The Bollywood Experience

"It is just like sitting in a big cake..." That was the clinching sentence that made me book tickets for "Dabangg" in Jaipur's "Cake Cinema." I just hoped Lucky, our driver, didn't mean Dundee cake.

Bollywood produces hundreds of films each year and draws in regular cinema audiences numbering millions. Most of the films follow the same love, violence, family problems, sing and dance genre in order to satisfy the majority of a 1.1 billion viewer market and in Jaipur, I began my Bollywood education with a standard Hindi comedy called "Dabangg."

Dabangg roughly translated is something like undefeatable, which made sense considering the main character, a cross between a beefed-up, Indian Freddy Mercury and the policeman from The Village People, was largely invincible. The main man also inspired whoops and cheers from the cinema audience when he first came onto the screen, including one guy next to me who let out a bizarre Mohican war cry to show his approval of the characters appearance.

I suppose any character who can bust the Bollywood dance moves, harmonise the Hindi hymns, battle with the bad guys matrix style, dodge bullets, laugh after being stabbed and rip off his shirt with his expanding hulk-esque muscles at the sight of his dead mothers inhaler, deserves to be cheered and applauded when he blesses the screen.

He was also able to woo any lady he thought worthy of his charms and was a perfect gentleman when, after falling through a roof into a bedroom, he was faced with a young damsel with her collarbones exposed. It's possible that lesser men feel certain urges at the sight of such a fine neckline, but not Mr Dabangg. His finest party piece however, which would only be possible in India, was to kill the main bad guy using tractor exhaust fumes. A moment of pure genius…

In Bollywood films there's also often an "item song." This song has absolutely nothing to do with the film and is instead just a chance for a bit of a singalong and for the men in the audience to continue the whooping and cheering as a sexy Bollyood bellydancer belts out a Hindi classic to the beats.

But despite the howling males, Indian cinema is a place for the whole family. There were grannies, toddlers, new born babies and even a couple of birds in the expansive auditorium enjoying the hero-led tale. And, halfway through the 3-hour odyssey, a 20 minute interval is provided where 500 numb bums can stock up on popcorn, coke, samosas and chai (Indian masala tea). Thus everyone is catered for.

From An Ache For The Distance

Interval

From An Ache For The Distance

Keeping it traditional

As for the inside cake aspect, the cinema had an ornate 1920's feel about it, although the carpets may have been there since the British Raj, and the lighting was either a soft green or yellow which, I suppose, would be Indian cakey. We would probably be classified as the topping as, yet again, our white skinned glamour status meant that we were filmed by locals with their phones. And on that note, if the person who filmed me dribbling coke down my chin is reading this, I would like to see that video...

Delhi to Agra - India

The room phone rings, unusual considering firstly I wasn't expecting a call and secondly a phone is an unusual commodity for me in a hotel. I answer hesitantly,

Tourist: "Hello?"
Telephone: "Hello sir."
Tourist: "Hello..."
Telephone: "Hello sir. It is being room service sir."
Tourist: "Uh huh..."
Telephone: "Hello sir?"
Tourist: "Yeah, hello..."
Telephone: "Hello sir, it is being room service sir."
Tourist: "Uh...OK...But I didn't order anything..."
Telephone: "OK sir, no problem, I will be thank you sir."

India is hectic, chaotic, dirty, sweaty and jam packed but at the same time a daily source of Monty Python comments, scenes and conversations. It's difficult not to smile. An example from a few days ago, after months of seeing the "Incredible India" adverts on CNN whilst at work, I couldn't help but guffaw when, whilst stuck in traffic, a passenger in a jeep next to us rolled down his window and spat out a hefty amount of inner fluids, all of which splattered across the side of our car. Lucky, our driver, simply turned around and said, "You see, that is why India is so incredible..."

Anyhow, after the luxury sightseeing, we decided to continue with the flashpacking by booking a two week jaunt around Rajastan with a car and driver. It's worked out to be €35 per person per day with car, driver and hotels, which is a tad over budget but worth it considering the size of Lanas bag and the extra titbits that we'll see along the way. It also means that by the time we're back in Delhi, some of the monsoon floods will hopefully have disappeared and we won't need rafts to reach Kathmandu.

As such, we dined on another curry and japati rooftop breakfast in Delhi before hitting the road in the direction of Agra. En-route we passed through the dusty, industrial pit that is outer Delhi and witnessed shopping centres, slums and car show rooms all side by side. The poverty in India is extreme but it's harder when an abundance of wealth is shining in the middle of a tarpaulin and twig housing area and hungry children stumble around in the dust near McDonalds. Once out of the city, the scene became cheerier. Cows on the highway, four to a motorbike and typical Indian chaos.

From An Ache For The Distance

A moment of calm on the road to Agra as a hippy is transported from the 60's

After 3 hours, we reached Agra, checked into the hotel and went for a wander. Within the space of half an hour we were asked by at least 25 rickshaw, autoricksahw and taxi drivers if we wanted to go to the Taj Mahal. A malnourished horse, surely only hours from death, was offered up as a ride to the Taj. We witnessed a man running across the street with something burning in his hands, more cows blocking the buses, child labour first hand as kids polished metal on the streets and a couple of tipped tuk tuks with guys repairing the engines using cloth and grease. I'm telling you, this country is chaos...

We slept that night in icey conditions, as the hotel's air conditioning was a centralised system with one arctic temperature for the whole building, and woke up to the prospect of the Taj Mahal with mild hypothermia. The drive through Agra at 6am was like a romanticised version of India as a misty haze blanketed the city and the streets were largely empty, except for a sprinkling of cows and dogs. We were dropped off outside the complex and had to walk the last half kilometre. Since 1994, polluting vehicles have been banned from from going within 500 metres of the Taj as the white marble was slowly being discoloured by the Indian smog. As such it's a long walk fighting off touts, hawkers, sellers and rickshaw drivers.

At the ticket counter and security checks, it's typical Indian organised chaos and we ended up with a 10 year old called Sanjeet acting as an unofficial helper. He turned out to be a little gem and so I gave him a few rupees as well as making a little deal. I gave him 10 rupees and told him to buy some postcards. Afterwards, if we saw him again, I promised I would buy the postcards from him for 100 rupees (€2). If we didn't see him again then it didn't matter as it was my money he spent and he could always sell them to other tourists. It was a win-win situation for him and possibly a business lesson at the same time. Later in the day, we did manage to find him again and we did buy the postcards but immediately afterwards, he tried the hard sell with his fridge magnets and keyrings, so in reality he probably needs no lessons from me. To the little fellas credit though, after I'd convinced him I had no fridge for the magnet and no keys for the ring, he gave me a keyring for free anyway, to say thanks.

The Taj itself lived up to expectations. The whole two hours we spent there I never lost the feeling that I was looking at a postcard or some kind of stage backdrop. It was photogenic perfection and somehow unreal. It didn't matter what angle I saw it from, it always offered that same feeling as the car drive of romanticised India. Even the river that runs behind the back of the Taj wouldn't look out of place in the Jungle Book. The whole scene was simply phenomenal and worth every rupee. The only slightly concerning aspect of the whole thing were the Indian tourists wanting photos with us. Various prints are now being slid into Indian families photo albums beside captions such as,

"This is me with a white man at the Taj"
"This is me touching the arm of a Scottish guy"
"This is me with his Russian girlfriend"
"This is me shaking the hand of the Russian girlfriend"
"This is our family with a Russian woman and a man from Yugoslavia" (I often lie about my nationality)
"This is our family with two white people"

And, in addition to the photos are the camcorders and phone videos, daily! A strange process when the tourist becomes the attraction...

Day 4 - Delhi Belly (negative)

From An Ache For The Distance

Delhi India - The Beginning

Imagine the situation, Olga and Nikolai go carpet shopping somewhere in deepest darkest Siberia. They buy a lovely "Amber de Antalya" number and bundle it onto the roof of the Lada. On the drive home, they don't bother discussing how they will lay it, what furniture will need to be moved or even whether or not they should take their shoes of now before entering the house.

Why? Because in Russia, carpet is what goes on the walls. As such, words to the effect of, "Oh my God, there's carpet on the floor..." were Lana's first in India. The cultural revelation will be profound I thought to myself.

Half an hour later, once the carpet novelty had faded, we found ourselves in the reception of a hotel in a backstreet slum. Maybe slum is a little hard but the streets we went up to get there were barely wide enough to two people to pass each other, the ground was a piss-smelling sludge and in the dim light, things could be seen scuttling. Whilst waiting for the receptionist, I could see Lana wishing she were back marvelling the floor carpet and, when the first cockroach whooshed past her foot, I knew we had problems.

Ten minutes later we were in a slightly more upmarket hotel looking at another room. Lana spotted something dark on the bed and moved in closer to inspect. However the Indian porter had also clocked the new guest and decided to throw a pillow at it whilst reassuring us with, "It's only a mosquito, honest!" The mosquito scuttled down the back of the bed...

Credit though to the folks at the Hindustan hotel as in the end they gave us the room for free, seeing as it was 4am. I passed out around 6am after trying to reassure Lana that the cockroaches wouldn't eat her but she held an all night vigil against any encroaching roach. Thus, with bleary eyes, the next morning we hauled our bags around in search of a cockroach free establishment. We eventually found a fantastic place through the guidebook but not before I had built up a serious, shirt soaking sweat and Lana went ankle deep in a monsoon mud puddle.

Despite finding a fantastic hotel, which incidentally leaves a copy of the "Times of India" outside the door in the morning (I'm easily impressed), the day still went down the pan. We tried to visit the Red Fort but were fucked about by the Tuk Tuk driver, even after I shouted a round of samosas. He took us to the arse of the building, told us it was closed and then whisked us to Connaught Place in the city centre to conduct some dodgy deals. The day ended with a 6.30pm bedtime.

The following day was much better. Newspaper at the door. Breakfast on the roof. Guided tour of the city with a car and driver. Brief stint on a rickshaw with a finely bearded old fella showing that you don't have to retire at 67. Enough temples, gardens and monuments to break a lonely planet writers wrist. Hundreds of hellos and funny looks from curious locals along with the occasional photo (Indians taking photos of us that is!) and to top it all off, 32C and sunshine.

End of day 2 - Delhi Belly (negative)

Travel Limbo - Istanbul

I've never travelled with a laptop before but I have to admit, it doesn't half help with those hours of airport limbo. Albeit the larger than large beer I ordered to accompany the free internet is posing a distinct liquidy threat to the computer as it drizzles over the keyboard everytime I feel my liver isn't working hard enough. But with 3 hours to kill in Istanbul's Atatürk airport, it's a small price to pay.

However, I do have a strange personal record which may be heading down the toilet, quite literally, if I keep up with these 700ml beers. Although I've been to Australia twice, I've never used a toilet on an aeroplane... I should actually take a prostate pride moment after writing that...

...*moment*...

But yeah, despite never visiting a john in the sky over 7 years of intermittent travelling, I think that the Delhi flight might be a cherry breaker. A bathroom plaque would be in order I'd say! And I would also go as far to say that Turkish airlines would consider "plaquing" the toilet on my behalf, especially after experiencing the honest, down-to-earth nature of the airline this morning.

While most airlines try culinary seduction on their passengers, the Turks opt for a more honest approach. Upon the menu card for the in-flight meal were a variety of options ranging from veggie friendly, lactose free, gluten free, hindi-friendly , Turkish titbits and finally the refreshingly blunt "Bland Meal."

Designed for those with digestive and/or chewing problems, the bland meal had me thinking "hmmmm, why not?" And although there were no official meal details, the idea of an English woman at the back of the plane, boiling the life out of potatoes and carrots, had me contemplating ordering just to savour the "tastelessness" before 3 months of curry. In reality however, we didn't get a choice and I was instead forced to enjoy ravioli. Damn the Italians!

Anyway, the beer is coming to an end, my fingers are losing coordination and the prospect of losing my toilet cherry is weighing heavy on the mind.

Next stop Delhi!