It's 3 in the morning when we reach our 'hotel' in Ozbus 20's bus number 3. Once again, whilst ostensibly similar to buses 1 & 2 on the outside, inside it is a whole new world. There are fans and curtains and reclining seats. But if you dare to recline your seat you will end up with your head in the lap of the person behind. It's a good job we're all friends. The heat hit us hard as we leave the plane but the aircon on the bus is fierce and we are soon freezing in the back. There are only 2 options. Off or on. On it is then. With a separate cabin up front for the driver and his assistant there are fewer seats for more people and very few will have 2 seats to themselves. The springy suspension means we bounce along the bumpy roads swerving round potholes, people, random animals, bikes, motorbikes, rickshaws, tuk-tuks, trucks, buses of all shapes and sizes, and even the odd car.
When we arrive, waiting for us, are Rick , Lisa and Allen, together with a very welcome crate of ice cold beer. It feels good to be all back together again and the beer tastes even better. Despite our tiredness, we sit around chatting for while. Some had bought spirits at the duty free on arrival and are hell bent on celebrating their freedom from oppression on the rooftop. Not me. I have been, atypically, some might say, remarkably restrained on this trip and my fear of being sick on the bus still outweighs my desire for anything more than a beer to quench my thirst. In fact, I have not missed alcohol at any time during our stay in Iran. At 4.30 a.m. I go for yet another shower and bed as we have agreed to head for the Golden Temple at 10.30am.
When I get up at 9.00 am some of the girls are still partying on the rooftop. Janet takes them up on their offer of a swig of vodka and a beer for breakfast before we set off for the half hour walk to the Temple.
The essence of India assaults all our senses. After the austerity of Iran, it is such an immense contrast of culture and we drink it in. The streets are dirty and dusty. They are lined with lock up garages offering every kind of product you could possibly imagine, and some you probably can't. Generators sit outside most of them. There is a cacophony of noise, as the people go about their daily business. Mostly, it is traffic. Cars, motorbikes, trucks, bikes, buses, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, horse drawn carts. They all have their way of 'advising' the traffic in front that they are there and would like to pass, or are already passing, or have just passed. I like the trucks and the buses best. Their horns are a sing song tune as they thunder past and you leap out of the way of certain death.
There are no pavements, so death is only seconds away at any time as we make our way through the riddle of streets. Actually traversing a road is an art we have yet to perfect, but we take our training seriously and watch how the locals do it before determinedly setting out as we spy a gap, only to leap back again as a tuktuk swerves in from nowhere to take 'our' gap. But no fairground ride can beat the adrenalin rush of successfully attaining the opposite side of the road.
Underneath all the dust and grime, there is a strong sense of colour which lifts our mood and overrides everything. There is colour in the school uniforms of the children, the turbans of the men, the saris of the women, and the smiles of the people as they stare at this group of misfits trying to make their way through the crowds. The young girls giggle openly as we walk by in our shorts and t-shirts. The children gather round, anxious to make contact. 'Hello', 'What's your name?'', “ Which country?”. They beam when we reply and are desperate for us to take their photo. The half hour walk stretches out and the temperature rises in the late morning sun. Tuk tuks continually pull in front of us, blocking our way, keen to pick up a ride. Not today thank you.
None of us have any cash and we are looking for an ATM. They are not easy to spot in the line of garages and various bric a brac which extends out into the streets. We nearly walk past a small mall, inside which we find a couple of ATMs. Some of us are able to get cash, others are less successful. On we go. Suddenly, we round a corner and it is there in front of us. The roof of the Golden Temple sparkles in the sunshine. The gleaming white of the walls glares through the dust.
We leave our sandals at the counter and don our headscarves. Here, in the Temple, it does not feel oppressive and shades our heads from the heat of the sun. We rinse our feet in the foot bath at the entrance and walk down the steps into another world. Within the walls it is calm and serene, despite the hordes of people, who are already there. We follow them down towards the water and make our way around the huge courtyard. In the lake are koi and goldfish, and some of the men are also taking a dip. We are also an attraction in here, and surreptitious glances are fielded our way as they walk behind, or in front, or across our path. Again, we receive many approaches for photos or comments (name, nationality). The children are adorable. Shy, with immense brown eyes, they squirm with pleasure as we talk to them or take their photo. On the walls all around are memorial plaques of loved ones and groups, some military, some not. All have made donations to the Temple. Respite for all visitors, whether it be food or shelter or just peace and calm is available to all without charge here, but donations are gratefully received. As we gain the exit steps, there is a small door to our left. In the immense Temple it could be easily missed. Above it says 'Museum'. We mount the steep narrow staircase into a series of small rooms. The walls are lined with macabre paintings and photos, describing the bloody persecution of Sikhs through history right up to the massacre of Sikh separatists in 1984 ordered by Indira Ghandi in the Temple itself. I am sickened by it and have to leave.
Further down the street, there is another memorial to an equally bloody earlier massacre in 1919, this time by the British. Inside, the courtyard has now been converted to a garden of tranquillity. Despite this, we are still approached for photos with beaming smiles, even when the answer to 'What country?' is 'England'.
Back at the hotel for another shower, before we drive to the Pakistan border for the Border Closing Ceremony at sunset. How much would we have given just to be able to cross the border and get the stamp in our passport? But the border is closed long before the ceremony and we park our bus and trek with the crowds to the stands at the border.
Inside there is already a party atmosphere. Music is playing, the MC is warming up the crowd with chants and responses. The border guards are fascinating. So tall, with their half mast trousers and plumes in their hats. Groups of children are invited down to dance , then the women. Jaiho plays and we sing along to the Saturdays version but it is not the Saturdays playing. More chants and responses and, as the sun goes down, the kids are again invited to run back and forward to the border carrying the national flag. Then the ceremony starts as the sun sets over Pakistan. The calls back and forth between the border guards, each trying to hold the call longer than the other. The high goose stepping up to the border and back. Each kicking higher than the other. It could be Moulin Rouge. All too soon the gates are shut for the final time. No-one really wants it to end. We saunter back to the bus and wait for the 3 rows of buses in front of ours to leave before we head back to the hotel in time for dinner.
We decide not to venture too far for our evening meal. All I can say is, my first experience of Indian food in India was not up to my expectations. On the bright side, size 8 by Sydney, is looking marginally more realistic.
When we arrive, waiting for us, are Rick , Lisa and Allen, together with a very welcome crate of ice cold beer. It feels good to be all back together again and the beer tastes even better. Despite our tiredness, we sit around chatting for while. Some had bought spirits at the duty free on arrival and are hell bent on celebrating their freedom from oppression on the rooftop. Not me. I have been, atypically, some might say, remarkably restrained on this trip and my fear of being sick on the bus still outweighs my desire for anything more than a beer to quench my thirst. In fact, I have not missed alcohol at any time during our stay in Iran. At 4.30 a.m. I go for yet another shower and bed as we have agreed to head for the Golden Temple at 10.30am.
When I get up at 9.00 am some of the girls are still partying on the rooftop. Janet takes them up on their offer of a swig of vodka and a beer for breakfast before we set off for the half hour walk to the Temple.
The essence of India assaults all our senses. After the austerity of Iran, it is such an immense contrast of culture and we drink it in. The streets are dirty and dusty. They are lined with lock up garages offering every kind of product you could possibly imagine, and some you probably can't. Generators sit outside most of them. There is a cacophony of noise, as the people go about their daily business. Mostly, it is traffic. Cars, motorbikes, trucks, bikes, buses, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, horse drawn carts. They all have their way of 'advising' the traffic in front that they are there and would like to pass, or are already passing, or have just passed. I like the trucks and the buses best. Their horns are a sing song tune as they thunder past and you leap out of the way of certain death.
There are no pavements, so death is only seconds away at any time as we make our way through the riddle of streets. Actually traversing a road is an art we have yet to perfect, but we take our training seriously and watch how the locals do it before determinedly setting out as we spy a gap, only to leap back again as a tuktuk swerves in from nowhere to take 'our' gap. But no fairground ride can beat the adrenalin rush of successfully attaining the opposite side of the road.
Underneath all the dust and grime, there is a strong sense of colour which lifts our mood and overrides everything. There is colour in the school uniforms of the children, the turbans of the men, the saris of the women, and the smiles of the people as they stare at this group of misfits trying to make their way through the crowds. The young girls giggle openly as we walk by in our shorts and t-shirts. The children gather round, anxious to make contact. 'Hello', 'What's your name?'', “ Which country?”. They beam when we reply and are desperate for us to take their photo. The half hour walk stretches out and the temperature rises in the late morning sun. Tuk tuks continually pull in front of us, blocking our way, keen to pick up a ride. Not today thank you.
None of us have any cash and we are looking for an ATM. They are not easy to spot in the line of garages and various bric a brac which extends out into the streets. We nearly walk past a small mall, inside which we find a couple of ATMs. Some of us are able to get cash, others are less successful. On we go. Suddenly, we round a corner and it is there in front of us. The roof of the Golden Temple sparkles in the sunshine. The gleaming white of the walls glares through the dust.
We leave our sandals at the counter and don our headscarves. Here, in the Temple, it does not feel oppressive and shades our heads from the heat of the sun. We rinse our feet in the foot bath at the entrance and walk down the steps into another world. Within the walls it is calm and serene, despite the hordes of people, who are already there. We follow them down towards the water and make our way around the huge courtyard. In the lake are koi and goldfish, and some of the men are also taking a dip. We are also an attraction in here, and surreptitious glances are fielded our way as they walk behind, or in front, or across our path. Again, we receive many approaches for photos or comments (name, nationality). The children are adorable. Shy, with immense brown eyes, they squirm with pleasure as we talk to them or take their photo. On the walls all around are memorial plaques of loved ones and groups, some military, some not. All have made donations to the Temple. Respite for all visitors, whether it be food or shelter or just peace and calm is available to all without charge here, but donations are gratefully received. As we gain the exit steps, there is a small door to our left. In the immense Temple it could be easily missed. Above it says 'Museum'. We mount the steep narrow staircase into a series of small rooms. The walls are lined with macabre paintings and photos, describing the bloody persecution of Sikhs through history right up to the massacre of Sikh separatists in 1984 ordered by Indira Ghandi in the Temple itself. I am sickened by it and have to leave.
Further down the street, there is another memorial to an equally bloody earlier massacre in 1919, this time by the British. Inside, the courtyard has now been converted to a garden of tranquillity. Despite this, we are still approached for photos with beaming smiles, even when the answer to 'What country?' is 'England'.
Back at the hotel for another shower, before we drive to the Pakistan border for the Border Closing Ceremony at sunset. How much would we have given just to be able to cross the border and get the stamp in our passport? But the border is closed long before the ceremony and we park our bus and trek with the crowds to the stands at the border.
Inside there is already a party atmosphere. Music is playing, the MC is warming up the crowd with chants and responses. The border guards are fascinating. So tall, with their half mast trousers and plumes in their hats. Groups of children are invited down to dance , then the women. Jaiho plays and we sing along to the Saturdays version but it is not the Saturdays playing. More chants and responses and, as the sun goes down, the kids are again invited to run back and forward to the border carrying the national flag. Then the ceremony starts as the sun sets over Pakistan. The calls back and forth between the border guards, each trying to hold the call longer than the other. The high goose stepping up to the border and back. Each kicking higher than the other. It could be Moulin Rouge. All too soon the gates are shut for the final time. No-one really wants it to end. We saunter back to the bus and wait for the 3 rows of buses in front of ours to leave before we head back to the hotel in time for dinner.
We decide not to venture too far for our evening meal. All I can say is, my first experience of Indian food in India was not up to my expectations. On the bright side, size 8 by Sydney, is looking marginally more realistic.
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