We headed to Amritsar, in the Northern Punjab region, where we were to meet my parents – a.k.a. Steve and Mad – and spend a few nights in the town, home of the Golden Temple and the Vatican of the Sikh world.

We stayed in an upmarket hotel – a Christmas present from Ma and Pa – which was a welcome dose of luxury (hot showers, air-con, mini-bar, fresh linen – we couldn’t believe our luck, especially given that the night before we stayed somewhere which neglected to give us even pillows!) The first day we spent just catching up in the hotel bar, and the second we went to see the Golden Temple.

Inside the Golden Temple.

Entrance to the Golden Temple is free, free on condition that you remove your shoes and socks, and don a ridiculous orange bandana; a small price to pay, we felt, even with freezing rainwater underfoot. The whole thing is constructed out of white marble, inlaid here and there with gold inscription. You enter through a clocktower onto the focal area, a rectangular marble walkway around a still reservoir – the holy water of the Amrit Sarovar. A temple, purportedly gilded with 750 kilos of gold, floats resplendent and serene in the centre, and is reached by a bridge full of shuffling Sikhs and orange-headed tourists like us.

One of the most endearing aspects of the Sikh faith is a welcoming inclusiveness; everybody is welcome to visit the Golden Temple, irrespective of religion, to enjoy the place, stay the night and – I reckon the best part – eat a free lunch. You grab a stainless steel thali plate and take your place sitting on the floor of the dining hall. Vegetable curries, chapatis and dal are cooked in enormous cauldrons by volunteers (the whole place is staffed by volunteers, every Sikh should volunteer at least once in their lifetime) and a guy comes round to dish out the food to between 60 and 80 thousand people each day! Not only is it suprisingly delicious but, as an advert for Sikkhism, a masterstroke: no evangelising, no preaching, the only thing rammed down your throat is more chapatis, and yet you leave with a wonderful impression of what their religion is all about. Sikhs are now my new favourite.

Bwaaahaaaahaa! – look at those two.

We also went to see the Wagah Border Ceremony, that is the daily – daily, mind you – ceremony to mark the closing of the border between India and Pakistan. None of us knew what we were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t what we got.

A flag waving patriot.

On either side of the border a large brickwork gateway, one was hung with a picture of Ghandi, the other adorned with minarets and a picture of a famous Pakistani (presumably). Each led onto a large ampitheatre filled with perhaps 3000 flag-waving people. Dancing girls and an MC whipped the crowd of each nation into a patriotic fervour. Ostentatiously clothed guards enacted an elaborate fandango full of stomps, high-kicks, posturing and cross-border gesturing, whilst the two crowds exchanged football-type chants. Us foreigners were sat in our own pen and generally not encouraged to join in, rather just sit there gaping at this audacious spectacle unfolding below. It was brilliant! A bugle sounded the end of the ceremony as the flags of both countries were slowly lowered.

The Wagah Border Ceremony. Indian side.

Amritsar itself was a bit of a disappointment. It probably didn’t help that it rained solidly for the first day and all the filth of the city coagulated into a toxic sludge, but actually there really is not much to do there, so we were happy to be leaving for Mcleod Ganj.

Steve-O and Mad’s first tuk-tuk ride.

We could’ve taken a 6 hour bus to Mcelod Ganj, but I thought it might be a bit much for the ‘rents, so we opted for a train and taxi ride instead. Had I known what a nightmare the journey would be, I would’ve gone for the bus. Twice over.

The annual family day out at the Pakistani border. My 2 brothers were busy so we took some Chinese girls instead.

Our first Indian sleeper bus experience: we applied the usual technique of locating where our bus was leaving from – ask as many people as possible and then go with the consensus – and found ourselves on a busy roundabout in Mapusa. We sat and watched for a bit and scratched our head and thought ‘that can’t be right’. But it was. The buses don’t actually stop, they just slow; a gaggle of ticket-waving people rush the bus, thrusting ticket in the face of the conductor who, for a lucky few at least, nods that this is the correct bus. If you get this far then you scream, run back to where you left your luggage, find your wife nonchalantly munching a corn-on-the-cob, scream again, grab the luggage, attempt to fling it on the back of the bus, run back to the front of the bus and jump on. All this time the bus is creeping along and, once it navigates through the roundabout traffic, will be gone! The bunk we were given can only be described as a padded cell, about 3′ high and about the size of a double bed, with a sliding door and an iron bar running the length of the window. Strange to say, but it wasn’t actually that bad; a couple of sleeping pills later and next thing we knew we were in Mumbai.

The University of Mumbai in the background there.

They warned us, the other travelers we met on the way, they warned us about Mumbai. It’s too crowded, too expensive, too difficult, two days is too much they said. Nary a soul had a good word to say. But what is wrong with these people? Of course its crowded, manic, chaotic, but this is India, not the outer Hebrides. We were close to cutting our time short here, such was the negativity, but so glad we didn’t.

Riding the suburban train network…not so crowded as you might think.

We stayed at the optimistically named Delight Guest House. In not so much a room as partition of a larger room, where the partition walls don’t quite reach the ceiling, and the voices of the unexplained multitudes of African tenants and inevitable Israeli travelers drift in through the gaps. But it was clean, had room service and, inexplicably even to us, we loved it.

If you have any washing done in Mumbai, it goes here – Mahalaxmi.

The Delight is in Colaba, on the southern-most tip of the city. We could see the Gateway to India and the Taj Mahal Hotel from our window. Each day we would stroll through Colaba and the Fort district, which is home to most of the architectural delights of the city. Now, what the both of us know about architecture you could fit on the back of a stamp, but here it is so prepossessing: a blend of Colonial Gothic, Islamic, Hindu, Mughal, Catholic and art-deco styles, often all in one building! Most if not all were built by the British, but with a nod towards those other styles they found already here, remnants of empires past; a fitting metaphor for the city – and the country – itself really.

Prince of Wales Museum…or should that be Wows…har har.

Almost immediately north of Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (Victoria Station to you or I, and the crown jewel of those aforementioned buildings), the streets coalesce into tumultuous bazaars and markets, the people seem to multiply and the volume turns up a few notches. This is the Mumbai we imagined, and it feels like any other Indian city we’ve been to.

Just another building.

We took a guided tour of the Dharavi slum which was fascinating, a real eye-opener. The largest slum in Asia, Dharavi is home to upwards of a million people. It is shaped somewhat like a heart and by dint of that poetic Indian symbolism, is known as the heart of Mumbai. Although it is undoubtedly a slum, the people who live there don’t just mope around swatting flies all day. It’s industriousness is famous – plastic recycling, pottery, poppadoms, ironware, cardboard – the slum generates $650 million per annum; people also live in the slum and commute to the city.

Dharavi Slum. Welcome.

Although it’s a little disheartening to see kids playing in the refuse heaps or toying with dead vermin, they honestly seem like they’re having a whale of a time! No matter what they’re doing they’ll drop it the minute they see a white face to scream “HELLO-HOW-ARE-YOU?” and descend into fits of giggles. The company running the tour – Reality Travels – pump a large amount of cash back into Dharavi to provide schools, sports programmes and more.

Indian man cooking Pav Bhaji.

Finally, the Mumbai street food is delectable. Bhelpuris, pav bhajis, samosas, wadas, dosas, iddli and numerous other delicacies that we didn’t quite catch the name of; and refreshing lime juice or sugar-cane juice stalls every 50 metres or so. There was one place near our hotel where, one night, we got a thali (rice, 2 curry dishes, popadom, lime chutney), 2 wadas (like a veg-burger sandwich), about 8 onion bhajis and a bottle of water for 87 rupees (about £1). They knew us by sight in the end and we daren’t walk past without gulping down a quick snack.

Our mate – King of Street Food.

Amy chowing down on a samosa for breakfast.

And now for something completely different: we leave South India and fly out to Amritsar tomorrow, where we’ll be meeting up with my parents and embarking on a little Himalayan adventure.

Chowpatty Beach at night.