In which a rouge glass of milk lays your hero flat in Bhuj

I'm now in Jaipur, having almost "done" Rajastan. But here I'll cover my time in Gujurat, and treat later later later, so to speak.

My name posted to the side of the Mumbai train, spelt correctly no less. After settling into the rickety second class bench, a hapless middle aged brit shoved his balding head through my window, demanding that I swap mine for his first class ticket, RIGHT NOW. Ok, if you insist. His friend had an alarm clock, that was his reason, perfectly ordinary. My "luxury" journey was far from it, just a more sealed off environment with a fan that made a racket and blew the curtains away, and such an exclusive environment still didn't escape the shrieks of the wandering chai boy. There I met Alex, a gap year american travelling by herself, which rather shits on the belief that young women can't travel by themselves in third world countries. It was hard, and often awakward, she did admit, which was spelt out by how the Indian man we got friendly with in the same carriage only addressed me, and would use me as conduit for any question addressed to her. This was typical, apparently.

We arrived in Aurangabad at four in the morning. We planned to stay in the station till light, but then found it to be a makeshift refugee camp, tramps carpetting every inch of floor. Arungabad's only diversion are the sections of the road surface which plummet deep into the earth. Add to this a swell of traffic and you reach a condition rather hostile to the humble bicycle. Hence my bicycle accident, whereby I swerved and fell to avoid a motorcycle travelling on the wrong side of the road. Indian roads often feature signs warning drivers to keep to the correct side of the road (left of course), but they were absent here, so the motorcyle was acting most understandably of course.

Aurangabad is a handy base for the Ajanta and Ellora caves, both religious sites carved into hillsides, the former Buddhist (3rd century onwards), the other a fusion of Buddhist, Hindu and Jain temples developing chronologically from around the same time. My efforts to see Daulatabad fort were frustrated by the bicycle accident, after which the kindly hotel owner took me via motorcyle (on the wrong side of the road; a perfect symetry) to the hospital, where I recieved a tetanus injection, antibiotics and a host of other goodies. To be frank, it looked as if a chunk of my elbow were missing, and it still hadn't fully healed three weeks later. Aurunabad held my first experience of the state buses. I went a little like this: I board one bus and ask the driver if it's going to Ellora, he nods, I ask the passengers, "no no, next bus", board next bus, ask passengers, "yes yes", ask the conductor, "no no, next bus"...... This went on for nearly forty five minutes, and I must have boarded twenty buses.

From Aurungabad to Baroda (now Vadodara, but Indians seem only to use the old names, and never understand you when you use the the "correct" names), the first of many overnight bus rides, in which sleep is kept at bay when every two hours the driver pulls into a "service sation" (more a shack selling a bewildering variety of biscuits and little else) for some tea. This often lasts half and hour, sometimes more, to allow the driver to have a hearty chat with the shack owner, and is enlivened by the prescence of a boom box playing defeaning Indian disco pop, a feature at virtually every service station, even it it is 3 in the morning.

At Baroda I had that unique priveledge of staying with an Indian family, enjoying home cooked meals and treading barefoot on cow pat floors (wonderfully soft and insulating, a traditional Indian practice sadly in decline against "easier' concrete). It was the house of my uncle Punkaj, "Solange Farm", at the heart of a tranquil village just a few miles out ot town. I could have sat in that garden for ever, being endlessly poured tea by a silent shuffling maid.

But the discomfort of backpacker travel lured away to Ahmenabad, Gujurat's capital, which has the mixed distinction of having been the theatre of both Gandhi's salt marches and the worst of the Hindu-Muslim voilence that followed the BJP (a hindu fascist party that consciously emulates the Nazis) led destruction of one of Islam's holiest mosques, the Badri Masquid in Ayodhya in the early nineties. The muslim's came of considerably worse, many of whom were burnt alive by hindu thugs. The city has a heavy Muslim presence, a roofscape of minarets, and many exquisite Mosques are hidden, accessed through tiny openings in the cramped streets, which open onto gloriously wide spaces, containing comunal troths for the washing of feet before entering the mosque proper. Such obssesive compulsive tendencies are found also in Hindu and Jain temples, where the removal of shoes before entry is zelously enforced, and is even translated to the few churches I've entered. The cheery bearded Muslim's of the mosques were falling over themselves the show me round, and never once asked for money, something you'd find in any Hindu or Jain temple. I behaviour did once lapse disastrously: I was looking round the tomb of Ahmen Shah, a rather important chap to Muslims, and my bladder was in serious need of relief. I left the mausoleum and crept round to the back of it. A quiet spot, just me and a goat. Unfortunately some good Muslim witnessed me relieving myself, and as far as he was concerned I was pissing against a sacred mausolem. Let's just say he was not best pleased, and he called round his mates; I zipped up my flies and ran, faster than I've ever had to.

I was glad to leave Ahmenebad. Not only was I constantly looking out for a muslim mob from that point on, but Ahmenabad ranks in the world's top ten most poluted cities, and the effect is nauseating. Next was Palitana, an unassuming village that happens to next to one of the holiest Jain pilgrimage sites in India: Shatrunjaya. That evening I had a long chat with a kindly old Jain, who described Jain's creed of non-violence, which even extends to mosquitoes, and was adopted by Gandhi. It seems the eastern religions compete for how difficult they can make life for women: hinduism prescribes that widows should renounce all wordly comforts, shave their heads and live as ascetics; Islam needs no introduction on the matter; and Jainism teaches that women are incapable of attaining enlightenment.

Shatrunjaya consists of beautifully carved (naked ladies everywhere) temples at the top of a steep hill, a good 90 minute climb, from which the views of the Gujurati contryside are awesome. I decided to be "genuine" (pilgrims are supposed to walk barefoot) by ditching my shoes, which I regretted after half an hour's ascent. It wasn't wasn't remotely a tourist site; I was the only white man among the hundreds that thronged the path. It was a cross section of Indian society: portly, niceless dressed middle class families brushed against austere, emaciated ascetics in homespun and turbans.

Next to Diu, an Island of the Gujurati coast, formerly a portugese colony, all whitewashed meditaranean towns with tall churches, and (most importantly for flocks of Indian tourists form the "dry" Gujurati mainland) lots of cheap alcholol. It was almost aggressively pleasant, so laid back it was hardly India, and I again rented a bicycle. No accidents of these quiet roads, but a the front wheel punctured while on the far end on the island; the journey back was tourturous. The same thing happened the next day with a different bike.

I moved onto the Juhnagad, the old Buddhist capital of west India, but distinguished mostly by Muslim architecture. It rests near another auspicious Jain pilgrimage sight, Mount Girnar, much the same story as Shatrunjaya, though this time I kept my shoes on. It was while on the ten hour overnight state bus ride (uncomfortable enough during the day) to Bhuj that I convienently succumed to food poisoning. I rouge glass of milk I suspect. I periodically puked out the window. And to make things better the bus went wrong somehow half way and had to pull into a service station at about 3 am, turfing passengers out. It was icy, and one woman was desperately trying to keep warm a near naked infant. We got there eventually.

With the 2001 earthquake (in which thousands dead), there remained little left to see in Bhuj. I met a thirty ish American, something of a Jesus like figure in sandals who was "wandering the earth seeking truth". You only meet them while traveliing. Bhuj is in the remote Kutch region of Gujurat, famed for its textiles and desolate near desert scenery. I spent a night in the monastery of Than in the middle of nowhere, right up near the Pakistani border in the Rann of Kutch, founded by the 12th century hindu tantric saint Dharamnath, with walls to keep out marauding Sindh pirates. It still houses tantricts, those who meditate on filth (bodily excretement, strange sex, dead people, you name it) as a means to getting close to god. Up a hill nearby I met a Kanphata sadhu, living in solitude. He served me tea. I was the only visitor staying at Than, and nobody spoke English; but we all got along famously. They kept forcing food on me. The monks spent most of their time smoking pot; so thats where their donation money goes....