for the metro for a supposed easier ride back to base.

Delhi Metro 2018 : Cheap, fast, air-conditioned and – it turns out – with highly efficient pickpockets.

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