Manali

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29 July 2011 Manali
Day 1
We had opted to book a car to take us to Manali instead of taking the bus. It was more expensive, but as Fia had not been 100%, we were worried about needing to stop or travel sickness, and for an 8 hour journey, we thought it was worth it.
We had planned for the car at 9:30 in time for us to be able to have breakfast and take the travel sickness pills. Fia and Jacqui swallowed theirs, but Tamsin was unable to swallow it whole and Jacqui crushed the pill, which later, we think turned out to be significant as it wasn't Fia that was ill on this painfully winding journey, but Tamsin.
We needn't have been so organised as we were sat waiting outside our hotel with our rucksacks for 40 minutes before someone strolled up to collect us. We thought we had paid for the luxury of the car picking us up at the hotel, but in fact he was to lead us on a 30 minute walk with our rucksacks down the hilside to the road at the bottom, where we waited another 10 minutes before a small car arrived with a different driver - though not THE driver, it seemed, and we loaded up the rucksacks onto the roof and into the boot. A 10 minute drive away and the temporary driver hopped out to make way for the real McCoy who climbed in, introduced himself, and said "Sorry for 5 minute late". It was now one and a half hours since we had expected to be leaving. "No problem" we said, amused.
We were off. The first couple of hours the car took a short cut compared to the more major road that the bus would take. We loved it, as it was winding its way through small villages and we got a little insight into some life off the beaten Lonely Planet travellers track, albeit behind the open window of a car. But not long after we had hit a fast, but just as winding mountain route, Tamsin announced she was feeling sick, and seconds after...was - unfortunately before we had quite realised the imminence of the situation. We stopped at the side of the road, and waited a half hour for Tamsin to recover, and for us to clean up as best we could. She sufferred for another couple of hours or so, and we stopped several times for her to have a break, and once when she was sick again, before she seemed to get in the swing of the journey (or maybe the road was a little straighter).
The route was of course stunning, winding its way between forested hills that seem to spring out of the earth so dramatically and numerously that it looked like a fairy tale. At times, we could see across half the world, without noticing any habitation, but when we stopped, the faint sounds of village life rose from the thick vegetation, and people miraculously appeared from nowhere.
Our car was accompanied on the road mostly by the huge, robust but colourful Tata trucks that rumbled their way along at a snail's pace. Overtaking them was an ordeal as we could rarely see sufficiently in front of us to know whether there was anything coming the other way, and uphill it took a painfully long time for us to edge past the truck, on the wrong side of the road - Jacqui and I with our hearts in our mouths, praying that nothing would appear around the corner heading straight for us. Did our driver know that nothing was coming around the corner? Had he developed some kind of sense of smell to detect ongoing vehicles? Did he have an action plan, an escape option in case something came, or was he just taking calculated risks, relying on the statistic of the in-frequency of traffic? We put our faith in him and tried not to think about it.
Just as Tamsin was recovering, we had a puncture. Everything was unloaded out of the boot to get the jack and the spare tyre out, and the driver started to work, while I floated around to try to look useful. Everything was going swimmingly, until the car, raised on its jack, suddenly gave up and gently descended to the ground, while we all watched - the jack had snapped. The driver looked anxious now, paced up and down and got onto his mobile phone, whie I tried to contribute what I thought were useful suggestions, but evidently weren't, and Fia and Tamsin made a video recording news presentation of the situation, Tamsin as the presenter. We were rescued in the end, not by my survival instincts and ideas for improvisation using rocks and branches, but by his friend who was on the same route, not far behind us and stopped to lend us his jack.
For lunch, we pulled over at a smartish looking restaurant. The driver had been fairly inflexible on where we would stop for lunch, and walked us up to the door of the restaurant while he disappeared into a cheaper restaurant to the side. A team of uniformed waiters greeted us with wide smiles, but on looking inside, there wasn't another soul eating there. We looked at the menu and decided that it looked like an over-priced tourist trap so we declined, to their great dismay and feigned bewilderment and we wondered round to a shabbier looking eatery a few doors down, with his pots of food bubbling away on his outdoor kitchen counter. We ate well on different vegetarian dishes with endless chapatis and it of course cost next to nothing.
It was around 7:30pm when we finally arrived at Manali and following advice from the guidebook, we headed straight to the old town to find somewhere to stay. Our driver had his own ideas and took us to his friends place, the Green Home cottage, extolling the beautiful views and calm atmosphere. The driver hung around to ensure that we would stay there and I was sure that the quoted price of 600 rupees (10 euros) included a commission for him. We told the owner that we would look around, but in reality it was dark, we were up an unlit lane and didn't really know where any other guest houses were and it was late, so we ended up shuffling around with our rucksacks, tapping on my telephone etc when he suddenly announced a drop in price to 400 rupees. We accepted for a night, thinking that we would look further the following day, dropped our bags and headed into the village centre for a beer, pizza and, as luck would have it, the England/India cricket test match on the television.

Day 2 - 30 July
We set off to explore Old Manali and in fact soon realised that our first guest house was out on a limb from the heart of this thriving community and by 12:00 had checked out of Green Home cottage and into Dream River guest house, with a double room plus an annexe with an extra bed for the girls, a bathroom and with views in all directions on the roaring waters of the beautiful Beas river.
We were at the bottom of the main street of old Manali, a winding hill, lined with shops selling shawls and flakey hand-made travellers clothes and restaurants, all with a distinctly laid back feel, decorated with ethnic drapes, Che Guevara and Bob Marley murals, low hanging dim lit whicker lamps and with cushioned areas and backgammon sets to while away the smoke-drenched days. The travellers there completed the picture with their dreadlocks and pony tails, regulatory baggy colourful trousers, bare feet, loose fitting T-shirts and headscarves and simply oozing with the totally relaxed state of mind and body that comes with the days, or more likely weeks, of gentle inactivity in this hedonistic den. If there had been a beach, we would have thought we were in Goa. Life seemed to revolve at a barely perceptible pace around sleep, smoking, drinking, pizzas and chocolate fudge cake.
We of course stood out like sore thumbs, looking as though we had just stepped out of the Paris metro, and it didn't take long for Jacqui to hippy-up a little with a pair of baggy trousers and some flakey tops, and the girls to do their bit with Henna'd hands and a brazilian hair braid. With the exception of my growing stubble and increasingly floppy hair, I still looked as though I had stepped off the Paris metro. It didn't take long either, for us to adjust to the pace of life, and most of our lasting memories of Manali are of leisurely, disproportionately long meals in some cafe or another.
Under this surface of hippy life, the differences between Manali and what we had come to know of India from Delhi to Shimla, were very apparent. The people, the clothes, the buildings and the food were revealing another history and culture. The faces now had a more central Asian look about them - slightly less dark, with serene and friendly Tibetan or Nepalese looking eyes. Hindu temples were now matched with Buddhist, and some dishes such as momos and thukpas had appeared on menus that we hadn't seen before. Early morning, elderly ladies with faces worn from their outdoor life, dressed in woollen aprons, and with blanket shawls with colourful hand embroidery wrapped around their shoulders, would wonder down the hill through Old Manali, driving their milking-cow for a day of grazing, or heaving some heavy load of produce on their back, supported by a carrying strap on their forehead.

By this stage, we had not really got to grips with our electronic connections - the blog was not even set up, we could only write e-mails and Tweets when we were connected, which since leaving Delhi had been limited to sitting in impractical grim internet cafes, we had a 3G phone SIM card that we had never managed to connect to the internet with and now couldn't even get a mobile phone network. We were determined to leave Manali with this all sorted and it was a good place to work on it, given that there were good facilities and that our labours could be lubricated and eased by pizzas, beers and chocolate fudge cake.





School also progressed well in Manali and after French lesson we headed for dinner in Moondance, a classic laid back restaurant, semi-outdoors but with coverings for the rain and with a separate room laid out only with cushions and games. The girls joined up with some other young and explored a little, until Tamsin came back to us a little distressed to inform us that a lamp had bitten her, a little embarrassed that it sounded so implausible. She'd had an electric shock from a ragged poorly fitted low hanging lamp - we were lucky that she could learn this lesson without any further injury.
We finished the evening with the girls playing a board game of ... (something unrecognisable) in the chill-out room with a couple of friendly indians. One of them had hermit-like grey hair down to his knees (seemingly not cut in the last 10 years) and a beard to match - Fia fondly named him 'Barbichette'.
The food was good, the atmosphere was cool, everyone was friendly, and the girls were having fun.
Fia, now fully recovered from the loss of appetite she suffered in Shimla, made the following entry in her diary (translated from french):
"it was so good, I just wanted to dance.....if only I had had the Nervillois with me"

We all slept soundly to the soothing roar of the Beas river.

Day 3 31 July
Breakfast was in Little Italy - the first restaurant in India we had found with wi-fi access. We were out on a shady terrace on a warm, sunny day, the breakfast was great and the service was Manali-speed slow - but if it hadn't been, we would not have made the progress on the blog that we did. Writing the text of the blog was only half the job - Jacqui also sorted through all the photos and then went through the painful uploading process, with the frustrating insertion of each photo taking an age.
This restaurant had become the hang-out pad for the large groups of Israeli tavellers, who we soon came to realise are en masse in India and in particular in Manali and Kasol (an identically laid-back twin town in the Pin valley). It seems that travelling to India and one or two other places, is the almost systematic step for young Israelis to recover from the rigours of their tough obligatory national service and hanging out in cafes, smoking and occasionally eating is the classic recovery medicine. Their reputation amongst the local indians, we were to discover later, is not positive and is responsible for the new more restrictive laws on the issuing of tourist visas.
We had a good day of school - the girls sitting on cushions at the little table in our room - and then whiled away the rest of the day on a combination of work on the blog, browsing the little shops for Yak wool or pashmina shawls (renowned in this area) and clothes and Fia and Tamsin having their Henna and their hair braiding done, sat on a bed in a little hair/beauty salon wooden shack, with a lovely friendly lady who was emamoured with both of them. They were absolutely delighted and went to sleep in great excitement, with their arms rested on the pillows so that they wouldn't damage the Henna patterns.

Day 4 1 Aug
We were starting to make plans for a trek - we had heard it was very different trekking here compared to Ladakh which is much more barren and dessert-like, so thought it would be good to have the two perspectives. After having made some enquiries with different agencies, we registered our interest with one of them for a trek across the Hamta Pass, a reasonably challenging 4 day camping trip rising to 4200m, requesting to leave within 2 days. We hoped they could find some others interested, as it helps to bring the cost down.
After a long morning of school work and continued work on the blog (now published for the first time), we headed into New Manali to complete our equipment needed for the trek. We had verified what was needed and were looking for good sunglasses for the girls, a waterproof poncho for Jacqui and waterproof bottoms for the girls and myself - but the choice was very limited and we ended up only with a poor quality poncho.
We did have success however with our phone - a few days previously we had lost the network on our phone eventhough it was an area where Vodaphone had a network. The vodaphone recharge shops were unable to resolve the problem and told us to call the Vodaphone customer service, but after my painful experience lasting several hours with the customer service in Delhi to get the phone working in the first place, I had no intention of starting this again and I offered the boy in the recharge shop 50 rupees (0,8 euros) to get it done on our behalf. So we sat in the shop for half an hour watching him use our phone to battle his way through the vodaphone customer services fortress and succesfully resolve our problem - it was the best 50 rupees we had spent. While waiting, the girls played outside the shop at horses, Tamsin the trainer with Fia galloping in circles around her, making suitable horse noises, much to the amusement of onlookers.
As darkness was falling, we walked back to Old Manali through a nature reserve - wooded and pleasant, though other than birds, there was nothing else to see.

Day 5 2 Aug
Our last day in Manali - we were determined to get out on a more substantial walk to see a little more around Manali, and also to have a minimal stretching of our legs before our trek began the following day.
We managed to keep the school to the morning, then headed off down the Beas river, grabbing a handful of chapatis on our way for an on-the-go picnic lunch.
It was a beautiful walk of around 4 hours through the rural life of the river valley, passing ladies dozing in the shade while their cows grazed, lizards sunning themselves on rocks and through a rustic village, where a group of men sitting out chatting, enthusiastically hailed us as we passed. We had some rock hopping to get across a part of the river before we reached a wonderful rickety old footbridge to get across the fast flowing part. Coming down river on the other side, we were able to take a steep 'short-cut' (a phrase well embedded into the Hindi language) up to Vashist village - the alternative travellers hang-out to Old Manali with a temple and hot springs at the top of the village.
It was only a quick look around because we needed to get back to New Manali in order to make another shopping attempt to complete our equipment for the trek. We were impatient not to lose time - a dangerous situation in India when Murphy's law (or the Indian equivalent) is at its most destructive. We hopped into a rickshaw which started to head down the bumpy, narrow unsealed track down the hill out of Vashist, and turned straight into a traffic jam. The rickshaw driver knowingly turned off his engine to wait - we started to get fidgety but each time we were considering to hop out and walk he reassured us that it would be clear any minute, though was never able to explain what was causing it. Just as we were about to give up, the engines all came on and the traffic cleared - but a minute later, he pulled over to the side and announced that he had a puncture. We jumped out - threw him half the fare and started walking quickly down the rest of the hill, flagging any rickshaw that passed us. One obviously sensed our urgency and stopped for us eventhough he already had 2 passengers in the back. "No problem" he said, one of the passengers got out and into the front to share the seat of the driver, while the 4 of us squeezed in with the other passenger in the back. With such a heavy load, we felt the need to lean into the corners to avoid toppling, but we were in a rush.
We found another hiking shop which, (Murphy having exhausted his powers for the day), had two pairs of good quality sunglasses for the girls - our most urgent purchase. They were less well equipped on waterproofs, but were very friendly and offered us chai, so we ended up staying in the shop for a couple of hours, looking at our upcoming trek on various maps they had and chatting.
We ate pasta for dinner, back in Little Italy, and despite good intentions, did not get the early night that we had planned in preparation for our trekking.
Tia Video Productions
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Shimla

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Day 1 25 July
After a quick breakfast near our hotel, we set off in a rickshaw for Chandigarh station, for what was going to be virtually a full day of travelling on trains. Waiting on the platform, we saw three youngish lads a little distance away, clearly talking about us. Being in a station we were back into our security mode - trusting no-one, keeping an eye on our bags etc, and we had already noticed these lads with a sense of suspicion. Sure enough, after a few minutes the three lads sidled over to us, and the spokesman launched the conversation with a "which country you from?". We replied politely while tightening our circle around our bags, Before we'd got far in the conversation, another man with good english appeared on our other side, and also launched into loud conversation, but in between sentences, approached close to me and whispered to me not to trust the three lads as they weren't 'good'. We didn't trust the three lads, but weren't particularly inspired by our new protector either. We exchanged a few warning words between us in French, and our circle around our bags tightened even further - now we were being approached on two sides.
The game continued - the new protector proudly showed us his identity card (which meant nothing to us at all), to prove his trustworthiness versus these common rogues (presumably without identity cards) and having scared away the three 'thieves' was making valiant efforts to develop conversation with us, despite our reluctant minimalist responses while we never took our eyes from our bags or relaxed our tight Bassett security circle. Finally we tried to make a move away from this uncertain situation, and despite his suspiciously loud protests, wondered further along the platform and close to a policeman. He didn't follow, but as our train arrived, and we were all climbing on board - we saw him bounding across the platform towards us - I braced for what I thought would be his last attempt at something, but all he wanted to do was to confirm that this was indeed our train - a little unnecessarily when we were half way up the steps. In the end, nothing was lost, and once again we were left not knowing whether we had narrowly escaped a devious trickster through our shrewd judgement of character and street-wise handling of a dangerous situation, or whether we had made a gross over-dramatisation, and left a friendly bemused man wondering how on earth europeans could be so cold and strange.
We had a short 45 minute train journey from Chandigarh to Kalka, but long enough for Jacqui to squeeze in a first French lesson with the girls. At Kalka, we had a little wait before boarding the small traditional train which would take us in 5 1/2 hours up the mountain to Shimla. Jacqui grabbed a few "packed lunches" - lentils, rice and chapatis, all in little tubs, and wrapped in newspaper (the Indian equivalent of fish 'n chips) - from a seller on the platform, and we were off.
This train did not have the comfortable modern seats or trimmings that the previous trains had, but it was a delightful journey. It chuffed its way up the mountain, winding through villages and rainforest-like countryside, stopping every now and then for an opportunity for us to buy some local something or other to eat or drink off a platform seller. Sitting in our small carriage, accompanied by a friendly but non-english speaking Punjabi extended family, with the door and windows of the carriage all left open, we dashed from one side of the train to the other peering out and soaking in the passing views. The time passed quickly and we were soon stepping out into our first cool air since leaving the UK - we drew deep breaths and smiled at the sheer pleasure of fresh air. No wonder the British Raj chose Shimla as their summer retreat station from the oppresive atmosphere of Calcutta and Delhi.
A couple of guides immediately hooked up to us, and tried to sell us their recommended hotel (where they would make their commission). We stubbornly resisted, but one persistent one accompanied us all the way up the hill and waited outside a hotel (that we had selected from the guide book), while we were checking the rooms and discussing price on the off chance that he could still get a deal.




The Dalziel hotel was in an old colonial building, and in truth we were delighted with the room that we could get for the price, particularly compared to Delhi, but still went through an obligatory performance of calling other hotels and saying we would look around to see if we could get the price down. The price didn't move and we moved in to this huge wooden panelled suite, with two large double beds, a spacious bathroom, and an additional room with table and chairs which was perfect for our school lessons. It opened out onto a large terrace with exhilarating views for miles across the forested hills. The room was still run down, with the semi-finished electrical fittings, worn decor, ragged carpetted floor and without a working shower (hot water could be used via a bucket and jug), but we were delighted with our find.
Shimla looks as though it was initially placed on a narrow ridge and has gradually overflowed down each side. Most of the area that we frequented were along the ridge - our hotel had long forested hill views both north and south depending on the window you looked from. The pedestrianised main street (the Mall) had a sophisticated holiday feel, reminiscent of the towns on the Italian lakes, and in the evenings filled with strolling couples and families, browsing the branded clothes shops, or sitting in the square watching the world go by. Restaurants and cafes were also upmarket, although heading down the side of the ridge, we found the India that we had come to know, winding through chaotic bazaars, selling everything from mangos to metal pots to fake Reebok trainers, ending at the road at the bottom jam-packed with hooting cars and buses belching black exhaust.
Our first night we wondered up onto the mall, stumbled on a bar that was showing the England India test match, and then treated ourseleves to a pizza at Dominos (the only one we had seen in India so far). THe pizza's were good, but cost us over 1000 rupees (16 euros) for the meal - our most expensive in India - and we vowed never to go there again.

Day 2 July 26'th
I woke early, and while the others were sleeping, used the time to prepare our first maths lesson. I was interrupted by noises outside our door and when I looked out, a troop (is that what you call them?) or monkeys were on our terrace outside our door, swinging on the wires, climbing on the roof and play fighting. I resisted waking up the girls, assuming that the monkeys must be regular residents.
We had breakfast in our hotel - they had a menu that offerred some continental delicacies that we had not seen up until now: cornflakes, fried eggs and toast, toast and jam. Our waiter had an extremely limited vocabulary in english and the breakfast turned into a giggly affair as we learnt the lessons of eating continental food rather than Indian. It took us a while to get clarity on what we wanted (cornflakes, eggs, coffee), and when the bowl of cornflakes arrived with a glass of hot milk we launched into our Fawlty Shimla Towers scene:

Jacqui: "Do you have cold milk?"
Waiter "Cold meelk?"
Jacqui "Yes.....do you have cold milk?"

Pause while everyone looks at each other.

Jacqui "can we have cold milk?"
Waiter "Cold meelk?"
Jacqui "Yes....we want cold meelk" (the accent starting to catch on). "Not hot meelk.....we want cold meelk".
Waiter "no hot meelk?"
Jacqui "no hot meelk... we want cold meelk"
Waiter (the penny seeming to drop) "oh....no cold meelk" shaking his head with a smile, as if to say, this is only a retaurant, you can't expect everything.
Jacqui, pausing for reflection " you mean you don't have cold meelk?"
Waiter "no cold meelk".
Jacqui, beginning to allow an incredulous tone into her voice "but how do you make hot meelk then?"
Waiter "hot meelk?"
Jacqui "NO we don't WANT hot meelk...but, if you don't have cold meelk, how do you make hot meelk?"
It crossed my mind to go back to basics and bring in the concept of the cow, but already we had pushed the boundaries too far, the conversation was floundering, and the waiter abandoned us mid sentence, leaving us with a bowl of cornlakes, a glass of hot milk, and two girls in uncontrollable giggles.

When he came back, we made a final do or die attempt at getting the cold milk, and this time, whether through frustration at our impossible demands, or because the short time away from us had been enough to give him inspiration..... the breakthrough came:

Waiter: pointing to the hot milk "you want I make this meelk cold"
Jacqui (taken aback at this lateral thinking, but lifted at the sight of a potential solution) "well....er...yes....make this meelk cold then"

He disappeared with the hot milk and came back 5 minutes later with a satisfied smile and placed the glass of milk on the table. Bursting with curiosity, four fingers dived into the milk to test the temperature. Warm.
We pushed no further, and Fia ate a warm bowl of cornflakes.

We started our school in earnest this morning. Maths was the first lesson. Our adjoining room with tables and chairs made a perfect disconnected environment, and the girls, surprisingly, clicked straight into a scholarly frame of mind for our joint lesson and then got stuck into their individual exercises. Just as surprisingly - I really enjoyed it.
Jacqui followed with similar success straight after with the French lesson, though concentration ended a little prematurely with the return of the monkeys, which caused great excitement. Jacqui and the girls ventured outside the door, Fia armed with her camera, and tentatively approached the monkeys, but periodically, each time a monkey made any move towards them, came charging back through our door in shrieks of nervous laughter.
The monkeys we soon realised were a feature of Shimla, and probably the most memorable aspect for the children. During the day they invaded the town, often on our terrace, but also on roofs in the town and sitting at the side of the main street, occasionally making a dash across. In the evening they would retreat from the town to the forest just outside, where they slept, apparenlty sitting on branches in the trees. The locals were used to them, but often gave them a wide berth when walking past them, indicating that they were not entirely safe. The ones on our terrace were highly entertaining to watch with babies in the group playing and climbing over their mother, with the stereotypical mutual flea searching, and occasionaly launching into amusing acrobatics using any of the loose electrical wires, window frames or anything else they could find.

In the afternoon, we explored Shimla, heading down the side of the hill and wandering through the bazaar, and then along the upmarket shops along the Ridge, and having fun buying a pair of sandals for Fia.

Having been spoilt with Wifi access in our room in Delhi, we were subsequently plunged into connectivity darkness. Our hotel looked as though they didn't know what a computer was (as with all subsequent hotels the check-in was a long form filling process, and included the signing of a huge leather bound registry), so our only means to connect was to sit in the rather depressing internet cafes (mis-named, as frustratingly there was never a coffee in sight). This didn't work too well with children, and our vain attempts to get our blog up and running, find a way to be able to write our e-mails off-line, and keep up with some tweets, were very disruptive to our days. Our 3G Sim card, that we had purchased in Delhi so that we could have access to internet on the phone, was not working and we consumed hours before eventually resolving it to gain a weak and shaky, but valued, connection.

Fia was not eating well. She seemed to be on great form, but everytime we went into a restaurant, she seemed to feel sick at the thought of food, and completely unable to eat anything. At this stage, we thought it was a phsychological block to new foods, and worried that she wasn't eating much put pressure on her, which was stressful for all of us.

Day 3 July 27'th
Determined to avoid breakfast in the hotel, we went out and had a great breakfast of eggs etc at Goofa's, a cicular underground restaurant, in which we were virtually the only customers.
The day passed again with maths and french lessons, and some un-productive internet stuff. For lunch we were looking for a light snack but ended up at a very smart restaurant (white table cloths. big bellied affluent clientele, uniformed waiters etc) called Barjee's (I think). We only ordered a small dish to share between us (particularly with Fia unable to eat a thing) but having seen the sumptuous dishes being eaten around us, and having asked for a few explanataions, vowed to come back when we were more hungry.

We were determined to get out on a walk before the day was finished, and started out out of town. We had heard that there was a hotel around 3 or 4 km away that had an excellent bar, with free Wi-fi, so had envisaged sitting sipping a beer, and munching cashew nuts while we were catching up on e-mails etc, but when we arrived, it was so exceptionally smart that we didn't dare enter in our dirty T-shirts and flip flops, and returned for dinner.

We had a beer on the terrace at Ashiana's - the circular restaurant above Goofas, with exactly the same menu, but white tablecloths and every dish 5 rupees ( 1,5 euro cents) more expensive (presumably to cover the cost of the table cloths), and then dinner inside. By this stage we had realised that Fia had some sort of a tummy bug, and had stepped back from putting pressure on her, though a little worried at how little she was eating. But Ashianas was the beginning of the end of her troubles, and it was the Chicken Tandori that hit the spot with both the girls and remains one of their favourites. We left feeling like we had eaten at the Ritz.

Day 4 July 28'th
We returned to our hotel for breakfast, and having a different waiter, had none of the cold/hot milk episodes of the first day.
We suceeded in having another school morning, and after having booked a car to take us to Manali the following day, headed walking out of town to get the old Viceroy's (leader of the 19'th century British colonial government) house - about 5 km out of Shimla town. It was a pleasant route through the forest and small outlying settlements, and with the road lined by observing, and sometimes unnerving, monkeys. We grabbed a fast, basic and very cheap lunch at a roadside shack, (dahl and rice for Jacqui and me, and toast and butter for our un-adventurous girls) on the way.
The Viceroys house was an enormous magnificent, Great-Gatsby-like mansion, though more impressive than it was beautiful. We wandered round the gardens, and decided not to take the tour of the inside, knowing that we were leaving on an all day car journey the following day and had to pack and get an early night.
The size, and extravagance of this building was almost mind-blowing when one considered the primitive indian life that must have surrounded it in the 1850's when it was built. The imagination is stretched even further, envisaging the summer retreat journeys that must have been made, to get the whole of the administrative organisation from Calcutta up into these remote mountains, before trains were built or roads developed. Did they come all that way on elephants? How many servants were employed just for the journey, how long did it take - weeks, months? Lots of googling to do when we get back. I wondered what the Indians of the time must have thought of these larger than life colonialists and their strange unbelievably extravagant ways, and for a split second - I hoped that India would win the Cricket test series against us.....but the feeling soon passed.

We concluded our last night in Shimla, by returning to Barjee's, the smart restaurant, but this time with appetites, and we were not disappointed. We had avoided meat before Shimla, but inside knowledge indicated that once out of the hot urban centres like Delhi, the meat is normally much fresher. THe chicken butter masala was delicious, as was the Sag paneer (spinach with cheese) but it was again the chicken tandoori that took the winning votes.

We had had a very pleasant few days in Shimla, relieved from the oppressive hot humidity that we had sufferred in Delhi and Chandigarh (though now we were ready to exchange this rainy misty dampness for some warmth), enjoying a much slower pace of life in a holiday like atmosphere, and particularly pleased that we had kick-started the schooling. But we were ready to move on, and stuffed everything back into our rucksacks in preparation for our 8 hour drive to Manali.

CHANDIGARH 24 -25 July

Photo album:
https://picasaweb.google.com/116253494913081133936/Chandigarh?authkey=Gv1sRgCPHniqz62s7w1QE#5648161889439341874

The train to Chandigarh was due to leave at 8:35, but we set the alarm for 6:30 knowing we had all the packing to do, a 30 minute walk, and the unknown Delhi station to navigate. Being aware that the railway station is the prime location for theft, and having two children to survey, we were a little nervous and had talked through precautionary measures that we should take: watch our bags at all times, and particularly if someone starts talking to us, avoid the crowds if possible, keep together so that we can all watch each others bags while they are on our backs etc. In fact, the train was waiting for us when we arrived - we faced a bit of a crowd as the passengers getting off our train charged up the stairs we were trying to get down, but nothing intimidating, and we were quickly settled in our second class seats and ready to go. The girls in two seats sitting next to a man, in front of Jacqui and myself.
The train was quite honestly, fairly luxurious - the seats were almost TGV like, and we were served a cup of chai, followed shortly by a beakfast of yoghurt and bread and jam. THe journey flew by, and or course the girls wasted no time in starting conversation with the pharmacist (as he turned out to be) sitting next to them, and then to a female research doctor on the other side of the carriage. The pharmacist leant his Blackberry to the children saying they could play games on it (probably in a vain attempt to have a bit of peace and quiet) but the research doctor was pulled into the fray when none of them could understand how to find a game on the Blackberry. But, even when foun, the game was quickly abandoned in favour of the exchange of written messages to the research doctor on their notebooks:
Tamsin: "what do you do?"
Research Doctor: "I am a doctor".
Tamsin: "well if you're a doctor, yesterday I hurt my foot"
Research doctor: "oh dear, what did you do? By the way, I am a research doctor. Do you know what that is?
Tamsin: "yes"
Research doctor "then you must be a very clever girl"
Tamsin "what do your mummy and daddy do?" and so on.and When we arrived at Chandiagarh, the cuddles of goodbyes on the platform belied the two and a half hours friendship that had formed. The pharmacist was also extremely friendly, and the ice having been broken by the girls, I also got into conversation with him, and he gave us a huge amount of information on Chandigarh - the different hotels, the rock gardens, the lake, the cost of a rickshaw from the station etc, and finally made a call to his brother and offered us an appartment to stay in while we were there. We were touched but declined, as it was a bit out of town and we were only staying for one night.
On arrival we hopped into a rickshaw (a little bigger than the Delhi rickshaws, fitting, at a squeeze, all of us with our rucksacks) and headed to a street of hotels, so that I could make some price / quality comparisons before we selected. We chose a basic, but reasonably clean hotel, took a double room, and squeezed an extra mattress in for the girls.
After our best Thali lunch yet
and what we thought was a well deserved siesta, we headed off for the renowned Rock Gardens of Chandigarh - an imaginatively designed park with twisting alleyways between rock faces and waterfalls, and opening out into a very enjoyable play area, with giant swings, crazy mirrors, camel rides and an acquarium. It is made all the more interesting because it is lined with the sculptures of Nek Chand, a previously unkown artist who regenerated waste material (old plug sockets, bangles, crockery etc) into walls, animals, figurines. The overall effect of the park is somewhere between Indiana Jones and a modern art exhibition. The park is full of indian tourists, and very few foreign tourists, and We lived the photo experience again with the girls - they must have had a hundered photos of them taken while we were in there - against the waterfall, on the swing, with this person, with that person, with both of them etc. Everyone was very friendly and each time we ended up in a bit of a conversation - normally starting with where are you from, which is not the simplest question for us to answer.
We took a cycle rickshaw for the first time (as opposed to a motor rickshaw) - the girls had been begging for days - along the road to Sukhna lake. Everyone was taking an evening wander along the shoreline and there were various animations, and food stalls and we stayed for dinner at a sort of pub. A teenage deaf girl out with her family spotted Fia and Tamsin across the room, and in no time they were engaged in more writen messages, cuddles, and exchanging phone numbers (she is still texting messages to them now, several weeks later).

Heading back to the hotel we stumbled on a coffee bar, so stopped for an ice cream and coffee before we went to bed.
The night was not uneventful. The Chandigarh climate is as humid and sticky as Delhi and we went to sleep with the air conditioning buzzing away. In the middle of the night, Jacqui wanted to turn the ac up, and tiptoed across the sleeping bodies of Fia and Tamsin on the mattress on the floor to reach for the control. I was only vaguely conscious, but soon became fully conscious when the room was lit up from sparks coming out of the ac and three girls in their underwear were leaping across the bed to get to the other side of the room. I managed to turn a switch off using my walking boot and we survived the rest of the night without ac.

Departure and Delhi 19 - 23 July

Le Depart:

https://picasaweb.google.com/116253494913081133936/DelhiAlbum?authkey=Gv1sRgCIb4_7H67KnKzAE#5647321199769867122

Jacqui and I looked at each other once we sat in our seats on the BA flight from Paris to London - we were almost dizzy with both relief and excitement. There had been so much to do before we left that it hardly seemed possible that we were going to make it. The girls had already left for England several days earlier, and We spent the last few days packing the house,cleaning it ready for the people renting it, sorting through all of our electronic files to decide what would be needed whilst we were away, scanning any documents that we thought we may need, back-ups, last purchases, last financial transactions etc. Several things of course, we should not have been doing at the last minute, but in fact it seemed our last few months were not very different.
Our second from last day was focused on the house - the rapid reaction team from Nerville (eternal thanks Vero, Christian and Galli) were with us for several hours, shifting boxes around the house, sweeping floors, tidying etc. Our last day was early morning last minute cleaning and arranging, and then the long handover process to our new tenants, who arrived en masse famille, and were all charming. A quick lunch at Vero's, deposit our loaned car (more eternal thanks to Elise and Eric - hope you found the keys) before we were handed over to Galli to take us to the airport. We felt like we hadn't slept for months. Our brains had ceased to function, and everyone was looking after us. Now, the house was let, the car was sold, we had renewed passports and visas, registered the girls for home schooling, the finances were sorted, goodbyes (the french and Irish ones) had been said, everything we were taking to India was packed into our two rucksacks (the girls already had theirs with them), and we were leaving for a year in Asia in 2 days, with nothing that could stand in our way.
We spent the last few days in England seeing the family - my (Guy) parents, grandmother of 95 years, Jacqui's Aunty Phil,Aunty Jo and brother Jimmy, and my sister Louise and family.Not feeling comfortable with this sudden drop in our stress levels, I decided, a few hours before our flight, in the middle of our magnificent goodbye lunch (thanks Andy and Mum), that the the girls sleeping bags were in-adequate and that we needed to buy new ones. They were too big when attached to their little rucksacks, and I had never been comfortable with their heat rating. Louise (her Formula 1 talents having remained dormant up to that point) rushed me into Newbury where in 2 minutes flat, I bought the best quality sleeping bags that Millets could offer. They were both more compact and with a comfort zone down to -5 degrees, for our cold nights in Himalayan huts that we were imagaining.
After a long check-in process (that already felt Indian), some tearful goodbyes to the Bassett seniors and the Griffiths, we were sitting on our Jet Airlines flight with engines revving. Now, for sure, nothing could stand in our way. The flight was wonderful. The girls were completely gripped with diferent films they could watch, or music they could listen to, the food was great, and we all slept. The only disturbance in the middle of our short night being when the chatty Nepalese boy sitting next to Jacqui managed to knock his glass of water into Jacqui's lap. Jacqui, rudely awoken from her sleep leapt up out of her seat with a scream, prompting a number of indian faces in front and behind us to pop up over their seats to see what was going on.

19 July 2011
Arrival in Delhi and our first day
We had phoned to reserve a hotel the day we left, and asked them to pick us up at the airport. In fact, no-one was there when we arrived, but we managed to get a trustworthy taxi fairly easily. He had to stop a few times to ask the directions (are there so few people staying where we are staying?).

Our hotel, engagingly named, 'The Cottage Yes Please Hotel', was no disappointment - we had a large air conditioned double room (or more like suite) with a small area with a sofa and coffee-table (where we would eat fruit in the morning) and another with a table and chairs (where the girls wrote their diaries), and a curtained off annex for a second double bed, where the girls slept, allowing us to continue to read, plan, work on e-mails etc after they had gone to bed. There was a bathroom with a western toilet (as they proudly call the sit-on type as opposed to the hole in the ground type), and a shower (which you had to hold), We never found hot water, but we never really tried as a cool shower suited us perfectly to refresh us after every sweat-drenched outing. The decor was certainly worn and a little shabby, with a characteristic half-finished look about the electrics and fittings, but it had touches of Indian grandeur which we loved.
The air conditioning was highly effective pumping out cold air straight onto Jacqui and my bed, and was supported by highly in-effective, but very atmospheric, brass ceiling fans. All worked together to maintain our room as a livable sanctuary from the extremely humid 30 something degrees Delhi life. As well as keeping us cool, the air conditioning had a bonus feature - a surrounding circle of blue neon flashing lights, which at night lit up our room to give a sort of Picadilly Circus feel - nice touch!
The room was costing us 2500 rupees (39 euros) a night - we knew this was stretching our budget, but we thought (correctly)that we could recuperate once outside Delhi.
On arrival in our room - it was around mid-day - Jacqui immediately collapsed asleep, while I read and the girls amused themselves in our new exciting living environment. We crossed the road for a quick lunch at the Malhotra restaurant (take the stairs above the gutted building sites on the ground and first floors, stepping over the building workers, follow the corridor around and voila), before we would take a little walk in our new surroundings.
Our hotel was situated in the middle of Parharganj district, not far from Delhi station. The area is full of budget hotels,and is popular with backpackers. But to jump out of a plane from europe into the middle of Parharganj is a shock for anyone, as Parharganj hides very little about the extremities of Delhi life. Wandering through the narrow streets, dirty, littered,constantly smelly and noisy and crammed with street vendors and homeless, giving a wide berth to the numerous loitering flee-bitten stray dogs (after being over-sensitised by Air France immunisation centre about the dangers of rabies), trying to maintain a smile while saying 'no' to the persistent beggars tapping your arm, taking care what you are treading in, but regularly shuffling to the side of the road as a rickshaw or horn-blaring moped speeds past within centimetres from you.
I felt Tamsin's hand grip tighter onto mine as a ragged face peered closely to hers and smiled at her, revealing its few remaining black teeth. No doubt the girls were a bit intimidated by this overwhelming introduction to India, but they hardened to it quickly, and within the first few days fear and apprehension was making way for fascination and curiosity.

I had suggested we walk to Connaught Place, but had under-estimated the Delhi heat, and over-estimated the scale of the map,and we felt and looked like we had crossed a desert by the time we got there an hour later. But our thoughts were less on the heat than on the tourist touts that 'accompanied us' on our way.
I knew from past travels all about tourist touts - the seemingly friendly people that walk alongside you making conversation("where are you from? England?? David Beckham!! I have good friend in England, Edgeware Road....") all to try to persuade you, under the guise of helping you, to make some over-priced booking (tour of India, bus trip, visit to the Red Fort,whatever) through an agency or contact through which he can make some commission. I had pre-warned the girls about these tricksters, that can be so persistent and numerous as to be a menace. So prepared were we that prior to our trip, we had even rehearsed our plan of action - we would talk only in French, and claim to have no understanding of english - the girls loved their part in the act: "Nous sommes francais..Vous parlez francais?...only leeettle eeengleesh....no comprend...." etc. We were sure that no Indian tourist touts would be able to speak french and would certainly give up on us as soon as they realised we couldn't understand them.
Sure enough as we left the hotel and made our way down the street, one tout after another appeared magically next to us with the cliched lines. With a wink to each other we put our plan into action: the tourist touts all knew as far as a 'ahh francais.... ca va?' but as predicted their knowledge of the french language ended there, and they continued their endeavours in english. Some gave-up, but the third tout was persistent. He asked me repeatedly what we were going to see, and in response to my best confused face, and my apologetic pleas of 'no...no understand...je ne comprends pas, vous parlez francais?' continued to repeat the question, but each time with his face inching closer to mine, speaking more loudly, articulating the words more slowly and pointing at his eye to illustrate his question in an increasingly desperate effort to get around my ignorance. The rising tension was finally too much for Tamsin - the laborious rehearsals went out of the window, as she could hold herself back no longer: 'Daddy.....he is asking WHAT WE WANT TO SEE'. After a slight embarrassed pause when all three of us looked at each other, I tried to improvise and continued the act, but our credibility was damaged, and we walked the whole way to Connaught Place with this painful, frustrated tout at our side.

20 July 2011
Day 2
Tiredness caught up on us all, and when I woke up in our window-less room,it was already past mid-day. Tamsin took the record at 17 hours of sleep that night. Our productive days would have to start tomorrow.
Nevertheless, we were determined to make use of the remains of the day, and after breakfast at Malhotras, we squeezed into an auto rickshaw and headed off to see the Red Fort. It was a great way for us to travel: fun and cool, with the wind rushing past us, and never more than 1,50 euros. Despite our efforts to enthuse the girls in the immense cultural richness of Delhi,the rides in the auto-rickshaws remained their highlight.

The immense Red Fort is an impressive site. Built in the 17th century by the moguls when they moved their capital to Delhi,it shows the traces of the flamboyant and extravagant lifestyle they led. Shah Jahan, the mogul emperor that commissioned it was a busy man - he launched into the construction of the Red Fort before the finishing touches had been put on the now world famous tomb, the Taj Mahal, that he had built for his wife, and in his spare time knocked up the awesome Jama Masjid mosque (India's largest).
Our visit to the museum inside the fort, showing an interesting collection of pictures of India in the 19'th century and of the first battles of independence, was bought to an accelerated end when the museum closed at 5:00. But we wondered leisurely round the different buildings of the red fort, stopping periodically to read the background from our guide book.
At one point a family innocently asked us if they could take a photo of their son together with our two children. Not knowing what we were letting ourseleves in for, we of course accepted with delight and stood aside while their reluctant son was positioned in between Fia and Tamsin, who were already working on their camera poses. Once photos were taken of the son,the mother decided that she too should have some taken of her and squeezed herself in for further poses. Meanwhile, others started to notice the slight commotion, and when mother was finished two more families were already prepared, camera in hand,to take the stage. The more photos were taken, the more the crowd gathered, each wanting to have their photo taken, followed by their brother/father/sister/friend...then their brother and friend together and so on, until I had to stand on tiptoes to be able to see Fia and Tamsin's little patient, but slightly bemused, smiles over the heads and cameras of the growing paparazzi surrounding them. Jacqui and I laughed in incredulity, but at one point when there was little sign of the frenzy abating, we had to step in like celebrity bodyguards and start shuffling the little stars off to the side. Even then, our working day was not finished. Wherever we roamed in the grounds of the Red Fort, all it took was the first brave person to request the photo-shoot, and you could almost see a ripple spread outwards as people noticed the excitement, and felt for their cameras and phones as they gravitated inwards.We left the Red Fort with a trail of people following us - two at the front talking to us, eight listening in on the conversation and the rest following to try to keep in on the action. We felt like Kate and William on tour. and it wouldn't surprise me if that's who they thought we were.

We stayed in the area of the Red Fort in anticipation of the evening Sound and Light performance. We wondered through the streets of Chandry Chowk - the busiest and most chaotic Delhi bazar, to try to find somewhere to eat. But the crowds were so
intense and oppressive that it was a struggle to keep hold of Fia and Tamsin's hands and stay together, and we ended up jumping into an air conditioned McDonalds for a break and a McSpicey chicken (or something similar). The menu is adapted and prices are of course much cheaper than europe, but here we were in the company of the trendy and affluent Indian middle class.

The Sound and Light show at the Red Fort was predictably dodgy though nevertheless mildly entertaining and informative. At 10:30 we hopped into an auto rickshaw and weaved through the pulsating Delhi streets back to our hotel.

21 July 2011
Day 3
We were making an effort to claw our way out of our late night / late morning cycle, but the progress was slow and we were generally not finishing our breakfast before around 11-12 each morning.
We wondered the streets of Parharganj (by now becoming familiar) and bought a cheap shoulder bag for Jacqui. We needed some extra holding capacity. Every time we went out I loaded the camera and zoom lens, together with our 4 Kindle e-readers into
my bag - quite a weight, but we never wanted to leave any of it in the hotel room. The heavier laptop has a cable that allows us to lock it together with something solid (eg a table), and leave it in hotel rooms - but I am taking data back-ups in case.
I went to a tiny phone boutique to purchase our two local Vodaphone India SIM cards, so that we had the possibility to call each other and hotels etc without paying the huge roaming fees of using a French SIM card. On one of the SIMs we wanted a 3G capability - while we were in our Delhi hotel, we were well connected with an excellent wifi in our room, but we assumed this would not be the case everywhere so wanted an alternative connection possibility. It took a good hour (passport copies, forms to be filled and calls to vodaphone customer service) before I finally walked out of the boutique with the SIM cards, and a further 3 hours that night in the hotel room setting both numbers up in all our contact lists, testing out the 3G and then taken to the limit of my patience making repeated calls to Vodaphone customer service to resolve an SMS problem, each time fighting through automated call handling services, before painful conversations to agents with only a scratching of mutual understanding between us and frequently being abandoned and having to start again. The basics were resolved, though the 3G continued to give us problems.

It was already mid-afternoon when we began our sightseeing and headed off on a rickshaw to President Nehru's house, now a museum of the 20'th century independence movement. Set in beautiful grounds, it is a peaceful retreat, and is full of black
and white photos and texts of this interesting period. Fia and Tamsin struggled to maintain their enthusiasm, but the Ghandi story captured their imagination.

We ended the day back in Parharganj sitting on an incongruously pleasant rooftop terrace, drinking a divinely cold Kingfisher beer, and then afterwards eating our dinner in a more lively underground bar / restaurant where they had the India / England cricket on a big screen TV!

22 July 2011
Day 4
All records were beaten and we were in a rickshaw on our way to Humuyun's (16'th century 2'nd Mogul emperor) magnificent tomb by 10:30. Despite protestations and exaggerated stories from rickshaw drivers (some of whom we were starting to get to know)we decided to give the Delhi metro a try. All pre-conceptions were shatterred when we saw the modern clean trains, clear maps, and digital signage, and we had an easy quick trip, followed by a 30 minute walk between the metro station and the tomb.
The emperor himself was buried here along with a large number of others who wanted to be in on the act, and the tomb (which is more like a castle estate than a simple tomb) is certainly magnificent.

We took a rickshaw to Connaught place with the thought of going to see a film, but we stumbled on the equivalents of Leicester Square/Champs Elysee cinemas and the prices were at european levels, so we decided to wait for another Bollywood opportunity.

Our return trip on the metro was a different experience - we had coincided with the Delhi rush hour. We were amazed to see that along the platform, the crowds were organised into single file queues, each lined up to where the door of the train would eventually arrive, and monitored by security guards. Not one single person was out of line. We dutifully joined a queue and awaited the train. As the rumbling train approached, you could sense an agitated tension mount in the crowds and the queues start to shudder slightly, but at the whoosh of the opening doors, the queues dissolved into one big mass of desperate commuters, pushing and shoving, those getting off as determined as those getting on. We were washed with the wave, backwards, forwards, sideways, but when the train was full, we were not on it, and as the security guard forcefully squeezed the last few heads and bodies behind the closing doors, the train left, with contorted faces squashed against the windows.


23 July 2011
Day 5 in Delhi
It was time to escape from Delhi, and we went straight to the New Delhi railway station in the morning to book tickets north to Shimla in Himachal Pradesh, and up in the foothills of the Himalayas. Shimla woud be one of maybe two stopping points on the way to Leh in Ladakh near the Tibetan border, where we planned to do some trecking and other activities.

There is thankfully a dedicated room for foreigners to make train reservations, though a number of suspicious characters tried to persuade us otherwise (presumably to try to get in on the act of our purchase and make some money on the way).
We sat in a seated queue which wound its way around the room. Everytime someone went up to one of the agents, the queue shuffled along their chairs up the queue. Highly civilised. There were not train seats available to travel to Shimla in one day, so
we decided for a stopover in Chandigarh on the way.
We managed to find a back-street tailor who professionally repaired a rip in my shorts, one in Fias dress, and Jacqui's bag (that had managed to last a full 2 days of usage), all for 1,20 euros.

That afternoon we headed back to Connaught place to stock up at the pharmacy (malaria pills which we knew we would have to start using at some point, and various other first aid), as well as get some more Rupees, and headed back to the hotel reasonably early to pack, in preparation for our shockingly(!) early 7:30 wake up call.