Going down to breakfast in the Sea Lounge Taj Palace Mumbai was now different without the Hallett’s to join us as they had done since October; their having flown home , and their car having been shipped we set off early on the 6th November for Pune 95 miles distant and once again over the notorious Ghats on the Mumbai – Pune Highway passing under the Amrutanjan Bridge which is always a bottleneck bringing the 6 lane highway to a standstill. Once passed that it was easy driving to our hotel. We would though need the hotel car the following morning to get us through the chaos of Pune which is being totally reconstructed. Only a short journey in reality but it took 90 minutes to reach the SH27 which road would take us to Ahmednagar. Then we would drive SH60 to Aurangabad, a journey of 160 miles hotel to hotel in absolutely perfect driving conditions; a warm sun and not too much traffic in the towns and villages: if only all Indian journeys would be like this!
We were of course returning to the Taj Vivanta Aurangabad and while Susie had a spa treatment I went out to Dalautabad Fort having had the Hallett’s report on how wonderful and huge these fortifications are. Getting to the topmost gun position took 2 hours and it was hard scrambling up some of the slopes which no doubt had made it impregnable for an attacking army.
On leaving Aurangabad our destination was Dhule: now if modern India is “paradise lost” in its head- long rush for development and modernisation, then ‘so called’ SH16, the Aurangabad – Malegaon road is “paradise overlooked”. The surface of the road is very good in parts and though not as bucolic as the road from Bhor to Chiplun it is perhaps more splendid with its hedgerows studded with giant ancient Banyan trees, vast fields interspersed with heavy copses and rocky outcrops. We were charmed by Gypsy caravans each pulled by 2 oxen and on each cart their little family’s worldly possessions: there were several of these trains and a cleaner prettier sight we have not seen in all India, their draught animals were well groomed and well fed though the Gypsies themselves, it is sad to relate, looked rather glum!
One of the charming things about India is coming to the small country towns where the road is bisected by the railway and, so frequent are the trains, that one is almost always stopped to allow a train through. At these level crossings everybody is pushing and jostling to get to the front filling both sides of the road which of course happens on the other side as well, so that when the train has passed through and the barriers are lifted there is an almighty clash but somehow it gets sorted out and one is on ones way without any bad temper or road rage which at first glance seems inevitable to the Western drivers in India.
Having left the level crossing in Nandgaon we continued our journey on the SH16 through more open countryside which gradually became built-up as we approached Malegaon passing the Teepu Sultan Tower. We did not stop to explore this as we felt sure we would be clamouring to come back on another visit using that wonderful road which is probably one of the prettiest roads left in India.
We were heading for the hotel Ganapati Palace Dhule and it was usually difficult to find these hotels in the center of town. But there was more to worry about than finding the hotel: when a veritable “dog-fight” occurred with another motorist driving a little white saloon car. At first he came alongside shouting through his window and as we did not stop he took to accelerating across the front of us and slamming his brakes on. According to our GPS we were very close to the hotel and having been “buzzed” for the fourth time I saw my opportunity when a break in the central reservation occurred at which point I slowed down to allow him to come alongside: his thinking would be to nip around the front of us but just as he was about to do so I changed down a gear and accelerated hard hoping he would impale his car on the central reservation, he didn’t much to our disappointment, though he did try! Within 2 minutes we saw the hotel gateway and pulled in. Much to our surprise the little white car arrived unscathed shortly behind us whereupon I told the hotel manager to call the police. Seconds later the hotel owner appeared explaining that the driver of the little white car was “a friend of the family” and was only curious as he had never seen such a large old car driving on the roads of India!
Ganapati Palace would prove to be the cheapest and the best value of all hotels we stayed in during our 3 months journey. Everything was basic but clean, the service was rough-and-ready but intended well and all the amenities worked, such as air conditioning, hot water, stark fluorescent lighting and hard clean beds. Our first call on the hotels services was to have some laundry done, with strict instructions that it must be back by 6pm as we feared hanging around at reception the next morning but we need not have worried as it was back within the hour still steaming from the hot iron! The restaurant was not open in the hotel until 6pm so we chanced room service of two toasted cheese sandwiches and one bottle of Kingfisher beer which arrived within half an hour, the cheese made tastier with a thick layer of paprika pepper and, the beer was ice cold. If there was a complaint it was the interminable sound of men working with hammers, drills and saws: this hotel was under entirely new management and we were the only guests: we will return.
We needed to get out of Dhule very early because we had to go through Indore and head north for our overnight stay at Ujjain. To say that we were apprehensive of this coming journey would be an understatement as all the roads leading to and from Indore were in a state of rebuild which we had found in 2015. So we planned to set off at 6 a.m. on a wonderful highway which is the main road between Mumbai and Agra. We were bound for Ujjain only 30 miles north of Indore and giving a total of 200 miles, 5hrs 30mins according to Google maps. We knew the roads would be pretty perfect except for where they we being repaired, upgraded or modernised into a 6 lane highway and we also knew that most of the work had been completed since our previous visit but we still took the precaution to leave well before dawn in a cold pitch black start. I woke the sleeping concierge to pay my bill. And when he came to his senses and realised that I wanted to leave immediately he hand wrote triplicate invoices covering the room, the room service, laundry, dinner and bottles of water and a separate invoice for the single beer, a separate invoice for the ironing and a 20 Rupee charge for parking the Fortyhorse in the hotel foyer!; additional delay was incurred as we were too early to have breakfast and he insisted on issuing a credit note for the equivalent of 50p! We pulled out onto the dark quiet streets of Dhule at 06.30hrs!
The sun started to give us comfort at about 7.30 and gliding along on a beautiful highway at 50mph our GPS told us we might arrive at our destination Ujjain by midday, but just as we were settling into a relaxed mode we came to a massive lorry snarl up about a mile before a toll station and found that this road would be plagued with long waits at each toll booth. We never found the real reason for these delays but today was the 8th November 2016 a date which we are not likely to forget as at 8pm P.M. Modi would announce that the 500 and 1,000 Rupee notes would become invalid and it seems the toll booths were already rejecting the 1,000 Rupee note from the lorry drivers: the bush telegraph in India is alive and well as these drivers must have known 24hrs ahead of Modi’s announcement!
Our map shows that it is possible to take an orbital road north by west around Indore, but we could not find it and nobody knew of it and pretty soon we found ourselves in nightmarish congestion making our experiences in Hubli one month previous look pretty tame and rather organized, it was now approaching 2pm and it was hot. A GPS is completely useless in an Indian city and here in Indore the Tuc-Tuc drivers refused to guide us through the city for the road to Ujjain. I knew we were seriously “in the soup” when we came to the railway station again and cheek by jowl with tuc-tucs, lorries, bicycles and one million motorcycles we all surged around the station at least 3 times avoiding the thousands of jay walkers, itinerant vendors and beggars as best we could.
We now realised what had gone wrong: Indore was receiving Smart City development status: roads, housing, markets were all being bulldozed from all points of the compass. Finally I saw an opportunity to head out west, rather than the north direction we were hoping for and at the top of a slight rise we were stopped at a junction by a policeman controlling traffic whereupon I fairly screamed at the driver on my left side for directions for the road to Ujjain: he smiled, spoke to his passenger for a split second and then said “follow me sir”. Now began a mad race with my following his white Innova through and round the back streets of seemingly endless Indore. After about 40mins paranoia had set in dramatically and I supposed one of several scenarios was being enacted; he was lost and doing his best, or he was lost and trying to shake us off, or he was trying to take us to some horrible rendezvous with bad intent, or he simply liked driving around with us in tow but we could not turn off as the traffic was very thick still and even when the speed gathered it was like a massive phalanx of uncontrollable metal so we had to stick with him and at last, just over the hour, his little white car pulled over and stopped; there was a T junction ahead pointing north. I climbed down, a veritable jelly of exhaustion and strain, he came walking up with his passenger and now told me he had to drive back to where we had originally met him! We gave them some pin badges of Fortyhorse and photographs, anything else would have been insulting. I think we can say that such human kindness cannot be found anywhere else but in India.
Oh to be on the open road and only 32 miles to the Anjushree Inn, Ujjan. This was a totally unknown hotel and selected along with the hotel at Dhule simply to break the long journey between Aurangabad and Fort Begu a distance of 450 miles which would have been far too gruelling a drive even though we had not known about the tailbacks on the toll booths and the horrors of Indore being reconstructed!
We stopped in a field to make afternoon tea and this with the last of our McVities Digestive biscuits calmed our spirits and as we drew nearer Ujjain we stopped at a petrol station to replenish our fuel tank so as to be ready for an early start tomorrow morning. It was here that a most curious thing happened which we were able to piece together that evening: a very smart man in a white suit, collar and tie, topped off with Raybans and a Fedora approached us as the petrol was gushing into Fortyhorse’s tank and asked us if we would like to change money. I politely declined as we had changed £1,500 into Rupees 5 weeks ago in Mumbai: the monies sole purpose was for the purchase of fuel during our 3 month journey as it is almost impossible to use a credit card at a petrol station in India. But the money changer was unabashed saying that he would change Indian Rupees into any currency should I so desire it! I parried this question and we were soon on our way with a full tank and only 5 miles to our destination. The hotel was soon obvious on the road ahead and our spirits lifted instantly at the sight of it: it was brand spanking new, of attractive modern architecture and seemingly of a high build quality, with good security allowing Fortyhorse to be screened from the road and parked in the vast portico: we were delighted to have arrived and the staff came running with hot cologne towels on silver trays and cooling highly sugared fruit drinks. This hotel would be too good to move on from in the morrow’s pre-dawn we thought but we had booked 3 nights at Fort Begu, just east of Chittor, and that is one of our favourite hotels in India and not least for the eccentricities of the Maharaja and his 2 sons who run it!
The restaurant was a partial mezzanine on the first floor directly above the portico and with views across the main road and the fields beyond. Half of this restaurant was therefore under starlight and that is where we sat to order roast goat after which the manager presented himself with both the head chef and the pastry chef whereupon we settled on a mild rogan josh with gobi achari and Basmati rice as roast goat would take 2hrs. But the manager had come about a much more serious matter: prime minister Narendra Modi in his attempt to stamp out corruption had demonetised the 500 and 1,000 Rupee notes and this had been announced as a shock to the nation at 8pm this evening. It was a shock to us as we were carrying close on 100,000 Rupees made up primarily by the larger denomination.
Technically, and legally, a non Indian passport holder could change his Rupees into hard currency at an international airport on his departure but only to a maximum of 4,000 Rupees per person! The manager said he would do all he could to help us and that we could pay our bill in Rupees rather than a credit card and further he would take us to the hotels bankers in the morning and at least try to change some of these big notes: we immediately ordered a bottle of Veuve-Clicquot with our dead money!
Still feeling weary the following morning, and knowing that we had a major chore ahead, money changing, appreciating the lavish comforts of the Anjushree Inn we decided on an additional nights stay.
And so after breakfast accompanied by the under manager and a driver I set out for Ujjain city and coming to the first bank I became apprehensive as it was thronged 30 deep, and the doors were barred with steel gates and 2 policemen holding Lee Enfield rifles. The driver pushed his way through apparently blurting out “V.I.P” and the hotels under manager was allowed to slip through the concertina steel gates. He reappeared after 2 minutes and I was now allowed with the driver to enter and before a press of bodies forced their way in, the steel gates were slammed shut behind me.
A very young and highly intelligent bank manager presented himself to me and took us into his office. Here he heard in Hindi from them and English from me my plight: he could arrange to change a maximum of 16,000 Rupees into 10 Rupees notes! A paper carrier bag was found and bricks of new 10 Rupees notes bound in 1,000’s was put into it, a total of 1,600 notes. Of course this was only denting the large volume of large denomination notes we were carrying, but it was something. We hastened back after extricating ourselves through the malaise outside, our burly Sikh driver carrying the carrier bag.
Back at the hotel the manager greeted us and was astonished that we had only changed 16,000 Rupees and now spoke to his staffs to take me back again. So off to the same bank we went fighting our way again through the unruly crowd and slipping through the concertina iron gates. We were deposited once again in the manager’s office whereupon a heated exchange took place between the 3 of them spoken of course in Hindi. It was explained to me that this was not the hotel’s bankers! The driver had chanced upon the first bank they had come across in preference to going the otherside of Ujjain for the correct bank! I apologised and thanked the young man who had simply put himself at some risk to help a traveller out of kindness. We left for the correct bank which took another 35 minutes of driving and was in a developing area and of an old British colonial style far larger than the first bank. Here 24,000 Rupees was exchanged into both 10’s and 20’s so we came away with another carrier bag held high above the crowd as our Sikh bulldozed his way back to the car.
The demonetisation of the 1,000 and 500 Rupees notes had been “leaked” and the note that would replace these, a new pink 2,000 Rupees note was not ready for issue from the printers hence the reason we were being given notes in small denominations and by the time that I had arrived at the bank all the 50’s and 100’s had already been exhausted. Everybody knows that corruption in India is absolute and Modi had given 2 separate opportunities for people with “black money” to declare it, and pay their taxes on it but very few people took up this amnesty and so he declared that the money was not only worthless but also a serious liability to whoever was in possession of it. Lurid tales were going around that people were burning it, as some were sitting on stock piles of up to £50 million worth: this demonetisation would “dog us” until we left on Christmas day.
Exhausted from all the negotiating and stress we now had a day off to recover. Susie had put the laundry in while I was out and had arranged for the hotel to clean Fortyhorse I checked the tyre pressures, fluid levels and cleaned both the magneto and coil ignition distributors and we were set to leave before breakfast in the cold pre dawn tomorrow but not before an interesting happening took place. As I was repacking the car a group of inebriated revellers spilled out of the hotel and came gyrating towards me. They were full of bonne homie, slapping me on the back, offering cigarettes and a swig from a hip flask: these were the Royal family of Ratlam and they were very interested in our old car. Each had the wonderful Rajasthani moustache, and their bearing, countenance and clothing suited the maharajas of the 1930’s. We were invited to stay at Ratlam, and if not possible this time then certainly the next time, and they meant it notwithstanding the alcohol. Four white 4-wheel-drive Scorpios arrived followed by an open jeep containing either police or local soldiers and after thrusting their visiting cards on me, being photographed alongside the Lanchester, they then buzzed off hooting and waving as they went; wonderful India.
There were 2 possible routes from Ujjain, one through Chittor and the other through Jhalawar, 250 miles for the first and 220 for the latter, certainly the northern route through Jhalawar looked the more interesting but the Royal family of Ratlam had strongly warned me against that route saying I would never get through: presumably bad roads! So we set off west for Barnagar and then picked up the main road NH31 through Ratlam to Chittorgarh, then east to Begu on NH27. This was an uneventful journey though made more pleasant as we now found all the toll stations were open and free on account of the demonetisation. \after 2 morning coffee stops we approached the great ramparts of one of the biggest castles ever built, Chittorgarh, and you drive west under these lofty ramparts for a good 40 minutes all the while on an extremely beautifully made road almost devoid of traffic!
The phone rang once about midday from Ajay of Begu, gauging our position and then again at about 4 o’clock in the afternoon when we were refuelling just before turning off for Begu. Fort Begu constructed in the 15th century is a most wonderful unspoiled castle palace offering only 5 suites and is the residence of the current nobility Hari Singh and his son prince Ajay. Hari inherited this magnificent fort on his 8th birthday and was embezzled and deceived by his family and the estates manager! He spent a lifetime in government when he was Minster for Agriculture. Hari set about renovating this ancient fort on a shoe string budget in his retirement: the property is all the better for it being full of character and the atmosphere of undisturbed ages. We parked Fortyhorse comfortably in one of the old disused elephant stalls and sat down to a cool evening beer with Hari and Ajay on the lawn.
Our suite, a veritable eyrie, at the top of the palace within the fort is reached by a labyrinth like collection of 4 stone staircases each with the declination of a ships ladder and all of these staircases has irregular heights to its steps: the latter being a safety precaution against warlike intruders in times when India was over 650 countries each coveting their neighbours land and possessions, not to mention their women!
After a shower and a rest in our many pillared and mirrored bedroom we were startled by a knock on the door, it was Ajay to tell us we were going out for pre-dinner drinks, that the jeeps would be ready in half an hour! We could not think of any venue short of driving back to Chittor in the east or Kota in the west but duly climbed aboard the jeep whereupon Ajay said “Peter where is your camera”, “but Ajay” I said, “its pitch black” and it was even darker than normal as the full moon had not yet risen. But he insisted that I went back to collect my camera and off our 3 jeeps roared into the night down narrow bumpy bucolic lanes smelling of farmyards and across what looked like a cultivated field, nightjars, owls and bats were picked up in the headlights and our driver slowed down to about 7 mph with a nightjar keeping about 10ft in front of us: “this is their trick” said Ajay; “they fly ahead picking up the moths and flies attracted by the cars headlights” and so we had one of those fascinating birds act as pilot all the way to the lakeside.
Staffs already in attendance with a table and chairs, gins and tonic, whiskies and soda and those very tasty Bombay-mix type nibbles, which they do so well in Rajasthan. And then suddenly we saw a palace apparently rise out of the lake as it was lit by the staffs with the simple medium of kerosene hurricane lamps. This fairytale ruin was our venue for pre-dinner drinks! Now Ajay asked me to take some photographs for his website and then halfway through our drinks F & B (food and beverage manager) came to say that they were ready for the mortar! “Peter you only have one chance at this” said Ajay “as we only have one huge firework and we would like you to capture it on film”. Loaded with anxiety and a large G & T inside me I climbed to a vantage point on a parapet and suddenly the palace was illuminated as if standing on a mirror. I had pressed the shutter on hearing, just about, a faint shout that they were firing the mortar. A magic night and one of the most magical memories of India: we returned for Hari’s special kid goat Rogan Josh and a slumber in our palace room that only Sir Richard Burton, translator of “A Thousand and one Arabian nights”, could have experienced.
As our 3 nights stay at Fort Begu had been cut short by one day because of the demonetisation previously mentioned, we set off for Ranthambore, a hard journey of 160 miles bearing NNE. We set off in train with Hari following in his new Innova who in turn was followed by Ajay in his WW11 Jeep. Just as we left the magical inner courtyard an iron gate swung and hit our left wing. I jumped down and the damage was slight but irritating especially at that time of day and the sleepy bereted guard looked on impassively with his inscrutable Buddha like gaze, so I ranted at him for 30 seconds, which had of course no effect on his countenance! We were amazed to see at this early hour throngs outside the banks shivering and cold and with one policeman standing on the roof holding a rifle! We said goodbye to Hari and Ajay, their staffs F & B and Mac, M. D, and promised to return to this wondrous shabby and nostalgic fortress
Once free of Begu city we headed for the SH 27 heading east from which we would turn off just before Kota and on that road we would look for that rare possibility in India, a secluded pull off the road. One of the most wonderful moments of our daily motoring was when the sun was high enough but not too hot when we would leave the road on a farmers track and park up for 30 – 40 mins. I would get out the two South African folding chairs, open the trunk and ignite our Primus gas stove to make two coffee’s, Lyons Green Label, from our Alessi coffee maker: these espresso coffees would be diluted with boiling water and consumed with 2 McVities Digestive biscuits: this little highlight of the morning would be repeated again after about 90 mins and if it were not too difficult a day we would stop in the afternoon for tea, Twinings Assam. As we never have lunch an afternoon tea stop would be supplemented with some form of fruit cake, the Taj Palace Bombay, very good at pastries and bread, had given us as much fruit cake as we could carry and at this point in our journey we still had sufficient supplies, delicious.
Ranthambore town made famous by its National Park, home to one of the most successful tiger breading sanctuaries in India now has such a profusion of hotels and accommodations that it is fast becoming over crowded; such is the allure of the king of the cats, the Indian tiger. We were heading for Sher Bagh a small chain of tented accommodations scattered across India under the holding company of Sujan: in our experience nobody does it better in India.
We had let Sujan know of our intended arrival time and our local mobile number, and after our second coffee stop and while we were the center of curiosity at a level crossing the phone jangled: it was Sher Bagh as no doubt they were a little anxious, as most people tend to be about the reliability of our vintage car, to find out our arrival time: we would be there with them within 2 hrs and no doubt they were preparing our tent to be as comfortable as possible.
Turning off the asphalt road onto a badly kept dirt road one is in 1920’s India, a few picturesque farms and a women’s commune where the ladies use their sewing skills to make traditional clothing and household soft wares such as duvets, cushions and hot water bottle covers. From this pleasant labour they are freed from the heavy work under the sun on the farms: country women in India still do the bulk of the heavy manual labour which includes road repairs and irrigation ditch cutting!
We turned into the Sher Bagh camp and were enthusiastically welcomed by the staff we had now become to know well from various previous visits and given a cold Kingfisher beer while our heavy cases were carried shoulder high to our tent which is the most private accommodation one can find in any camp site in India: this Relais & Chateau venue The Burra Sahib suite is the epitome of luxury, as it comes with its own heated swimming pool opening onto vistas of the Aravarli hills that make up the Ranthambore National Park, the realm of the tiger.
Once showered, sending our dusty clothes to the laundry we had a salad lunch followed by an afternoon nap: today we would not rush to enjoy any of the activities but enjoy our tent and the wonderful service from our butler Jethu.
If there is a heaven to be found in India where the stars are bright at night, where the creaking jungle is the backdrop to the crackling brazier which is lit for dinner then this must be it. We were to stay 7 nights here and it was wonderful to retire to our king-size bed complete with hot water bottles amid the hush of the jungle all around, a time when the night predators stalk the land; invariably the pug marks of the panther are found around our tent in the morning, though we would never hear him. A large male tiger had slumbered under a tree only 100yds from our swimming pool no wonder the ladies in their beautiful saris who collect the tall grasses for animal fodder have a hotel staff man armed with a stout staff to accompany them!
It is cold in Rajasthan directly the sun goes down and remains like that until about 10 o’clock in the morning. When our bed tea and toast arrived at 7.30 Jethu was full of excitement: a tiger was at a nearby water hole! We were encouraged to lose no time and put warm clothes on over our pyjamas as our jeep was waiting.
Our implacable, nay, phlegmatic, butler Jethu, was a veritable Demon behind the steering wheel and he raced down the dirt road and sped furiously down the asphalt before turning off onto a farm track leading to one of Ghandi’s million tiny villages which make up rural India. This was the village of our other butler Makesh who now also accompanied us. Those Hero-Honda motorcycles which had sped past us, 4 up, shouting “tigarh” were now blocking the little village track parked haphazardly in their 100’s! The Indian bush telegraph aided by the mobile phone was very active! We clambered down from the jeep and strode across to the large crowd gathered around the waterhole where we expected to see a, probably, wounded tiger held at bay by all the villagers encircling the pool. But it wasn’t like that, we had been thinking of African water holes and the Indian version is very different; in this case a 40ft deep shaft made up of concrete tubing at the bottom of which lay a wounded and trapped tiger. Apparently the young tigress “Lightning” had been stalking a woman returning to her village and in the gloom of night and fallen down the shaft! This could easily be done because the top of the shaft was flush with the surrounding field without any fence. Now, awaiting the park rangers, the local policeman had set up a perimeter cordon inside which was his charpoy and thermos of tea, but he would get no opportunity to enjoy either as the crowd was pressing head-long like lemmings seemingly happy to join the tiger 40ft below!
“Lightning” was hauled out sometime later when the rangers arrived after being tranquilized and suffering no more than a cut to her thigh: the empty plastic bottles and muddy silt at the bottom of the shaft had broken the tiger’s fall. We heard the following day that she had been released to the wild and all was well.
The same day after a leisurely breakfast served at our swimming pool we made arrangements for a late afternoon safari drive in the park on which fringe our Sher Bagh campsite was situated, so it was only a short drive down the dirt road and then along the asphalt to the park gates. Accompanied by an experienced park ranger, both to ensure that we did get good sightings and that we did not
disturb the tigers too much we set off in our Marutti jeep with its almost silent 1100cc petrol engine.
The history of the Ranthambore park is an entire book in its own right and was more or less saved for the nation if not for the world and of course the tigers world, by a single man with a passion to photograph these truly Indian beasts: Mr. Jaisal Singh “The tigers realm”.
We were lucky to spot a large male tiger sunbathing in the long grass and then later a young tigress stalking prey using the track oblivious of our jeep. The feeling of adventure and excitement mingled with the grandeur of this park stirs deep emotions of a world which is slipping-by which our great grandchildren may never be able to experience: such is the pressure of a burgeoning population, and an increasingly more affluent one. All of us demanding more space for ourselves yet all of us sincerely wanting the flora and fauna that make up this marvellous world not only to remain intact but be duplicated if not triplicated. These contradictions will have to be addressed: but nobody will talk about population explosion!!; least of all politicians.
Grim reports were coming to us about the severe pollution that New Delhi was experiencing: it was so bad apparently that people were being asked to stay indoors as serious long term damage could be done to their lungs as the polluted air contained a poisonous cocktail of diesel fumes, smoke from wood fires, smoke from the burning of rubbish and not least the dust discharged into the atmosphere by the thousands of developments now taking place in and around Delhi.
We had planned to spend 4 nights at the Imperial New Delhi and phoned to discuss the smog. With news reports coming through on the internet that a figure of 980 PM2 particles was being reported for Delhi, for comparison 48 for London! This and the local news decided us to go only as far north now as Jaipur from where we would head west into the desert proper in the interests of avoiding the aerial pollution.
Our itinerary would now be to drive NW to Jaipur and then south to Pushkar where we stayed at the Ananda Spa.
There is a modern blight which afflicts all Indian hotels today and that is the curse of the wedding! From the most expensive such as Umaid Bhawan in Jodhpur where the maharani suite can cost US$10,000 per night to humble B & B’s at US$5 per night all rooms fully booked for wedding guests; up to 3,000 guests will be bussed in from hotels all around Jodhpur. All of these weddings have two things in common: far too many people and far too much noise; the noise generated by stomach churning base interrupted only by the skinny sounds of a female voice apparently pining for her lover: UGH!!! And as such our first question when booking a room is “Are you holding a wedding reception?” And if the answer is “No” then we ask “do you have a disco?” Anybody checking into a room for a night’s sleep who has been blighted by this current craze will know the torment the unsuspecting and tired traveller can be put to. Merciful bliss, the Ananda Spa, a really nice hotel, was empty for the 3 nights we intended to stay: though on the third day those ominous signs of terror started to arrive: a flowered arch was erected and marquees were being set up on the lawns and then as we were about to leave the following day there came battery’s of colossal speakers being placed around the now erected stage; I can only wish all the artistes eternal and devastating tinnitus.
It was a lovely country journey as we headed south to Raipur and with 75 miles to destination we could pick a comfortable morning coffee stop which we would enjoy with the beautifully made “flies cemeteries” (Eccles cakes, Indian style), and true to their namesake the heavy coating of sugar crystals quickly attracted all sorts of flying things. We had not been to Lakshman Sagar previously and our good friend Anu of the royal palace Udaipur had mentioned it a couple of years previously being the property of his mother, so we were now exploring.
As we entered Raipur, a small unspoiled medieval town with narrow streets and a highly crowned road with deep gully’s on each side and just about enough width for the Lanchester to be passed, by one motorcycle coming in the opposite direction, we were immediately lost. The town has its few roads all meeting at a royal palace in its very heart and it was to this that we were directed by the towns people, though, un-be-known to us, we should have turned left before entering the town proper and an adequate sign had been placed on a wall with an arrow saying Lakshman Segar but it was obscured by a holy cow: so we soon entered the regal lancet arch of a wonderful palace. Whereupon came an Indian prince dressed like an Englishman in refined Italian clothing, “Hello Peter” he announced “I am Bobby, “Anu told me to expect you. He has just left to attend a wedding! We should drink tea together” but we didn’t and soon Bobby was tearing out of the palace gates in his WW11 American jeep accompanied by his Jack Russell, who would take no petting, he was leading us to our venue for three nights.
Laxman Sagar is an old hunting lodge by a lake which itself is surrounded by low hills. The hunting lodge offers a bar and a refectory while accommodations are in the form of 10 lodges, each secluded from its neighbour and dotted about the hillsides around the lake. Room service for breakfast, lunch and dinner was available and this we elected for.
We sat on our terrace and watched the moonlight flickering on the lake surface, there was no wind and being near the lake only a light pullover was needed. Are there any crocodiles I had asked, not now, but we do have turtles came the reply: we had found our haven and elected to stay 4 instead of 3 nights as this rare glimpse of Rajasthan, a sanctuary that we actually craved. The following morning after breakfast we circumnavigated the lake where weaver-finches had their nests and the pug marks of a medium sized cat were found, hopefully a caracal; silence reigned, the only sound coming across the desert was the Delhi to Bombay railway, and like all Indian trains its air horns, of a deep base note, were furiously used as the pedestrian population not only use the railway tracks for habitation but as a roadway between towns! We certainly did not object to this noise breaking the stillness of the desert air and as it came nearer we could identify the difference between the goods trains and the Shatabdi Express by their different heavy diesel engines, the latter more refined and far higher revving. When we had nearly completed the lake we came upon the hotels kitchen garden which supplies all the vegetable, fruit and salad needs throughout the year. The gardener, in his early 70’s, was a local farmer having retired and passed his farm on to his son. He found this occupation very rewarding and slept in the garden on a charpoy under an awning which he had fashioned from reeds: though he enjoyed spending his nights thus he told us it was actually necessary to keep the antelopes, hares and rabbits off, they came out by moonlight despite a 6ft high thorny hedge encircling the garden!
Leaving Laxman Sagar and heading west for Jodphur we would have to go around Raipur town, but in doing so we missed a vital turn again! What now happened became a nightmare, literally, as I wouldvwake up for the next two nights shuddering at the experience.
These well paved narrow lanes have deep gully’s each side, presumably to cope with the heavy monsoon rains but also cope as the sewerage. Added to this peril stone shelves jut out from the buildings on which sit, usually, cross legged elder men talking to one another across the lane, and where there may be a respite from these two hazards motorcycles are randomly propped! We could not reverse and we could not turn and so we had to creep with very fine judgement of steering: I was piloting my side whilst Susie was piloting hers standing up holding the screen in her famous Rommel of Afrika Corps guise. She would ask a motorcyclist to move over which he would do by ½”! And so we inched our way through the town with our wheels teetering on the edge of the gullies our mud guards gently kissing the stone shelves and kami-kaze “selfies” photographers dashing out in front of our radiator: we will have to fit scythes to the wheel hubs and Spanish bulls to the front! Finally, that ¼ mile journey through town which had taken 35mins came to an end and we were released swearing never to return.
Our main destination, after Lakshman Sagar, would be about as far west as one can go before reaching the Pakistani border: Jaisalmer. We intended to break that journey at Jodhpur. Alas it was not to be as Umaid Bhawan was booked for a solid week with a celebrity wedding!! However costly that wedding would be for the bride’s father it would compare rather shabbily to the high ranking government minster, Telecoms mogul Janardhan Reddy who had spent £53,000,000 Sterling, for his daughter’s wedding!! No doubt setting a new benchmark for other society weddings to come!
Umaid Bhawan, Indosaracenic and Art Nouveau architecture, was designed by Henry Vaughn Lanchester in 1924 and completion in 1947 saw the most beautiful palace in India if not the world. Built from local sandstone which was cut to such precision the blocks required no mortar to bond them together though they were pegged and each block was lowered on thick sheets of ice enabling the constructers to obtain a precision fit. Henry Vaughn was one of the 4 Lanchester brothers of whom Dr. Fred was the towering genius and polymath and George the brilliant engineer who had built our car in that same year, while Frank had been a banker and economics fine mind. We would try to get in on our return visit from Jaisalmer meanwhile we were lucky to get our alternative favourite room at Balsamand, a lakeside hunting lodge with a beautiful garden hosting flying foxes and troops of Langur monkeys.
We left Jodphur heading north-west on a beautiful desert road with the rising sun behind us bound for Jaisalmere, the road populated with mainly military vehicles.
After our first cup of coffee of the day in the Thar Desert we came to Pokhran on NH11, the road had been extremely good so far but under urgent political anxieties it becomes good only in parts and poor more frequently: the surface of which is being cut up badly by vary heavy military transports. These vehicles look very impressive and are all more or less new, being tank transporters, mobile anti aircraft guns and troop transporters while the officers are being ferried along in handsome Marutti jeeps.
Turning off the NH11, about 35mls before Jaisalmer onto a desert track which later became pot holed tarmac for about 5mls we entered the realm of the desert dweller, Jaisalmer Desert Camp where good fortune came our way: a company was hosting its staff to a corporate holiday cum conference leaving only the Royal Suite available for us and at the price of a regular tent!
As we turned onto the sandy track, a 2km slippery desert drive, we arrived at the gates with a feeling of gladness and satisfaction knowing that we would rest here as this was the terminal point of our journey from where, after 6 nights we would head south through Jodphur, Deogarth, Udaipur and the long haul on NH8 (48) to Bombay.
The staff, from the manager and chef to the room boys and porters were lined up to receive us. The sun was now high and was bouncing off the silvery desert sand in 30°C, ambient temperature which in a desiccated climate like the Thar Desert is very pleasing provided you have shade. It had been a 6hr drive and we were happy to button the tonneau of the Lanchester and walk the 1/4ml desert path to the Royal Suite with its 15ft square plunge pool, a dining tent, an afternoon napping tent and then our home for the next 6 nights, a huge bedroom, lounge, study, bathroom and outside massage enclosure all under canvas: a 15ft high stone wall surrounds a one acre of desert garden of shrubs, bushes and tamarisk trees.
Jaislmer Desert Camp is set out on an east west bias so that the reception marquee, planned north south, is centrally placed with a bar and lounge on its left as you enter and a restaurant on its right, looking down between two rows of grand tents separated firstly by a high level swimming pool and then a 500ft desert garden, where you can find snorting wild boar, peacocks and coveys of partridge Itself divided by a path leading to the Royal Suite: such is the planning that each tent is secluded.
Megh, our butler for the week, would ferry all our meals, arrange our drinks, laundry, massages and for me plan my desert walks. There was no menu, the chef would knock up spaghetti aglio olio peperoncino, roast rack of lamb, whole roast chicken followed by desserts such as jam roly-poly, or apple pie and custard to give relief to our Indian favourites. We would have liked a venison curry, a wild boar curry and particularly curried partridge but hunting has correctly been banned since 1947 and such delicacies are no longer available; dreams of roast beef are dreams only as certain states prohibit eating of beef while others prohibit eating pork, so for the carnivore the chicken and the goat carry the responsibility for feeding this nation: some task!
Like all deserts the Thar is very cold when the sun goes down and the clear skies, inky black without light pollution, are crammed with stars some of which are only detectible when exposed by a good quality digital camera and then it is difficult to pick out the known constellations such is the profusion of stars visible in the clear atmosphere of a real unpolluted sky.
On the second night and after dinner I chose to sleep in the marquee cum pergola after wallowing in the cobalt blue lighted pool. We would not use Fortyhorse from this sanctuary in the desert as Susie was having relaxing massages and beauty treatments while I went desert walking in the typically English fashion at midday! Our days of sybaritic leisure fluttered by until it was time to leave, to head east and south crossing the Aravali mountains for Deogarh Mahal and with a feeling of emotion we left early on a chilly bright morning armed with cake and water aplenty for our 270ml journey.
Back on highway 11 crossing the flat Thar Desert with camels apparently roaming free, a Royal Enfield Bullet, military issue, popped along, two up both Sikhs, making that distinctive flat exhaust rhythm; it is delicious desert riding and those Don Rs were enjoying it.
After refuelling at Pokhran we stopped for our second coffee and fruit cake brought from Desert Camp. The road was really good and of course the weather was ideal, bright, cool and clear; to be in a big vintage open car on these desert roads is to be driving in Paradise.
Actually, after Jodhpur, we got lost and what should have been an easy day of 270 miles of straight desert road driving ended up as 350 miles of mountain roads and as fatigue multiplies easily with uncertainty we arrived at Deogarh city in a slightly homicidal frame of mind: Deogarh Mahal is placed on the top of a hillock and the town/city has grown up around it in such a tight cluster that every street is a market and each of these markets uses the narrow lanes; in reality it serves as not only its shop fronts but also as its warehouses! This condition of congestion is made worse by the jay-walkers, donkeys, an occasional camel and not least the heavy flat open carts on four bicycle wheels creaking under heavy loads of vegetables, bales of cloth and tottering pots and pans. All this nightmare driving for the Lanchester was now spiced up by swarms of small capacity motor cycles buzzing by and fidgeting into any possible crack or crevice to get ahead; the Lanchester had a homicidal frame of mind as we advanced uphill through this melee to the sanctuary of the palace gates and thankfully arrived without incident.
Deogargh Mahal has a long history and correctly fits the Rajput character one expects in Rajasthan. The current maharaja Veerbhadra has a small fleet of classic cars and takes himself about on a Harley Davidson Street motorcycle which I also rode and was really impressed with its performance and handling noting that this bike is built in India. We went out on the lake in Veebu’s ex army aluminium made troop carrying barge which he has converted to electric power and we glided across the lake silently hardly causing a ripple. We had tea on the barge and waited for dusk as the birds came in in squadrons: silence and peacefulness has to be looked for and sought for in India today, but it is still there though one has to go very deep into the countryside, the desert or the jungle to avoid encroaching modernity.
NH8, now renumbered as 48 has a ring of terror about its name: it is the main thoroughfare between Bombay and Delhi and carries vast quantities of goods day and night on lorries which are minimally maintained and whose tyres can be seen to have had their split side walls patched with a reclaimed side wall section bolted into place!!
We were headed for Udaipur, always a highlight of our Indian journeys as the Marharana Arvind Singh Mewar is a dedicated vintage and classic car enthusiast owning a museum made up of his families cars among which a specially built RR 20hp and a Cadillac Fleetwood are our particular favourites. The crown prince Lakshyaraj has a collection of motorcycles, most of which I have ridden: we always feel at home in this city. On this occasion we would stay in City Palace overlooking Lake Pichola: the fabulous Lake Palace glitters by night and radiates by day an aura of absolute opulence and nostalgic charm.
Over the years we have stayed many locations in Udaipur and they are all extremely evocative of an India that we all cherish and never want to fade. One such nostalgic experience is when the Indian “Scots” army band marches to different locations within the palaces and plays at dusk each night on their bagpipes, fifes and drums,those familiar Scottish military marching tunes: we would not miss this on any tour we made in India.
The homeward journey, still another two weeks away, has that end of holiday feeling not least because of the afore-mentioned NH8 but also because one has to do serious battle before arriving in Bombay at the Vasai Creek which is 25 miles before the city center. We would break our journey at Ahmedabad and Surat, the Hyatt hotel and the Gateway were a good one night stops.
Amedabad has many tram lines which are very frightening as you always feel that the trams cannot stop quickly and certainly they cannot swerve out of your way, and so as was our habit, we left at first light and once clear of the city outskirts and on the 4 lane motorway, which was as good as any toll road in Europe, we purred along at our comfortable and economical 50mph.
Our next overnight stop at Surat, where we had on previous years found this to be a very difficult city to cross owing to the construction of a complete new road system, but we now whizzed in on a new motorway elevated on stilts and above a complete tangle of motor cycles, lorries, carts and humanity: one doesn’t really see India like this but our Fortyhorse simply loved it.
We left Surat at 5 o’clock in the morning in pitch black and freezing cold and hardly a vehicle stirred on the road until we reached the cross road with NH8, some 20 miles and started our 180mile journey to our last destination the Taj Palace Hotel Appolo Bandar Mumbai. The heavy lorrys’ drivers, were and are very well natured: when they saw our old car overtaking them particularly on the hills, they always waved or grinned widely, often taking “selfies” whilst driving and listening to tannoy quality pop. Indian lorries had two speeds, both require the drivers foot to be flat on the accelerator, racing down the hills at 60mph and then winching those dangerously overloaded lorries up the other side at 15 to 20mph! And so it was until we came to the infamous Vasai Creek bottleneck which is caused by two Bailey bridges strung across an estuary and always one of those bridges is shut for repair resulting in a single file alternating flow. This bridge is always heavily manned by police who are from the Bombay jurisdiction and are therefore incorruptible: not an accolade given to many police forces in India! A fine is a fine, on the spot, handed out for trying to jump on the end of the allotted convoy going over the bridge. Nor is the misery over for the patient driver after the crossing as the road leaving the bridge for Bombay is a mountainous one and all those slow lorries block both its lanes moving at 7mph, if you are lucky!
We would not have a chance to stop now to brew up a coffee and with only 24 miles to go to the Taj we would normally have our next morning coffee there but this is Bombay, and that means traffic congestion absolute. Bombay is formed from an archipelago of 7 islands which were fused together by land fill during the British Raj times and now with a land mass 1/3 the size of London it gives home to a declared 20,000,000 inhabitants: the chattering classes put this at 30,000,000 to which one must add a floating but continuous population of visitors to fill its 1668 hotels, and being a marine port a large population of mariners! Therefore, our 24mile journey could take 6hrs: the English policeman’s beat was 4mph! With this in mind we had stopped high in the hills above the Bailey bridges and had our last Lyons Green Label espresso coffee and as our supply of McVities digestives had long ago ran out we now had an excellent Indian version from the Cafe Coffee Day shop: though maybe a little too sweet.
The gridlock traffic, mainly private cars, interspersed with buses and lorries which belched hot black soot wherever we went and we went where they went and we all went together as if on a conveyor belt averaging about 3mph until we came thankfully to Sealink. This wonderful road built out into the sea not only cuts out a massive bottle-neck, but gives fresh salty air and allowed for the Forty horse to canter up to 50mph! Returning to the mainland and passing the Hajji Ali Dargah which is a beautiful white mosque built out into the bay of the same name meant we knew we were now within a stone’s throw of our destination, a mere 12 miles but it still took us another 90 minutes! With an estimated arrival time of midday the Fortyhorse pulled into the steamy and wonderful Taj Palace portico at 3pm, an average speed of 18mph for today’s mainly motorway journey of 185miles! We received much acclaim and affection from the staffs who had waved us off two months ago. Satish, chief concierge, was standing on the steps beaming with two assistants one holding a sweet cold ginger and fruit drink the other held iced cologne towels: it was good to be back: to be “home”.
Our rooms were ready and Susie went up with Satish while I attended to unloading of the Forty horse: two luggage trolleys were standing ready and everything came out and up to the room: it is no wonder that the car is rolling at 3 ¼ tonnes!
Two days later I left the Taj to take Fortyhorse to the docks accompanied by Mr. Jaideep Samarth, wildlife film maker, Veebu’s old school chum. to listen to his stories about his mother’s love affair with open Buicks and Packards in the 1930’s. She had been a Hollywood actress and having bought the latest Buick Convertible when in New York went back into the showroom and asked if she could drive the car, the young salesman apologised saying it wouldn’t be possible as it had just been sold to a beautiful Indian film star! Whereupon she replied “that’s me” and so, hood down, together with the young salesman she swanked her way down Fifth Avenue and around Central Park: happy days; that was 1937. Jaideep was so attached to that Buick that he laid down in front of it to stop it being taken in part exchange for a Desoto Convertible! He was unsuccessful but he survived!
We both took the ferry boat back from Nhava Sheva docks having witnessed the customs seal applied to our container. The ferry conveniently stops at the Gateway to India opposite our hotel.
That night Susie and I had a large Gordons and Schweppes, without ice but chilled, and then had a roast lamb, boiled potatoes and Brussel sprouts dinner by the swimming pool and wistfully recalled anecdotes from our journey which now seemed to have flashed by far too quickly. We would stay another 3 days before flying home on Christmas day clutching a huge Christmas pudding presented to us by chef Rohit.
We will return to.