The streets are no dirtier than any other Indian city, and the slum doesn’t smell. At all. The plastics recycling industry is amazing, although the toxic fumes and waste water byproducts of the process make it unclear whether there is a net environment benefit. Walking through the residential sector left me speechless – the narrow alleys, only wide enough to fit one person abreast, twist and turn at right angles between the two-storey houses, exactly like a maze. Without a guide I would have been lost for days. I asked Rakesh if there was a map of Dharavi, and he laughed and said it was impossible. I think it would be an amazing project though…

It only occurred to me later that no one was begging, looking for sympathy or handouts. Everyone was busy working (though I don’t fancy many of their jobs). Living conditions are noticeably better in the Hindu areas where women are allowed to work, almost doubling the household income of those in the Muslim area. More and more migrants arrive in Dharavi each year (there are currently c. 1 million), and few want to leave, even if they earn enough to live elsewhere. Dharavi is home. Attempts to redevelop and rehouse residents are controversial, with many opposed to projects that will separate neighbours and erode the strong sense of community. Rakesh says that the slum is definitely here to stay, but that only God knows the future of Dharavi.

Jonas Bendiksen has some awesome photographs (and multimedia) of Dharavi, and other slums, here.

I love Mumbai! The Victorian architecture is beautiful – like parts of London, but with palm trees and chai on street corners (although, Mumbaikers clearly have a different relationship with pigeons than Londoners – I saw two men feeding them with sacks of grain by the Gateway to India). By 8am the Oval Maidan was full with people playing cricket. The Kala Ghoda / Fort area where I was staying is full of museums, galleries, restaurants and artsy cafes. There’s history everywhere… everyone goes to Leopold’s for the Shantaram infamy, but the cafe has been a Mumbai institution since 1879.

The streets are wide, and, by Indian standards, leafy and clean. I actually saw caught an exhibition at the National Gallery of Modern Art called “Open Mumbai: Let’s Expand Public Spaces”, which was basically an architectural vision for a cleaner, greener Mumbai. The pretext and cartographic design was good, and the examples of parts of the city that have been regenerated fascinating, but I found the exhibition a little shallow. It would have been nice to have more discussion about the challenges associated with improving infrastructure, cleaning waterways etc. and how they might be overcome, rather than just illustrative examples of the New York highline and conceptual drawings with sparkling blue water in the nullahs. But… Mumbai makes me optimistic. I really think that as India develops, they might get there: fix the infrastructure in the slums and clean up the waste water system and Mumbai will be a really amazing city.

The local railway system is bone crushing at rush hour, but truly marvellous, moving millions around the city in a fraction of the time that it takes by road. Mumbai is huge, with few “sights” and many experiences. I really needed much longer to explore properly. I had a list of Things To Do in Mumbai of which I managed lots, but not all… the heat, and three weeks of travelling, was exhausting. Highlights for me were the early morning flower market at Dadar and the obligatory sunset on Chowpatty (many photos here). I guess I’ll just have to go back to see the rest.

Agra is horrible. The city is by far the dirtiest I’ve been to, and it stinks. I was pleasantly surprised in Delhi and Jodhpur at the complete lack of flies anywhere, but not so in Agra. I had to beat off swarms of flies to get down the alleyway to my hotel (which was actually ok, and had amazing food). Obviously, there are a lot of tourists. And a lot of the Worst Kind of tourists: package tour buses spilling hoards of inappropriately dressed, rich Americans into the city. And with them come the touts. Nowhere have I had this much hassle – everywhere you walk there is a constant soundtrack of rickshaw!rickshaw!tourguide!carvedelephant! Unbelievably, a lot of the rickshaw drivers refuse to take you unless you agree to visit the bazaar (and provide their commission) on the way to your destination! And at every possible opportunity, everyone will try to rip you off or sell you something. Bottle water is price-regulated in India, with the price (Rs. 15) stamped on the top of each bottle, but here they still tried to convince me to pay Rs. 20, even after I pointed that out. When I came to leave Agra, I was lied to about the cost of the bus to Jaipur (by the guesthouse), that I would never get a place on the bus unless I booked a day in advance, with a 40% booking fee (guesthouse again), the location of the deluxe bus stand (rickshaw driver, regular bus stand) and even the existence of a deluxe bus to Jaipur (regular bus stand)! This city takes some perseverance.

So I was looking forward to the Taj Mahal with some trepidation. It had really better be good to make it worth coming all the way here, and putting up with the rest of Agra. Also, by Indian standards, it’s bloody expensive (Rs. 750 for foreigners). I got up before dawn to get to the ticket office and through the gate before too many people arrived, but of course, I wasn’t the only one to have that idea. The ticket office at the East Gate is about 1km from the entrance, and the rickshaws were charging Rs. 100 for the trip! I started walking, and after a few minutes a man on a bicycle came along and restored my faith in India. He invited me to hop on, and gave me a backie down to the Taj free of charge. There were maybe 20 people in front of me in the women’s queue, and by the time the gate opened, 100 or so behind. The aforementioned rich Americans were whining by 6.32 that the gate wasn’t opened on time, and that the sun was up already, and that was the whole point of coming, blah blah (to be fair, the Russians and Italians may also have been complaining, but I wouldn’t have understood). I gritted my teeth.

But actually, I loved it. Once inside, there was a comical mad rush to get through the gardens to the reflecting pool to get That Photo with the dawn light on the Taj and the reflection and the posing on the bench just like Princess Diana did. Once released from the anxiety of the queue, everyone was suddenly more friendly, and we all took it in turns to stand in the Best Spot and take photos of each other. I probably spent five minutes just taking photos for people – it was fun! And the Taj Mahal itself is really, really beautiful. Even though you’ve seen it a thousand times in pictures and movies, you still get more from seeing it for real. Suddenly, the mist (smog) over the (hideously polluted) Yamuna river looks atmospheric, and the marble, not quite white but just off, glows beautifully in the morning light. Just like all the guidebooks says it does.

Your head sort of spins a bit if you think that all of this was built (over 22 years! with the service of twenty thousand labourers! and one thousand elephants!) out of one man’s grief for one woman. The cynic in me wonders whether, whilst the original idea was to commemorate Mumtaz, the final spectacle serves more as a statement about Shah Jahan’s desire to show off his exorbitant wealth and influence.

The Taj Mahal grounds are huge, so (first thing in the morning at least) the crowds don’t seem too much, and it wasn’t hard to find a quiet corner to look at the detail on the buildings (in comparison, when I visited the Red Fort the afternoon before, it was impossible to see anything without people in the way). Close up, all the buildings are covered in ornate inlay, carving and calligraphy. I actually enjoyed some of the other buildings, in particular the red mosque, possibly more than the Taj itself. I loved the geometric patterns, which reminded me of the designs at the block printers in Pipar. In fact, there are so many details and angles to the Taj that aren’t shown in the postcards, and that makes the trip worth it. I’m not sure that I’d go back, but I’m glad that I did the tourist thing for a day and saw the Taj Mahal.

Patterns at the Taj:

More photos from the Taj Mahal and Agra.

The India-Pakistan border closing ceremony couldn’t have been better choreographed by Monty Python themselves. Arriving by the border a huge crowd was waiting, sari-clad and waving India flags. There was a huge crush as we were funnelled through a small gate and a series of military checkpoints on the way to the border amphitheatre. After more security checks we were corralled into the “foreigners gallery” by a strict man with a silly hat and a whistle. He doesn’t tolerate standing up and moving around to take photographs.
As the stands fill up, the final Delhi-Lahore bus passes through the border. I hate to think what happens if the bus is late.

On the India side, women take turns to run up and down the border runway with huge flags. A man in a white tracksuit with a big moustache whips the crowd into a frenzy, shouting “Hind-u-stan!” After a while the flags are put away, and more women rush down from the grandstand to dance to Bollywood hits. No men are dancing, we’re not sure if they’re allowed. On the Pakistan side, the crowd is smaller and more subdued. Women are (even more) segregated. There are a few flags, but I can’t see a tracksuited cheerleader.

When the actual ceremony starts, things get even more bizarre. The two countries compete by selecting a soldier to shout for as long as possible on a single breath. Time after time after time the microphone s presented to one poor soldier, who I expect to pass out at any minute (and wonder whether that’s how the eventual winner is decided). In the background we can see other soldiers limbering up and practicing their famous high kicks.

Although fewer in number, the Pakistani crowd are putting on a good show, and their solider has impressive lung capacity. Hindustan! Pakistan! Hindustan! Pakistan! I was disappointed that the foreigners gallery weren’t really getting into the spirit of things.

After more chanting, cheerleading and trumpeting, the Ministry of Silly Walks begins. Two by two, soldiers run at the border, legs flying high. A couple of times the gate is opened and slammed shut and we think it’s all over. Then the two flags are lowered, and with a final clang – and the Indian gate bouncing back open – the border is closed.

The Golden Temple at Amritsar blew me away. The temple itself is stunningly gorgeous, and the atmosphere around is amazing. It’s always crazy busy with people, yet at the same time feels calm; somehow the army of Sikh volunteers keep everything working like clockwork.

The Guru Ramdas Niwas is the best non-guesthouse ever. The foreigners dorm, hidden behind a strict “No Admittance Without Permission!” sign, is a crowded mess of beds, but has a hot shower, free filtered water and even a washing machine! It was lovely to spend a couple of days living in the temple, and I spent a lot of time walking around the pool, and just sitting by the edge, people watching. As lodging and food are provided free of charge (by donation to those that can afford) there’s no one begging, and no one trying to sell things either. As one man told me, no matter who we are when we enter the temple, inside, everyone is equal.

Most amazing is the free langar kitchen, which apparently does close at some point, but whenever I was awake there was a steady flow of people going in hungry and coming out full. There’s a revolving system of several huge food halls: whilst one is filling with people, the next is being cleaned. The chapati machine (150 chapatis a minute!) has to be seen to be believed. There’s a constant cacophony of the washing up going on in the background. Everyone is welcome, both to eat, and to volunteer in the kitchens. For my first meal in the langar, I was adopted by a couple of girls who must have been around 12 and 10. They showed me the ropes of where to collect my metal plate, bowl and spoon, where to sit and how to receive my roti with two open palms. I like talking to kids, as they ask different questions; instead of “are you married? why not?” they asked “what are your favourites Indian sweets?”.

I ended up eating all my meals in Amritsar at the langar, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends from Ramdas Niwas. All were variants on the theme of dal, veg curry, roti, and a sort of sweet rice pudding… I think I might tire of the food if I had stayed much longer, but never the atmosphere. On my last morning in Amritsar I chopped vegetables in the kitchen for an hour or so – until my hand were blistered from the blunt knife held together with twine! Potatoes, carrots, fresh ginger, and finally eye-watering red onions. It was surprisingly fun, and the time passed quickly, chopping along to the loudspeakered prayers being sung in the temple. Fittingly, for my last dinner it was my turn to show the ropes to a new arrival, a Korean guy whose name translates as “common sense”. His eyes were like saucers at the sight of the huge cooking pots. Hopefully someone will show him the chapati machine…

More photos from Amritsar.

It was a loooong trip from Jodhpur to McLeod Ganj. Nineteen hours on the train from Jodhpur Junction to Pathankot (during which I slept hardly at all, as I was freezing – at one point I was wearing almost all my clothes at once), followed by four and a half on a bus from Pathankot to Dharamsala (during which we went further and further into the mountains, and at the sight of snow I started to wonder whether this part of the trip was a horrible mistake). And that left me at Dharamsala bus stand, in the dark, at 7.30pm. Dharamsala bus stand is actually just on the edge of the town, but when you arrive in the dark it feels like the middle of nowhere. There were a few buses around, but no-one who seemed to work there, all the ticket and enquiry windows were closed, and the taxi drivers firmly refused to budge below Rs. 200 for the trip up to McLeod Ganj (a local on the bus told me it should be “barely 100”). Eventually I managed to share a taxi with a couple of girls up the hill. I had planned to stay at the Tse Chok Ling monastery, which is described as “about half a kilometre down 300 steep steps behind the bus stand”. Summoning last reserves of energy I found some steps and fumbled down them in the dark, my ears straining, hopeful to hear the sound of Tibetan monks chanting, welcoming me home. But there was no chanting, no monks, no welcoming committee, and hardly any signs of life when I reached Tse Chok Ling around 8.30pm. Dreading the thought of walking back up the steps with my backpack to the circling hotel touts above, I resorted to standing in the middle of the most peaceful, quiet monastery, shouting “Hello?! Namaste?! Tashi Delek!?”. No one answered. Eventually I heard muffled voices, knocked on a door and apologised profusely to a monk, who scurried off to find another monk with the guesthouse keys. Thank gods. All of them.

Neema is 29, so we’re almost the same age. He grew up on the Nepalese side of the Tibetan border, and moved to India when he was 14. He’s very smiley, even for a Tibetan monk.
Me: How many languages can you speak Neema?
Neema: Oh! Only four. (Tibetan, Nepalese, Hindi, English)
Neema cheerfully found me a room, quickly showed me around the monastery and where I needed to go for breakfast. Tse Chok Ling was perfect, and I was so happy to have got there, after almost calling it a night in Dharamsala, or McLeod Ganj proper. Just 300 steep steps down from McLeod Ganj, you could be in another world. Away from the blaring horns, bright lights and tourists, the monastery is beautiful and quiet, with a panoramic view across the Kangra Valley. There were no single rooms left, but my double room (in the newer building) was totally worth Rs.400 a night. I was relieved to see a thick pile of blankets on the bed, and, provided I rushed out to turn the boiler on in advance, I had steamy hot showers to thaw my toes in the morning. At breakfast I was surprised to find that there were actually quite a few guests at the monastery – most staying a month or more, volunteering on projects in McLeod. Communal breakfasts and dinners were hearty and filling, and there was a great atmosphere.
The monastery is quite small, but beautifully decorated. I smiled at the modern touches – multicoloured light bulbs play the role of continuously lit butter lamps, and offerings placed by the Dali Lama’s photograph included bourbon biscuits alongside prayer flags and money (there were several jars of Nutella offered in the Tsuglagkhang Monastery). One morning I attended the morning prayers at the monastery, which lasted just over an hour, with continuous, hypnotic chanting in Tibetan. Wrapped up in my new woolly socks and shawls, it was a fantastic experience to be part of. I was sad to only be staying a few days, as I would have loved to connect more with Neema and the other monks at the monastery.
My first impressions of McLeod Ganj weren’t that great – it’s pretty dirty, with piles of trash littering the mountains, much busier and more touristy than I had anticipated… I wasn’t expecting it to be Lhasa, but I wasn’t quite expecting Korean and Italian restaurants either. I kept trying to find the “real” town, where locals might shop, but there doesn’t seem to be one. I guess they go to Dharamsala. Mostly the streets are full of shops selling Tibetan Things, except that on closer examination, almost all the shops sell the same stuff, and most of it is identical to what I saw in the markets in Rajasthan. Almost all of the turquoise and coral jewellery is fake, as are the ubiquitous “100% Yak wool” blankets and shawls. I struggled for a while to find anything genuine in the town, and to separate out those truly supporting the Tibetan community from those cashing in on it. Of course, what is genuine is the Tibetan people who have made McLeod their home. The little momo cafes and street stalls, the prayer wheels in the centre of town that must be circumambulated clockwise, and the friendly, open nature of everyone you meet. And everyone here has an interesting story to tell – most of which I heard second hand, as I only stayed a few days. I can see how, if you had a project to work on, it would be very easy to stay in McLeod. One guy I met at the monastery came to teach English and ended up coaching the Tibetan Women’s Football team!

My first day in McLeod Ganj was Tibetan Women’s Uprising Day. After breakfast at the monastery, I walked up to Tsuglagkhang monastery (the Dalai Lama’s, but he wasn’t home), where people were gathering to March down to Dharamsala in protest at the continued Chinese occupation of Tibet. Lots of schoolgirls in their uniforms were getting their faces painted, and most were either waving tibetan flags or had them pinned to their jumpers or backpacks. Despite the somber presence of “coffins” and placards in memory of women who have self-immolated this year (sadly, some as young as 17), the atmosphere was upbeat, defiant I guess. Lots of the monks were taking photos of each others painted faces on their mobile phones. It was wonderful to be surrounded by so many women – a rarity in India.

After an Uprising Day statement was read in Tibetan, English and Hindi, sheets were handed out with chants in the same languages (everyone here is basically trilingual, which is amazing / humbling), and the crowd prepared to march down the hill. A few women were assigned megaphones to lead the chants; the schoolgirls organised themselves. The stream of people walking down the hill – monks, schoolgirls, women and other supporters – stretched for a long way. People here are very, very passionate about the Tibetan cause.

More photos from McLeod Ganj.