There & Back Again

I felt a twinge of sadness as I told the taxi driver that I was going home. It feels far longer than six weeks that I’ve been here, and although I can’t wait to step off the plane in miserable, freezing Manchester to rejoin my girlfriend, friends and family, I really am going to miss this place. I wont’ particularly miss the appalling hygiene; the mosquitos and flies and rats and mangy stray flea-bitten cats and dogs; the spitting and staring and public urination; the pervading odour of piss and shit and garbage; the exhaustive honking of horns and heckling of wallahs and hawkers; the constant necessary awareness of possible pickpockets, funky food and dodgy water; the necessity to take malaria tablets every day and always carry toilet roll (just in case); the persistent chaos and apparent disorder and the inability to do anything with any respectable urgency. I’m making it sound terrible but it really isn’t it, providing you’re willing to adjust to such a different pace of life; because it’s these things, plus so, so much more that make India the fantastical, larger-than-life prism of culture, colour, cuisine, light and sound and love and energy that it is. It truly is a unique place, far more so than I could comprehend before I spent a short time here.

Finishing with Mumbai was a well-played move. It’s a shame it wasn’t incorporated into the ‘Experience’ program so the rest of the group could have enjoyed it. After travelling around the backpackers triangle between the capital city Delhi, Agra and Jaipur then into the deserts of Rajasthan, to the Himalayan peaks of Himachel Pradesh and through the jungle-edged Goan coast—Mumbai seemed the most apt culmination of everything we’d experienced so far wrapped up into one big city. The amber setting sun shying between contrasting grim-streaked tower blocks and gleaming crystal office buildings reflecting the mosaics of the maze of filthy slums below epitomises the bewildering scale of the poverty divide and the contradictory nature of India that I’ve pointed out previously. Mumbai is full of such striking imagery: the tidy endless palm-lined promenade of Chowpatty Seaface holds back a toxic tide of black water thick with chemical and human waste; dirty ragged homeless children sleeping on roundabouts and pavements in the shadow of the extravagant Gothic monolith that is Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus train station (apparently the busiest train station in Asia, although I’m unsure if that’s accounting for Tokyo’s Shinjuku monster); Bentley garages, Brietling billboards and houses worth up to $500million in a city where 60%—that’s 60%—of the population live in slums and shantytowns. Yet somehow it all seems to work; out of the maelstrom of chaos the city manages to function, and if you can learn to appreciatie and drift along with the cadences of the tempest you’l find it’s quite an exhilarating place to be.

It was nice to have Faye’s company, it always makes traveling far more enjoyable when you can share your experiences, observations and opinions; being a good sport she trailed tirelessly around every patch of the city with me in an attempt to absorb as much as possible in two days. And we didn’t do bad. We wound through colonial boulevards of Fort past standing Victorian testaments to the British rule, south past the Gateway of India down Colaba Causeway, stopping for refreshments at Leopold’s Café (a famous travellers institution, made particularly iconic in Gregory David Roberts’ epic saga ‘Shantaram‘), before continuing on to explore the fishy quays of Sassoon Dock and eventually finding our way to the tip of the Colaba peninsula to stumble upon the far-reaching slum situated at the feet of the World Trade Centre.

The slum I had, along with Leopold’s Café, particularly desired to witness, as it featured as one of the essential set pieces in Shantaram where Gregory David Roberts apparently lived and set up a health clinic in the early 80s. I wasn’t sure what to expect, if anything, and didn’t know if I’d have the guts to enter (due to a combination of fear for what diseases I may catch, and quite honest, shame). When we did happen upon it, the situation proved neither frightening nor intimidating, but bewildering and humbling. The residents smiled and welcomed us, invited us to play games with them (in particular a peculiar snooker-style game played with draughtsmen on a square wooden board called ‘Carrom’), no-one begged for money, they didn’t discourage us taking photos (however it still felt awkward and perverse) and most were completely unperturbed by our presence. In fact, instead of the appalling, dilapidated shacks and sewage-lined alleys we’d expected, the slum was actually it’s own self-contained, buzzing city. Cramped shops and stalls sold sweets, drinks and clothes; children skipped through the narrow passages wearing school uniforms; men budged past, hurdling over cats and goats, carrying sheets of corrugated tin and sari-clad mothers swaggered around balancing baskets of fruit and washing on their heads. The atmosphere was neither depressing nor upsetting, but alive with energy—to most of the slum dwellers this was life, they’d never experienced anything different, so what is there to be upset for?

Feeling more confident due to the warm reception we ventured deeper into the labyrinth, ducking and weaving through the crumbling concrete and tin shacks, through the veils of flies, till we reached the sea. Here, on the western edge of the slum, we were presented with what was one of the most arresting scenes I’ve ever encountered. Along a jetty to our left, men were balancing on the edge to relieve themselves into a lake of festering sludge that merged into the Arabian sea—before us, about 2km across the expanse of Back Bay, the towering apartments of Malabar Hill rose from the haze above the ocean. You couldn’t figure a more vivid visual manifestation of the rich-poor divide. We then left, speechless.

By yesterday evening we’d completely exhausted ourselves in the quest to tackle Bombay. After rambling endlessly around the bazaars of Crawford, Mangaldas, Zaveri, Bhuleshwar and Chor, fearing we’d never escape, we eventually weaved our way west to the more tranquil streets of the city’s top social and economic players’ sky-scratching apartments and palaces in Malabar Hill before descending along the northern promontory of Back Bay, along the shit-riddled shores of Chowpatty Beach, in time to sit back and massage our feet on the sea wall of Marine Drive as our final setting sun of India descended behind the distant waves of the Arabian Sea.

It was exactly the right way to end the trip. Mumbai is India at every extreme: a cosmopolitan metropolis that blends Indian tradition with Western modernism; proudly retaining the architecture of it’s colonial and heritage whilst paving the way for independent evolution; a financial powerhouse and heart of the largest movie industry in the world; home to over 16 million people crammed into just 440sq km boasting some of the world’s most expensive real estate and one of it’s largest slums.

India so many things; so many terrifically different landscapes, attitudes, religions, lifestyles, languages, ancestry and history, hopes and dreams and desires and passions, pitfalls and problems, highs and lows, colours and sounds and smells and waves of energy. It’s one fantastic fireworks display that caters to all the senses. The intrinsic ties with religion and family that pulse through every aspect of Indian life; the offensively primitive segregation of men and women in public (such as on public transport); the all-enduring chaos and stress the seems to infect every process and interaction and above all the dramatic contrasts in every spectrum of life—wealth and poverty, the Northern and the Southern character, friendliness and disgusting public behaviour and mannerisms, the apparent strict religious disciplines and dogma and the semi-nude Bollywood dancers on the TV. Every extreme is attended to at both ends, nothing is done by halves—India boasts an ephemeral, transcendental energy that flows through every facet of it’s being; six weeks are by no means long enough to scratch the surface of such a vast country, and my rushed, tired words as I scribble away between planes on the haul home are by no means illustrative enough to convey the true experience—in fact I doubt very few writers’ words are. India is somewhere you truly have to visit and feel for yourself. And with that, I’ll say no more.

Goa has been the relief and reward for the preceding three weeks of hauling ourselves around the country; although it’s conceded little in the way of exciting, enlightening adventures with which to fill the pages of a travel journal. For the past two weeks I’ve spent the days lounging on the beach, scooting around the coast on mopeds through emerald jungles and whiled away the evenings in the company of the Idex group and many bottles of disgustingly cheap (but far from disgusting) bottles of rum in Balton’s ‘reggae’ beach shack on the tranquil golden sands of Utorda beach. After descending from the depressing chill of the mountains to the heavenly thirty degree sweats of the Southern beaches we’ve eaten like kings for the price of paupers and lapped up the rays—I really can’t account for where the time’s gone.

In contrast to the let-down that was Christmas, we saw in the new year partying to German techno and fireworks on the beach of Arambol, dancing and drinking through the night with a cast of aged hippies and drugged-up ravers, capturing a couple of hours kip on the sand as the first dawn of 2012 burned down on the final stragglers and entranced, drug-addled party animals still standing. It was rather a unique way to spend the night (as opposed to in a cramped overpriced bar in Manchester) where you can nonchalantly buy Class A drugs off your waiter (”Yeah I’ll have two beers, a gram of coke and a couple of tabs of acid please”). Suffice to say we were all pretty exhausted the following day.

After the rest of our group departed for their various destinations last Thursday, be it returning home or to continue their backpacking adventures, Faye and I remained in Goa till this morning before flying up to the crowded ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ city of Mumbai—the final leg of our travels in the subcontinent. In a couple of days time I’ll be embarking on my three-stop journey back to Manchester; Faye moves on to Singapore for the next stage in her year-long adventure. Besides wanting to experience Mumbai anyway, it’ll be nice to delve back in the hectic heart of India before escaping bck to the civility and civilisation of the UK as opposed to returning straight home from the beach. However, I can’t help but feel we’ve leaped from the frying pan, into the fire!

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the biggest fan of Christmas; I loathe the commercialisation and exploitation purely because it’s so tacky. I do, however, hold Christmas day itself very dearly. My annual routine consists of nursing my hangover with a large black coffee, hair of the dog and some sort of grilled pork in vast quantities, after which I proceed to lounge on the couch all day until a gut-busting dinner is served. In between all that presents are exchanged, more alcohol consumed and classic James Bond films watched in front of a roaring fire with the dog curled up beside me. This year, my dearly-held ritual was not to be.

On Friday, after returning to Palampur the previous afternoon, Matt and I were scheduled to ‘volunteer’ at a local primary school. The ‘volunteering’ in reality consisted of nothing more than standing awkwardly at the back of a class of irritable seven year olds in a bare, dank cell of a classroom. I don’t ‘do’ kids, so when invited to help the ’slow’ child at the back I took up the task with about as much enthusiasm as wiping my arse with nettles. Five minutes of remedial cricket with the schoolboys on what can only be described as a quarry (the school ‘field’) was fun, but rapidly descended into tedium after the twentieth time nearly breaking my ankle on the rocks whilst retrieving the ball. Two hours was enough to declare it a failure, after which we declined to return either that afternoon or the following day.

Christmas Eve is a night I usually reserving for testing the boundaries of my alcohol tolerance, and despite the fact that ‘I’m in India, how amazing’, I couldn’t help but feel dejected that I’d be spending one of my favourite evenings of the year without the companionship of my best friends in some crowded local pub in Marple, but in a quiet, bar-less mountain village in the foothills of the Himalayas with a bunch of relative strangers. In an effort to make best of the situation, Matt and I ventured out, whilst Becky and Faye spent the day in Dharamsala, to scout a venue that would dispense alcohol to us for the evening. After a couple of hours of fruitless searching (besides one hotel that reminded us of The Shining) we did find a grotty hotel bar in the centre of the village, which was little more than a tiled, soulless room and a fridge of beer. Giving up, we settled for a drink before returning back to the camp. One became a few; it was awful, potently strong stuff. We hailed a tuk-tuk back, picking up some more beer (which remained unopened) on the way. We tried to initiate a party in our room but within an hour I’d passed out, as if I’d been spiked. In the morning, Christmas morning, I awoke to no presents, no bacon, no coffee, and no walled or iPhone.

My wallet had thankfully been discovered on the driveway by the camp chef, but in my drunkenness my phone was long gone. Only a few days earlier Matt and I had been discussing how awful it would be to lose our iPhones—our vital lifelines; it seems we jinxed ourselves (Matt had lost his walled a couple of days previous). I may sound ungrateful that it was a pretty shitty Christmas Day, when I should be elated at the idea of spending it in such a novel fashion, but truth be told we were all dreadfully sick of Palampur and desperately eager to get to the warmer beaches of Goa. At 3pm on Christmas Day, after phoning the relatives, we hopped into the minibus for the four hour journey to Chakki Bank and from there the overnight train to Delhi. There was no turkey. There was no James Bond.

To break up the arduous journey to the southern beaches we spent another day in the capital, at which I was initially most unimpressed about, desiring to just get to Goa. But the free time did prove a handy opportunity to catch some of the parts of the city that we’d missed in our first, rushed visit. Taking the astonishingly clean, modern and efficient metro from Gurgaon (that we later realised was so because it had only recently been constructed for 2010’s Commonwealth Games) we disembarked in the centre of Connaught Place, which we assumed to be the ‘heart’ of the city, in the Western sense that the ‘heart’ of a city is often where the high-street shops reside.

The Levis, Wrangler, Rolex and Calvin Klein stores took us by surprise, considering the vast poverty we’d encountered; but also served as a reminder of the peculiar Indian contradictory nature. Besides the ragged children begging to re-sole your shoes or even clear out your ears (that’s right), there’s a mass of extremely wealthy, well-educated population that appear to actually live fairly Westernised lifestyles. The contrast was made even more apparent when we wandered north-west from Connaught Place into Old Delhi. Here the sewers ran open, tangled trunks of power cables hung freely just above head height, horse-drawn carts, cows, dogs, bikes and tuk-tuks all battle for space between the crumbling, dilapidated buildings. Smoke, smog and dust hang thick in the air amidst the odours of fried food, spices, incense, piled garbage and underlying sewage. The noise, the noise is almost unbearable—horns, yelling, heckling, radios blaring; it’s the symphony of chaos. Altogether the whole experience completely overwhelms the senses, and somehow this is the everyday norm to many.

We ploughed through (’ploughed’ being rather apt) the markets of the Chawri Bazaar to reach the enormous Jama Masjid mosque. Being white we were immediately hustled by the porters who tried to charge us for taking cameras in, as locals casually strolled in without being accosted. By this point we were all quite highly strung from the trying experience of reaching the mosque, and promptly told them ‘where to go’ in the most vulgar of all British fashions. We battled through the rest of Old city to find a metro station, a portal to freedom—it had taken us most of the afternoon to cover little more than a square kilometer, but we returned to Gurgaon exhausted.

That evening, Boxing Day (which I would usually spend gorging myself on a second Christmas roast at my nans before meeting friends at the pub), we treated ourselves to an extortionately overpriced (by Indian standards) belated Christmas dinner at a ‘Mediterranean’ style restaurant in the nearby mall. Although turkey, stuffing and crispy roast potatoes weren’t on the menu, it was satisfying after three weeks of Dhal and rice to enjoy some Western cuisine.

Yesterday morning we awoke, well-rested, for our final sleep train journey, 26 hours, to Goa. I personally can engross myself in a book and my music for hours, but some of the group, Becky especially, were dreading it. It’s true that we could have easily got a flight and save day, but it’s all about the ‘experience’, of course. The group ended up divided over two carriages—the girls and I ending up trapped with a smelly old woman who took up half the bench and kept burping and farting, and opposite a spoiled little shit of a kid who persisted in wailing and crawling all over the shop.

Time has passed fairly… not fast, but it has indeed passed. Between reading, playing cards, interacting with some of the other passengers and a completely atrocious sleep, the hours have slipped away and with a numb arse, smelly armpits and tired eyes I write this with anticipation as we’ll finally be arriving in Goa within the hour. First things first—I want a cocktail in a coconut!

Since the Chinese communist takeover of Tibet in 1949, an estimated over 1.2 million of the population have died through brutal repression and forced starvation (although the Chinese Communist Party disputes this). More than 250,00 Tibetan refugees have fled their homeland over hundreds of miles of treacherous Himalayan terrain to seek sanctuary, under the leadership of the Dalai Lama, in India.

Dharamsala, or more specifically the village of McLeod Ganj (around 4km north of the grubby market town of Lower Dharamsala) is both home to his holiness and the headquarters of the Tibetan government in exile. It’s also a pretty popular stop on the backpacking route; budding Buddhists (sorry) and those of a spiritual disposition travel from the far corners of the world to listen to the teachings of the Dalai Lama and absorb the fusion of displaced culture in the cute little ridge-straddled town.

It was cold. It was bloody cold. My Indian tanning regime is on a temporary hiatus; I was not prepared for such chilly conditions. Our ‘penthouse’ hotel room boasted a host of comforting features: single pane windows that didn’t seal properly; no running water (in the mornings at least—you know, when you fancy a wash); too few curtains so anybody walking past (as a confused Chinese couple did) could see straight in; no towels; no soap; unclean bedsheets and one dismal florescent bulb to illuminate the entire ‘apartment’. It was no Hilton, but we did at least have HBO!

It was HBO that just about saved us. The problem we found with McLeod Ganj was that once the sun went down and the cafes closed, there’s little else to do. And even if there was, it’s so painfully cold (granted in all fairness we hardly had the appropriate attire, but you try fitting a winter coat into a backpack), the only thing you want to do is snuggle up in front of the TV.

After arriving in the village Matt, Daniel, Evie and I went in search of a lunch that didn’t consist of the routine ‘dhal and chapatti’ whilst Anand tried to sort the hotel booking error that consequently landed us our luxury pad. For the first time in two weeks (quite a feat for me) I treated myself to meat and a ridiculously overpriced Corona (it was worth it). So far, since arriving in India, I’ve barely smoked, drank or eaten meat. I’m not yet sure if I feel better for it, but regardless, that will all change once we hit the bars and beaches of Goa next week. After lunch we visited the ‘Dalai Lama Temple’ which thanks to Lonely Planet I now realise is called the ‘Tsuglagkhang Complex’ (try pronouncing that after a few Sambucas). Now, either we missed parts of it, or I simply didn’t find it all that impressive. It was a bit of a mess—sheets and drink cartons strewn all over the expanse of floor mats, hardly the grand shrine I’d expected. We did later discover that the Dalai Lama himself was actually in town (which turns out to be quite rare considering he is, after all, a jet setting country leader) for a Russian public teaching, hence the reason why the temple was still in the state of being cleared after that morning’s exodus of spectators and students.

Exploiting the remaining hours of sunlight we took in every inch of the town, all two or three streets of it. Besides the cafes we took advantage of for free Wi-Fi, and the stalls and boutiques taking advantage of tourist wallets, pawning off all sorts of shitty prayer wheels, beads, bracelets and tacky Dalai Lama paraphernalia at obscene prices, there was little else to do, besides shivering under a stinky blanket watching True Lies and Rambo.

The following day was much the same. We visited a waterfall that was little more than a feeble trickle, though I’m sure would be an impressive torrent in  monsoon season, then crag hopped and clambered along the boulder-laden riverbed like giddy children before retiring to a cafe. We sampled ‘Mo Mo’, a tasty Tibetan snack similar to vegetarian dumplings crossed with spring rolls, and before dark sought sanctuary once again in the room, with our friend HBO.

My regular exercise routine consists of nothing more than the daily ten minute walk between my flat, work, the local and on odd occasions I might bravely venture a little farther to the cinema or a restaurant on the other side of town. I am extremely unfit. But a streak of male pride demands that I uptake certain physical challenges, like Wednesday’s 10km trek, with an arrogant zeal. With a stomach full of porridge (I can’t stand porridge but beans on toast wasn’t on the menu) I shouldered my bag and took point with our trekking guide (whose name escapes me now). Ten kilometers is indeed child’s play, but combine it with a 4000ft ascent and your thighs will later tell a different story. To any of the regular rambling readers who may scoff, I must remind you that in light of my poor fitness I may as well have been climbing Everest.

Through the day we picked our way over rocky paths through mixed forests of deodar, oak and rhododendron; the rooftops of McLeod Ganj and Bhagsunag turned to Lego and the only sounds to be heard over our panting were the rustles in the scrub and the gentle breeze through the canopy above. As we climbed over cols and tors, the terrain grew ragged and steeper, forcing us on to all-fours at some points; the trees and the air began to thin, exposing startling views and sheer vertigo-inducing drops. Eagles soared alongside us, gracefully navigating the zephyrs, and we began to draw an entourage of dogs like some Pied Pipers of the Himalayan hounds. A persistent bunch even escorted us all the way to our destination at 3000m—these stoic companions we affectionately named Rambo, Sneezy (I’ve never seen a dog sneeze so much—it was hilarious), Shitty Arse and Bitch (incidentally the bitch of the pack). Besides accompanying us to the top, the dogs provided entertainment, braved the harsh mountain winds of the night and chauffeured us back down the following day.

When we did reach our summit by mid-afternoon, my legs were shot, but it was completely worth it. I don’t possess the vocabulary to do it justice. Atop the ridge we owned the world; besides our guides, the dogs and a few gliding eagles, nothing else existed. There was no sound, nothing. Only the silent dominance of the eve- reaching peaks behind us and thousands of feet to civilisation below us. We barely spoke—there was no need to. We opened the run-down lodge that was to be our shelter for the night (it was too cold for tents), brewed up some chai and each found our own little meditative spots in the tranquility. I absorbed myself in a book, as I usually do, but at one point stopped in the silence to fully absorb the beauty of the moment—haze and a veil of cloud had washed in like a tide around our little crest of mountaintop, obscuring the foothills from view; through the cold, thin air the sun burned down—I was on an island in the sky.

I’ve never eaten as quickly as I did that evening, it was disgusting. The cold was attacking in full force, carried by a growing wind. By half six we abandoned the fire and leaped into bed—I wore long johns under my chinos, a t-shirt, shirt, sweater and shawl, curled up in a sleeping bag under a duvet. The lodge was no great barrier against the elements, but combined with the layers of insulation and the exhaustion of the day, sleep found its way quite easily, and the next thing I knew the sun was rising over the mountains in the east and steaming chai was being served. The dogs had somehow survived, and so had we!

It may have been the compounded effect of the previous day’s exertion, but the journey back down took its toll, more than expected. Our aching thighs and calves and shattered knees stumbled, staggered and slid over crude paths of rock and shale; I swore I was going to break an ankle, but we did eventually make it back to Dharamsala unscathed, save a few blisters. The guides, and eventually the dogs, abandoned us and we marched a further 5km, adding insult to injury, to meet our lift (who had been trapped in the traffic of a political demonstration in Lower Dharamsala) to escort the bunch of weary travel-worn adventurers back to join the rest of the group in Palampur.

The result of having had no water at our fabulous hotel and two days trekking was that I smelled awful. Greasy hair, cracked lips, my face caked in dry sweat and dust, my shirt drenched and my sweater reeking of campfire smoke. Don’t get me started on my socks (even my dad, renowned for his formidable foot odour, would be repulsed). After rectifying four days lack of self-hygiene I felt like a new man, ate like a starved child and slept like a rock I’d climbed over that very morning.

In the space of a day we’ve traveled from the desert dunes of Pushkar to the freezing mountain slopes of Himalaya in the northern region of Himachel Pradesh. I’m tempted to deviate from flowing prose here to express my excitement at being in the Himalayas, one of my lifelong dreams; albeit not the desired crystal heavens of Everest, we’re still several thousand feet up, surrounded by spectacular views of rich green flora—oak, birch, spruce and pine coating the rises, framed by monstrous grey snow-spattered peaks piercing the azure sky. It may be annoyingly cold (it’s probably no colder than back home in Manchester, but due to the lack of double glazing and central heating the chill bites like a bitch), but the air is so refreshingly clear after the gritty smog of our previous layovers, carrying the sweet aroma of the local tea fields and lofty evergreens. It’s quite the paradise.

Thursday afternoon we were straddled, legs akimbo, my chinos close to tearing at the crotch, over a herd (or the correct zoological term) of camels. These weren’t, however, your regular Arabian excursion giddy-ups, not the horse sized beasts I rode as a child in Tunisia—these were fucking monsters! Towering a good eight feet off the ground, lurching and stumbling, ass clenched on the saddle and feet taut against the stirrups, I finally found comfort with the rocky pace and began to counteract and shift my weight in synchronicity with the camel’s muscular strides. Over three hours we made our way out of the town of Pushkar, from where we’d arrived by train from Jaipur that morning, and lumbered laboriously into the wilderness of the Thar desert; the initial panic perching atop the grizzly beasts slipping into a meditative sway as we casually chased twilight.

Upon arriving at our designated camping area around dusk, we decanted our bags into the triangular tents provided and layered up with all we could as the sun’s absence invited a biting chill across the dunes. Soon after, as the stars began to shyly take their places on the stage of the sky, steaming bowls of delicious dal, spiced potatoes and toasted chapattis were served, a campfire sparked and a truly magical evening initiated.

Huddled round the fire we shared stories and swapped dirty admissions with childish amusement as we sneakily supped from a disguised bottle of vodka—the typical fare that often prevails in such situations. The topic of conversation always gravitates in the same general direction—sexual deviances, illegal pursuits, debauchery often exaggerated for the sake of storytelling and the like, but it’s never for lack of entertainment, and is usually as easily forgotten as it was told.

We smoke, sang, teased, laughed and gradually descended into slurring. At one point Daniel and I stumbled near-blind into the dark in search of more firewood, a failed endeavour upon which the return journey I tripped, landing face first in a patch of sticky devilish desert buds, labeled rather appropriately by the locals as ‘Saddam Husseins’; the term proving accurate as I spent the next hour delicately prising the prickly bastards from the fibres of my clothes. Finishing the vodka and the firewood, we bid one another good night and retired to our tents, two of which had been invaded by cheeky dogs that guiltily slunk out amid a chorus of girls screams and everyone else’s hysterics.

I slept surprisingly well. Waking at seven I peered out between the flaps of the tent as the grunting camels were being saddled for our return journey, chewing and drooling their regurgitated breakfast as ours was simultaneously served. A couple of energising cups of chai (I’ve fallen in love with this wonderful ginger infused refresher) and we hopped back on the camels, with slightly more grace than the previous day, as the camp was dismantled behind us and the rising sun leaked over the jagged hilltops before us. With a lurch and a gargle, our hardworking, flea-riddled escorts lugged us back to Pushkar, leaving our drawn-out shadows and a unique experience in our wake.

The next step in the adventure was quite a daunting one—a sixteen hour sleeper train journey from Pushkar to Chakki Bank in the far reaches of the north, from where we traveled a further four hours by minibus to the town of Palampur. Visions of ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ packed carriages, passengers clinging to the roof, vermin scarpering between the legs of the seats and stuffy, dirty bunks crammed together filled our heads. Thankfully, the experience proved to be far more luxurious than our imaginations had led us to expect. The sleeper carriages are divided into booths of two padded benches facing each other, suited to fit three people each, above which are two fold-down cots on either side, providing three-tiered bunks to sleep six people in each booth. Despite the claustrophobic lack of head room, the persistent murmur of other passengers and the hum of the rolling train—it was far from a tragic journey. I’ve had far worse sleeps on planes.

By pure circumstance (well actually due to a booking mix-up with tickets) the boys ended up in the next carriage along from the girls, but Anand was kind enough to mind our bags, and put up with the raucous co-habitants of our booth (Indian ‘lads on tour’) so we could relax as a full group, with a friendly neighbouring Sikh family. Apart from an incident with a cockroach that had Faye hopping about in fear, and consequently the Sikhs in stitches, and a tiny mouse that persisted in scuttling about beneath my bunk all night, the journey passed steadily and the sixteen hours elapsed comfortably. It was, notwithstanding, quite a shock to the system when we disembarked in Himachel Pradesh at six in the morning to be acquainted with a crucifying cold that we endured for the following few hours as we journeyed to Palampur, praying for the rising sun to heat the frosty van.

Huddled under sleeping bags we weaved and snaked along the gradually narrowing mountain roads, occasionally dicing with death in the form of an oncoming bus or a stray cow mindlessly stepping into our path. The tense journey was rewarded as we pulled up to our accommodation and bore witness to the devastating panoramas—the stark drop to a boulder filled gorge below, cupped by rolling forested peaks before us, and behind us the snow-veined collosi of the Himalayan summits dominating the sky. My words fail to effectively describe the beauty of this place. We blanketed up, suffered the tedious rigmarole of camp orientation (same old) and went in search of local activities, of which we discovered, besides trawling the village bazaar (which sold little else but shawls and silks) and miscellaneous walks, there were none. Palampur has little, it would appear, to offer the long-term visitor in winter. So for two days we’ve whiled away the hours reading, eating, trekking the nearby hills and huddling together under layers of quilts watching films in an attempt to combat the ridiculous cold.

Tomorrow me, Matt, Daniel, Evie and Anand will be transferring to the spiritual Mecca of Daramsala for a few days whilst Becky and Faye remain in Palampur to do some volunteering. To be honest, considering the likely ensuing boredom, I don’t envy them.

When I was around five or six years old I accompanied my dad to pick up an Indian takeaway from a place just outside of Dukinfield, where we lived at the time. I don’t believe I first ate Indian food till my teens so I suppose, retrospectively, that I just went along for the ride. While we waited for the takeaway to be dished up and bagged, a large photo of a spectacular scene adorning the wall caught my eye. It was like something out of a fantasy, something that, at that time, I couldn’t believe possibly existed in this world; not my world of school playgrounds and canal-side bike rides. It was the Taj Mahal.

When, on Sunday, I finally came face to face with the fantasy in real life, that same feeling of sheer awe took hold of me again. Not only was it far from a disappointment, which was always a risk, but it completely took my breath away. In many cases of famous monuments around the world, size is the predominantly determining appeal; superlatives grant their status—tallest, oldest, largest, most visited etc. The Taj Mahal, despite actually being larger than I expected, possesses something else, a sort of transcendental majesty that leaves you gawping. The manicured lawns leading your eyes and your footsteps up to the glowing white marble monolith; the striking symmetry of the towering minarets that lean ever so slightly away from the central structure; and, as you draw nearer, the glimmering swirls and embellishments of the intricately ornate patterns decorating the facades—vibrant shades of ruby, emerald and sapphire still glistening in the setting sun after nearly four centuries. Built over twenty-two years, by twenty thousand men, often working twenty-four hours at a time, and surely costing many lives as well as rupees, without the aid of today’s construction abilities and technology—it stands not only as one of the most important and recognisable spiritual and religious landmarks in the world, but as a testament to human ability at the hands and purse strings of one man’s vision.

What, in the first few instances, was bemusing and humbling, soon became a little tedious; many natives, in particular younger males, found the band of six white Westerners, some of blonde hair and blue eyed appearance, as fascinating as the glorious monument overshadowing us! Continuously we were picked out individually or in various combinations and shyly but with a barely contained sweet excitement recruited to pose with couples, lone males or groups or groups of giggling grown men gushing with bashful appreciation like a bunch of teenage girls meeting their favourite pop band! On more than one occasion we were humorously compared to both Hollywood and Bollywood stars. Adding to the oddity of these scenarios was the fact that besides being far from the only white tourists, we appeared to derive the most attention.

Tainting the incredible Taj Mahal experience only slightly was the sly, but perfectly common, post-sightseeing trip to, in this instance, a local jewellery boutique. Disguised as part of the tour, the commission-driven con is a staple trap of these sort of trips. I find in most cases that smiling and nodding with feigned enthusiasm at their sales pitch, accepting a complementary cup of chai and praising their goods before politely escaping without parting with a penny eases the experience, and it can even be educational and fun, for free.

The following day, Monday, was effectively a write-off as we bundled once more into the truck at the hands of our trusty guide Anand for another six hour journey to the city of Jaipur; thus completing (if you’ll excuse the omission of returning to Delhi which technically satisfies the metaphor) the popular backpacking triangle of the central cities—Delhi, Agra and Jaipur. With the comfort of no further travel for three nights, we unloaded our bags and our weary bodies (who knew nothing but sitting in a car for endless hours could be so exhausting) and settled into the city.

Tuesday. Waking early from another relatively sleepless night, the standard breakfast of chai and toast kick started the engines for a packed schedule. We were carted out of the city to the majestic honey-hued Amber Fort, a huge sixteenth century palace straddling a mountain ridge overlooking a vast valley of saffron gardens and the run-down, haggard town of Amber. Not content with simply walking up the slopes to the sandy battlements, we hitched rides on elephants, as you do; a novel but relaxing and enjoyable experience as we gently lumbered along, swaying with a powerful rhythm atop the obedient tucked beasts. It’s not the first time I’ve ridden an elephant, and it’s not the first time that I’ve questioned the ethics of their exploitation; but I believe trying to take a moral high ground would only render me a hypocrite—so I jump on board and enjoy the ride, pushing my conscience aside.

The Amber Fort was another sterling attraction. Once again demonstrating immense man power and persistence and boasting surprisingly advanced facilities within its coconut-glazed marble walls: primitive but functional cooling systems; a steam room; jacuzzis; and even a discotheque with complimentary disco balls! Home, several hundred years ago, to the Raj, his many wives and his many more mistresses, the impressive structure is today a sturdily standing example of excess. It only adds to my idea of the contradictory nature of this country—striking poverty and immeasurable wealth, awe-inspiring excess and shattering nothingness.

Upon descending from the fort we were ushered into a nearby carpet and textiles manufacturers, once again smiling politely through the sales pitch, admiring the charming rugs and dutifully accepting the offered beverages, before making our leave to spend an afternoon left to our own devices without the appreciated, but sometimes exasperating, ward of Anand. We used the free time to tread the endless lanes and alleys of the overgrown bazaar in the old city (also known as the Pink City, attributed to the lavish overuse of a watered down salmon coloured paint pasting most buildings in a warm coat of beige-pink). Exploring the knocks and crannies, bartering with exuberant salesmen and sampling an array of nameless pan-fried street food, we wore ourselves out over several hours, and after hopefully navigating our way through the littered streets and long shadows of the dying sun back to our accommodation, we stopped for a quick hit of chai at a grubby outdoor roadside cafe as hordes of inquisitive locals stared at us (it appears staring is not considered rude in India), mystified by the unusual presence of such seldom seen pale-skinned people. After humouring the crowd and bowing out from our imprisoned street theatre, we collectively opted, with immense shared relief, to complete the journey by tuk-tuk, picking up a few well deserved beers on route.

Sleepless nights had persisted since my arrival in the country until days of exertion and the medication of several bottles of beer eased me into the depths of a much needed ten hour slumber. Even the persistent referee whistling of the neighbourhood night watchman couldn’t keep me from such a heavy dreamless sleep. I lay in till eleven before ’showering’ in the cold tap water and giving some of my clothes a rudimentary but necessary wash. Then it was off to Bollywood dance lessons and a henna class, which all told proved to be a bit of a farce. The dance tutor took the whole thing far too seriously as we rolled around in hysterics, whilst the henna class, in contrast, consisted of little more than being supplied with a tube of the shit-coloured substance, scrawled on by a moody teenage girl and then pestered for money, of which none they received, having already been paid.

However, the day was salvaged by a sunset trip, of our own accord, to the fabled ‘Monkey Temple’. As opposed to being a temple in adoration of the monkey god (yes, there’s one of those) as I’d expected, it was actually a hilltop shrine to the sun god, the preceding slopes and steps to which were populated by hundreds of gnarly simian residents. It was a bloody zoo! Picking our way between the feeding and fighting apes, we climbed to the shrine to be treated to truly breathtaking views of the city through the thin veil of haze. For a long time we stood absorbing the vista as the warmth of the day descended into the cool air of dusk, as the streetlights and campfires ignited creating a speckled twinkling blanket across the geometric mish-mash of neighbourhoods and the faint symphony of the city, of hundreds of thousands of lives, swept up to us under the ephemeral wisps of cloud lacing the fleeting candy sunset.

It was the perfect way to complete the triangle.

As my taxi trundled south from the city of Delhi to it’s smaller neighbour Gurgaon, giant concrete edifices, skeletons of apartment blocks, malls and miniature cities yet to be born loomed out of the dust like some Balardian nightmare. The smog and pollution hung thick over the land, a veil of dirty mucus coating everything in sight and disguising everything but the near distance. In a city of nearly 13 million people, crammed in between alleyways and dusty roads teeming with a constant pulse of motorbikes, tuk-tuks, rickshaws and battered old vehicles all clamouring for space between the lanes, the terrible air quality should come as no surprise. But it still hits like a filthy rag to the face.

Finding my initial accommodation in Delhi proved to be, compared to previous experiences, rather painless. I’d pre-arranged to be picked up from Indira Gandhi airport and duly escorted to my hotel, the rolling film of my introduction to the city sweeping past the taxi windows—the poverty, the feculence, the unabashed urinating into the trash-littered ditches at the sides of the road, and above all else the horrendous traffic. Thankfully my bleary-eyed interest in the goings on outside my window distracted me from watching ahead, otherwise I would have been liable to leave a terrible stain in that sorry cab!

I initially spent 2 days by myself in Delhi, before joining the other members of the month long program in a peculiar dorm house hidden at the back of a half-built neighbourhood near Gurgaon, around an hour or so south of the capital. However, feeling worn-out by the long flight, my out-of-sync body clock and the sheer overwhelm of Dehli, I spent most of my time sleeping myself into my new reality and saving energy for the busy 4 weeks ahead. In face, I barely left the sanctuary of the hotel besides a few inquisitive strolls around the hectic local market district of Karol Bagh.

My first impressions of the area, and consequently of Delhi and India as a whole, were of trash-bordered dirt roads, crumbling structures of peeling paint and plaster and rusty shop signs hanging weakly from their supports, colourful posters adorning every free patch of wall tugging at their last few inches of paste, stray dogs roaming between the cars and bikes without a care in the world and the expected beggars and hustlers vying for my attention. But taking detours down the telephone wire strewn alleyways presented me with a startling variation and contradiction between the 3rd and 1st worlds. Toothless awkers grappled for my rupees offering everything from knock-off sunglasses to disgustingly cheap tours of the city as young couples wandered past, arm-in-arm, dressed in Ralph Lauren and Gucci. One minute I’d find myself in a claustrophobic alley crammed with tiny stalls boasting silks and saris, cheap mobiles and steaming pans of tantalising curries, when a left turn would bring me out onto an equally crowded road lined with Western-style high street shopping, Gelato ice cream stalls and the global fast food staple—McDonalds! What struck me as so peculiar between these two very different but so closely geographically linked worlds was the steady, similar stream of street traffic—smartly dressed, evidently well-to-do shoppers nonchalantly picking their way between legless beggars, filthy (probably homeless) children and mothers and cows (considered a holy animal) padding along between the cars without blinking an eye, shitting wherever they fancy. What was even more peculiar amongst the maelstrom was that I felt surprisingly comfortable and unintimidated—I didn’t garner odd glances being the only Caucasian in the crowd, and in fairness I was barely bothered by any hawkers. Everyone was extremely polite and friendly if necessary, otherwise pretty much ignoring me!

Feeding myself with tasty nibbles from street vendors, I quickly discovered that the general standard of English is surprisingly high, usually backed up with a dance of indicative gestures, but by-and-large I found no trouble with the language barrier, which is always reassuring. My meanderings around the endless market mazes may have been short and sweet, but not in vain or with lack of thrill.

Friday night was an early one, allowing the group of 6 to make acquaintances and try to tackle the effects of jet lag and the revised timezone for the packed tour of the city the following day. Three females, three males—an even mix. On the men’s team, besides myself, we’ve Daniel, a shy German with a steady but heavily accented grasp of English, and a chirpy Essex lad called Matt who thankfully doesn’t adhere to the stereotype. On the women’s team: Becky, a seasoned traveler; Fay, from Scotland, the eldest of the group; and on her first backpacking adventure is Evie from Widness.

Yesterday, Saturday, was the kick-off of the trip. The cobwebs of jet lag and sleep deprivation clung to everyone as we were shipped around the sights of Delhi—India Gate (another mock Arc du Triumph, equally impressive but a rather tired concept), the Presidential Palace, Raj Ghat—the final resting place of Indian icon Ghandi, and the highlight being a trip to a Sikh temple. The two issue at hand that deprived the day of excitement were the tedious stand-still journeys between each area due to the onslaught of traffic (and Delhi being too large to realistically walk between everything), and the desperate desire to actually stretch ones legs around the city after, in most of the group’s case, a day on a plane. After the excursion to the Sikh temple, I convinced our tour guide Anand to swiftly escort us to the Karol Bagh area so I could show the group the tangled market streets I’d discovered previously. Thankfully this satisfied eveyones hunger for a taste of the real city instead of tourist-infested sights.

A couple of beers in an off-the-mark “English” bar we discovered in a local shopping mall last night sated our thirst for alcoholic refreshment and helped everyone to relax and get to know one another better, but failed to ease me into slumber as another fairly sleepless night proved. Although only one solid day was spent in Delhi, with surely much still to see, most of the group, I especially, were happy to escape the smog as we boarded our minibus for the (sigh) 6 hour journey to Agra this morning, to the next point of the triangle.

It’s sad to say but I’ve found Chicago to be a dull city. Pleasant, clean, tidy and airy, but bland. You could argue otherwise—there are plenty of museums, galleries, theatres and miles of brand name shopping and fine dining; I just feel that the city is a little lacking in character, in soul. I may be being unfair but I was more than happy to hop on the train out of there to the airport this morning.

We arrived here off the Amtrak on Friday morning after a long, tiring journey from the sweaty South in to the crisp, cool and windy North. After 4 rather uneventful days we’re leaving for the last leg of our tour of the States, New York. Our plane’s already been delayed a couple of hours due to the weather over Manhattan, which doesn’t bode well. I hope to Christ it clears up for our short stay there; it’s poetically ironic that the day we leave the Windy City the sun’s decided to finally show it’s face, whilst we’re wasting our time trapped in a stuffy Airport departure lounge.

I’ll keep my summary of Chicago brief, as there’s no point trying to drag it out. When we arrived we dropped our bags off at the hostel whilst waiting for our beds to be prepared for check-in and went to scout out the city. We were both weary, sweaty, smelly and bedraggled from a lack of sleep and washing on the long overnight train journey. Starbucks, probably my least favourite coffee house back home, has actually turned out to be a sanctuary over here; dotted on every bloody street corner, they’re a shelter from the overwhelming sun or wind, a source of rehydration, recuperation and of course free wifi! We found the obligatory ‘bucks on a corner and went in for a caffeine hit and to get our bearings. I’ll give Chicago one thing—it’s a very easy city to navigate.

We spent the rest of the day, and the subsequent weekend, walking around the city pretty aimlessly, just soaking up the atmosphere, the sights, sounds, smells, skyscrapers and citizens of this big city. It is indeed a very nice place—the air blown in from Lake Michigan is clean and fresh, the skyline an engaging sight from any angle and the people smart and friendly. There’s just no buzz, no attitude. As a tourist diversion we visited the viewing observatory atop the John Hancock building to see the city and surrounding state from above—boulevards stretching from the heart of the city straight for as far as the eye can see into the hazy horizon. Beautiful, but also boring.

The highlight of our stay in Chicago has to be meeting the legendary Buddy Buy in his very own bar, ‘Legends’, on Saturday night. Although we didn’t exactly get to have a one-to-one conversation, this being a crowded bar of fans on a Saturday night, it was however cool to shake hands and acquaint a Blues icon. The cool old bastard even took over the stage to croon for a while, which may have explained the crippling cover charge.

No trip to Chicago would be complete without a slice or two of authentic deep pan pizza. Well we sure got our share. After queueing for well over half an hour on Saturday night at Gino’s East, which must be one of the popular pizza kitchens in the city, we got to sample the real deal—deep is definitely the right word to describe these monsters of crust, cheese, cheese and more cheese! Even sharing a pizza we couldn’t finish it all and ended up leaving the restaurant, overfed and cradling our stomachs, with a carry-out of leftovers that I ended up leaving by a bin, hoping a hungry tramp might stumble upon it.

On Sunday we grabbed dinner at a bar on Navy Pier, originally seeking shelter from the wind and being enticed by the menu and smells from the kitchen. The top of the doorframe in the restroom somehow fell on top of Ash, causing no damage but scoring us a free meal on the house—success! Yesterday we took a bus down to the Museum of Science and Industry, for something a bit different. Thanks to Ash sleeping in due to a lack of sleep during the night we lost a few hours but for whatever reason that day entry was free, which was a consolation. Ash has struggled to sleep in the dorm rooms, being a light sleeper anyway, and has thus become progressively grumpier by the day—it’s becoming a bit of a bore now; time’s proving that it can get tedious spending every minute of every day with the same person, regardless of who they are. I think we’ll both appreciate some time apart from each other when we get home.

The museum was an enjoyable diversion, although evidently tailored more towards children it helped the day pass. Having come down with an unhealthy cough accompanied with the lack of sleep, Ash suggested just staying in last night. In the interest of saving my last, rapidly depleting, funds I agreed. But by 9pm the tedium and claustrophobia of the hostel, the annoying slamming of the puck on the air-hockey table and the yelps and pathetic remarks from the stupid teens fucking around in the hostel common area began to drive me nuts so we hit the local sports bar, feeling instantly relieved. We got pissed and slept better—this seems to be the only workable solution.

We drank it away. That was Chicago.

Watching the red sun rise in the East over the endless miles of Illinois crop fields isn’t the worst way to start the day, all be it a little early for my liking. From the large windows of our spacious, trundling Amtrak train the silos, farms, highway traffic and occasional gatherings of trees are silhouetted against the grapefruit backdrop, the sun now rising from the horizon and burying itself among the clouds; the occasional ray peering through over the infinite Mid Western plains. In a couple of hours we’ll be in Chicago.

The 20 hour journey from New Orleans has been just about as comfy as possible, although my arse is numb and my sleep was rotten in nothing more than a firm reclining chair. But as far as public transportation goes, the Amtrak trains afford masses of space, wide comfortable seats, friendly service and convenient amenities. 20 hours is still a heck of a long time to be stuck on a train.

Our last few days spent in New Orleans was little different from our first few. In the daytime we sunbathed by and in the pool, strolled around different areas of the city to take it all in, ate damn well and spent our evenings, well into the mornings, drinking and enjoying the sights and more particularly the sounds of Frenchman Street.

When Ash was feeling human again on Monday we took advantage of the slightly cooler weather to have a real good gander around the French Quarter. Up and down Decatur and Royal, stopping for a late lunch of sugar laden French beignets at the famous Café du Monde, perusing the wares on offer at the French Market and gazing out at the massive tankers and cargo ships cruising along the monstrous murky estuary of the great Mississippi River. We were getting on for hot and exhausted by the time we crashed back in at the hostel.

Tuesday was a slower day. Tired and hungover we eventually got our act into gear and went down to Surreys café in the Garden Quarter to enjoy a real stodgy Southern brunch of freshly squeezed juice and crumbly, buttery biscuits and gravy. To any Englishman the notion of biscuits and gravy sounds insane, and wrong, but trust me the Southern speciality is very different, very delicious, and I presume very unhealthy! Biscuits are more like our scones, but less dense and more savoury. Gravy is a thick creamy coloured sauce, not something you’d drizzle over a roast dinner, like our brown alternative back home.

Another night saw us pandering up and down Frenchman, in and out of bars. We swung by the Spotted Cat for a while and retired to the Apple Barrel once the band began to pack up. The barman had been serving us the previous night at the Spotted Cat and got friendly with us; as such we spent the rest of the night engaged at the bar in many a passing conversation with Curtis the barman and various other patrons. After perhaps one bourbon and coke too many we somehow found ourselves safely home—this became a bit of a New Orleans routine.

By Wednesday we felt we’d ran out of things to do in Crescent City. There’s no doubt that there was probably plenty ore we could have occupied ourselves with, but I think we’d just lost interest. Our plans to take a trip into town for a last minute shop around were subsequently squashed when, as we were walking out the door, a mighty torrent of tropical storm erupted above and from nowhere the heavens unleashed a furious barrage of warm, heavy rain. We hid in the TV area of the common room whilst waiting out the unexpected downpour but became mesmerised watching Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, the film Dakota suggested watching on our last night in Nashville. It was a sign! We gave up on our half-arsed plan and headed into town several hours later instead.

After a delicious meal (or at least I thought so) at a gourmet pizza kitchen, we once again wound up on Frenchman in the same bars we’d frequented the previous nights. Curtis, or as I began to drunkenly refer to him (much to Ash’s disapproval) ‘C-Cat’, was behind the bar again at the Apple Barrel. For the majority of the night we were, once again, at the bar. We ended up getting on so well with the cool cat that he had our next round of drinks always waiting ready for us, (easy enough as we drank the same thing all night—bourbon and coke) and kindly even spared us a couple of drinks and shared a couple of shots on the house.

After Randy, the brilliant blues guitarist who’d been rocking the joint all night, packed up and the bar closed, we joined Curtis for a few drinks at some of the local later-closing establishments. As the night rolled into the morning we discussed travelling, music, the States, poetry and Beat literature and much more in between. Curtis was one of the few fascinating people, like Billy in Clarksdale, Bob Lever in Nashville and Ryan from Music City Hostel who you can quite happily chat away with for hours. It was a good way to finish up in New Orleans.

How we weren’t disgustingly hungover yesterday I haven’t a clue, perhaps we’ve built up a resistance! We dragged ourselves out of bed, out of the hostel and on a train out of the South towards the cooler lands of the North, to Chicago.

We’re down here in South Louisiana in the dripping heat of New Orleans. Over the past few weeks we’ve worked our way south via several states, over mountain and through cotton field to this melting pot of cultures, ethnicities, cuisine, music and history.

I don’t like arriving in new cities at night, it makes me slightly uneasy – I like to try to get my bearings as soon as I approach, which is difficult to do in the dark. By the time we’d got to our hostel, India House (which is one of the coolest, craziest hostels I’ve ever stayed in), checked in and freshened up it was rolling on 11pm. Friday night in New Orleans – the party started hours ago but shows now signs of dying just yet. We bumped into the young couple we’d coincidentally met on the Greyhound bus the day before and convinced them to accompany us into town. We hit the tourist entrapment of Bourbon Street in search of Ash’s schoolmate Iain, who happened to be here at the same time.

Bourbon Street is the heart of the tacky party culture of the city; a balance of entertainment, bewilderment and soullessness. For block up on block, bars compete with each other blasting out an array of RnB, classic rock and blues, neon lights scream for your attention boasting ‘Huge Ass Beers’ and devastating radioactive-coloured cocktails and cheap mixers. For those not in the mood for crappy music why not enjoy a lap dance or striptease at one of the many gentlemen’s clubs, advertised candidly by the half naked girls bending over in the doorways. Pissed up tourists stumble up and down the street, dodging the shit from the police horses and the litter lining the gutters; daft Mardi Gras beads are tossed around by crowds lining the balconies, smoking, swearing and flashing. It’s rather a sorry state of affairs – one that certainly must be entertained for it is one hell of an atmosphere on a weekend, but I’ll happily never do it again.

We ended up eventually meeting up with the crazy character that is Mr. Iain McClean and his posse of local female students and enjoyed a night of bar-hopping and meandering around, huge ass beers in hand, absorbing the atmosphere, and the alcohol. The hangover on Saturday said it all.

Saturday was a lazy day by the pool. We made new acquaintances – a group of lovely girls from all over the place who were taking a short trip to New Orleans together – Grace, Gro, Adrianna and co. That night we all ended up going out to Decatur Street and on to Frenchman and finally found a little corner of New Orleans that helped reassure my fears after my first nights experience on Bourbon Street that not all was forsaken in this town.  The music was good, a rather eclectic mix that kept us drinking and dancing (and flirting) till the bars started packing up, which led us back to the hostel to wrap up the night with more booze, head massages (don’t ask) and a few other shenanigans…

Ash was lay up in bed all Sunday with a migraine, which was a damn shame. Meanwhile Grace, Gro and I had a good drive out to see the city, especially the Lower 9th ward, one of the key districts that has hardly changed since Hurricane Katrina hit the city 5 years ago. to see the devastation that had occurred was enough, but the realisation that the government is seemingly doing nothing to restore these areas is quite disgusting. There appears to be no sign of restoration. Entire streets blown or washed away, only concrete slabs remain amongst the tall grass;  shattered skeletons of what were once peoples homes on the brink of collapse, interiors bare; crosses spray painted on the doors of homes where dead were found. It’s haunting, but there are people still living there amongst the constant reminders of death and the incompetency of the great American nation to help.

After the eye-opening tour round we passed the evening by with a couple of drinks at a bar in a rather bohemian, trendy part of town on Magazine Street. I retired to the hostel common room to chill out whilst Ash lay in bed with a pounding head and the girls went out to enjoy their last night in the city.

Now where do I have to go to find the jazz? Nashville was so quintessentially country, and Memphis, for all that Beale Street was worth, was most certainly a blues city. I’d always regarded New Orleans as the home of jazz, expecting every bar to swing and dive and bellow out the screech of the sax, the pipe of trumpets and the thud thud thud of that walking bass. Although a cool city, my expectations have only led me to slight disappointment. Bourbon is a disarray of carefree young party players and out-of-date has-beens lost, trapped in a world of poor, cheap entertainment and a din of competing noise and vulgar neon-lit lifestyles that ideally shouldn’t exist in a lot of places, but especially not New Orleans, not my New Orleans from teenage fantasies of marching swing bands and smoky balconies overlooking authentic, pure jazz joints and a streetlife bustling with genuine enthusiasm. Has this city changed or was my preconceived idea of it all one big illusion?

So far the Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street is the only place I’ve found that’s come close to the musical style and scene I was expecting of this city. 20s, 30s old-school brass band jazz – flat caps, tubas wrapped around the body, the thumping double bass and brushes caressing the kit to the toe-tapping swing rhythm. Here the trumpets parp, the trombone slides, the old sax players fiddle up and down on worn brass keys, the old crooners voices croak down the mic as if you’re listening to an old vinyl record and the eloquent dancers tear up the floor, throwing out shaky feet and swinging moves and all. Berets, flat caps, high socks and cool old cats… this is my New Orleans.

After a day strolling around the French Quarter yesterday, Ash’s headache now subsided, we ended up on Frenchman again in the evening, as we surely will again tonight. Once we stepped into the Spotted Cat around midnight we knew instantly that we wouldn’t be leaving again for anywhere else.

Over a smoke in the break we chatted with the band, a truly fascinating experience. The trumpet player, Frank, going on 70, a true New Orleans veteran and a legend in his own right enlightened us to the changing musical and cultural scene of the city, in turn backing up my assumption that this town is no longer what it once was. Back in the day he was pally with Louis Armstrong and Billie Holiday!

We’re in such a different world now, and the world I had imagined in my childhood and teenage visions is one that is unfortunately disappearing, and fast. I fear that you’ll struggle to hear that classic old New Orleans sound here in 10 years time. It’s a scary thought. Our world is transforming so fast, even the youth like me struggle to keep up – how do these old crooners and jazz cats stand a chance?

Last night struck home a realisation that everything doesn’t last forever. I loathe the idea that my children (heaven forbid) miss the opportunity to experience worlds like this, worlds that are becoming extinct. But you can’t see and do everything, just make the most of the time you’ve got, I suppose!

Ah well, enough philosophy for now – it’s time for another sweet, cheap, bourbon and coke.