We stopped off at Shimla en route to Rajasthan. As the bus wound its way toward it looked pretty similar to Mcleodganj; only upon closer inspection did we realise what a curious place it was – it appeared we were in a quaint English town, nestled in the mountains of Himachel Pradesh.

English buildings, English churches, English shops, a promenade, a giant statue of a monkey-god (that one probably wasn’t the English), even the samosas tasted a bit like Cornish pasties. It was a little unnerving. But a picturesque town, and a nice place to spend a few days before plunging back into India proper.

Shimla. Great camera work.

And so we started on our whistle-stop tour of Rajasthan, the Land of the Kings, India’s most colourful state.

Immediately we stepped off the train in Rajasthan it was like someone had cranked up the India. Cars, bikes, rickshaws, people, dogs, cows all multiplied; sound, heat, smell amplified; people haranguing and hassling at every turn, tuk-tuks stalking for custom, wiry saddhus swinging alms boxes in your face, or trying to foist flowers on you, gruesome beggar women thrusting demanding hands. The noise is deafening. You quickly become hardened, learn to shun any proffered handshakes or gifts, and ignore any shouted exhortations or salutations.

The Jantar Mantar…or something like that.

First stop was Jaipur, the capital of the state, and so loud, busy and hot that its hard to describe it as anything else. The old city, known as the Pink City (because its painted orange), is only marginally better, but the real gems are the Maharaja-built enclaves: the Jantar Matar, a collection of giant angular structures, astronomically aligned to measure the positions, azimuths and angles of the stars. The Hawa Mahal, built so the ladies of the Maharaja’s court could daintily spy on the comings-and-goings of the city and now used by the likes of us to escape it. And the Amber Fort, the pick of the bunch, a sandstone palace standing majestically atop a hill, it’s interior carved out of cool marble with traces of Islamic opulence here and there.

The Hawar Mahal…or something like that.

Pushkar next – part tourist town, part pilgrimage town. Here someone also cranked up the Hippy, walking round namaste-ing each other, carrying things on their head (just like real Indians), and just generally playing Hindu. To be fair to them you can see why: to watch the sun set over the holy lake and see the pastel buildings turn a chalky shade against the distant mountains, to the sound of bongo drums and sitars is, well, its good for the soul. We stayed in a hotel with a swimming pool – the first of this trip – so spent many hours just relaxing our socks off before heading to Jodhpur.

Gooning in Pushkar.

We liked Jodhpur. The focal point is the Marangargh Fort, rising formidable and impregnable from a sandy cliff; a jamboree of blue cuboids fall away far beneath it (giving it it’s name, the Blue City), creating twisting medieval streets that are alive with cheerfully mischievous children who would always, upon seeing us, drop what they were doing (filling water balloons, tormenting goats), straighten up and belt out a few words in English. A favourite of Amy’s was a rendition of a song that starts “Hey honey-bunny, something-something funny!”

Jodhpur. The Blue City.

From Jodhpur we bussed it to Jaisalmer, a city seemingly sprouted out of the desert itself with every building a sand-coloured carved-rock masterpiece. Another fort, but this one still active so people live, eat and sell tourist-tat within it’s narrow, shaded alleyways. We struck out into the surrounding desert on a 2-day Camel Safari, an unforgettable experience. There was something almost biblical about riding those ancient ungainly beasts through the desert plains. We made camp amidst some sand dunes where our guides immediately built a campfire to whip up some hearty veg curry, dal and chapati, before we slept under the myriad stars in what must be the only place in India without the sound of barking dogs.

‘Night Ames. ‘Night John-boy. ‘Night camels.

Finally, Udaipur. The Venice of the East, and the jewel in Rajasthan’s kingly crown. The city is built around a cluster of lakes and peaks and the centre of attention is the magisterial City Palace complex. It’s slight elevation above most of Rajasthan means a refreshing breeze pervades, and the European coffee shops and cafes leaves it feeling almost Mediterranean. At night you can sit in one of the many rooftop restaurants and see the rippling reflection of the city in the lake. Incidentally, Udaipur is where they filmed Octopussy and eventually we succumbed to the luxurious allure and started drinking lunch-time G+Ts and paying to use the swimming pool in the posh hotels. Also, we took a cable car to Sunset Peak where the incredible sunset – rivaled only by that of Santorini – left us decreeing Udaipur our favourite Indian city.

The view from one side of Sunset Peak…

…and none-too-shabby from the other.

Rajasthan has romanced us, well and truly. The mystical spirituality of India seeps through into the everyday, in the coloured cities, many temples, the holy choruses and the burning incense. The dusty aridity and the Islamic influence lend it an Arabian air, and the impressive forts and palaces provide welcome respite from the hectic cities. It can at times leave you cradling your head in your hands, dreaming of a place with road laws and rubbish bins, and beef. But other times it’ll lead one or the other of us to proclaim, with a deep sigh, “Ah, I love India.”

Just taking the camel for a walk.

Us at a plush Udaipur hotel.

Each of those G+Ts cost more than our room for the night. But look how happy we are!

We took a 2 hour train ride to Pathankot, where we caught a toy railway train. Don’t let the name fool you, ‘toy’ implies fun, and it was anything but. We boarded about 40 minutes before departure and already there were no seats left, so we ensconsed ourselves in the doorway and took turns sitting on the backpacks. The train chugged slowly up into the pretty Kangra valley but annoying fare-dodgers clung to the outside, obscuring our view. It would stop exasperatingly for 45 minutes at a time and our 2.5 hour journey stretched into 4, 5, then 6 hours. Gradually the passengers thinned and the train climbed and by sunset the Himalayas had crept into view and finally everything felt alright with the world once more.

That was until we got to Kangra, where we were supposed to catch a taxi for the final 25km to Mcleodganj. It was dark when we arrived and there was an alarming lack of taxis. Caught in a discombobulated moment, they pounced: two drunken, fly-by-night con artists who offered to take us to our destination for ‘just’ 1200 rupees (twice the going rate). In the absence of any other options we agreed. They bundled all four of us, backpacks ‘n’ all, into a beaten up Nissan Micra before both jumping in themselves and commencing to argue loudly in Hindi. We smiled fatalistically at each other. Then one of them, bemoaning the broken stereo, started to sing us his favourite song. Loudly. We started laughing hysterically; it helped to take our mind off the treacherous mountain road and the breathy smell of alcohol permeating the tiny car.

Anyway, we did finally get to Mcelod Ganj, and in one piece. It wasn’t quite the introduction to backpacking I’d hoped to give my parents, but they certainly earned their stripes! We had a few well earned beers and de-briefed.

Breakfast with a view.

The next morning we realised what a marvellous place we were actually at. Mcleodganj is a fantastic little tourist town built into the side of a steep slope. A minituare city of colourful town-houses strung with prayer flags and facing onto a rugged mountain-side with a snowy crest, from behind which peers a snowy white Himalayan peak. Each day we’d breakfast on the roof-top terrace against this dramatic backdrop, with eagles floating about not 6 feet above our heads.

Prayer flags and Mcleodganj below.

We did a day-trek up a nearby mountain, Triund. The sun was shining; the sky was blue when we set off. We started up a rocky path shaded with tall fir trees that slowly gave way onto a winding mountain path with terrific views of the Kangra Valley. Patches of snow began to litter our path until eventually the snow became the path and we were trenching through 3 feet of snow. The peak, once we reached it, was covered in an untouched blanket of white and we huddled round a fire whilst eating a noodle lunch.

This was halfway up to Triund…

…and this was at the top. A bit colder up there.

Another day we went off to explore the surrounding area. We stumbled across an incongruous British church with a shaded terraced graveyard cut into the hillside, into a village where we found slate-roofed huts, women carrying rocks on their head, goat-herds, and little boys with home-made bows and arrows. The little Indians mistook us for cowboys and one of them shot Amy. She lived though, and made them all pose for photos in retribution.

Those darn pesky Injuns.

Mcleodganj is the home-in-exile of the leader of Tibetan Buddhism, the Dalai Lama. And by a fortuitous clash of calendars, he happened to be preaching there at the same time we were visiting. Everybody is welcome, and for 2 days before the event the town started filling with purple-robed monks and European hippies. We awoke at 7am and joined the throng of people making their way to the Dalai Lama Temple. Unfortunately Amy and Dad were turned away for blatantly flouting the No Cameras rule. Mum and I managed to find a cramped square foot or so of concrete at the back of the courtyard and we could, if we sort of leaned to the left and squinted a bit, just see His be-spectacled Holiness delivering his sermon in Tibetan. Now, I’ve nothing but respect for the 14^th incarnation of the Dalai Lama, I think he is a truly great person and a real character to boot, but we soon came to the conclusion that we were bored stiff so we pushed our way out and went for breakfast on our roof-top terrace instead.

The Dalai Lama is not the only Tibetan exile resident at Mcleodganj, the whole town has a decidedly Tibetan feel, with Tibetan street food and handicrafts for sale, and everywhere political posters of Tibetans self-immolating (setting themselves on fire) in protest of the Chinese occupation of their country. We visited the Tibetan museum to find out why.

Free Tibet. Previously I had looked on it as a jingoistic saying, the preserve of hippies and students (a bit like Che Guevara posters), but this harrowing little exhibition changed all that. To occupy a country is one thing – the rapacious Chinese do need things to burn, and Tibet is rich in natural resources – but the systematic eradication of 2000 years of Tibetan culture is a little hard to swallow. Ancient ruins destroyed, relics defecated on, people tortured and killed, religious leaders kidnapped; all because the idea of a Tibetan identity is an effrontery to the mono-ethnic communist state. The peaceful Tibetans are being consigned to the history books and are fighting back in the form of non-violent protests and self-immolation. We all left with a disturbing sense of the wrong-doing on the part of the Chinese, and sadly the futility of peaceful protest on the part of the Tibetans.

Anyway, rant over. We have had a great 2 weeks with Mad and Steve but have now gone our separate ways. Gladly, they loved India as we do: they took a cab back to Amritsar, already plotting their next visit. For us, our visit is not yet over; we took the bus to Shimla.

Who’d a thought it? The Best Chai in Asia right here in Mcleodganj.

Oh yeah – we also did a cooking class. Delicious AND educational.