#RikshawRun!

Every traveler has a story to tell, some are more interesting than others...and some have more veracity than others. So when Will and John started to tell us their story in a bar in Kochi, we were pretty sure they were having us on.  It really did seem quite far fetched.  Now though, I think it should be the subject of a very, very entertaining movie.

 

(Photo Credit: Courtesy of TheAdventurists.com)
Will and John are two exceedingly affable twenty-something chaps from Tenby in Wales. Will surveys the ocean floor for a living while John mentors disadvantaged youths. They certainly seemed pretty genuine guys, but the cheeky telling of a "tall" story didn't seem beyond them at all.  So we were on our guard.  

Initially their tales of India were about the same things as everyone else's: scams, confusion, squalor and the perrenial bad toilet experiences.  Will had a very amusing story about a Camel he was riding sprinkling him with urine via his tail - just to show him who was boss he supposed.  He had another about a strange shaving scope creep: his 50 rupee cut-throat shave that quickly escalated into a bizarre metallic ear-acure; followed by a dry head massage, then an oily and strangley sensual one; all of which resulted in a weird "Widow's Peak" hairline advertising his gullibility to all as he walked down the street. Suffice to say, John opted merely for the 50 rupee shave!

But something didn't seem quite right.  Their pronunciation of Jaiselmer seemed way off the mark for people who appeared well traveled in India: through Delhi, Rajashtan, Goa and now Kerala.  Something was missing.  Then the picture became clear.  Will and John had only been in India three weeks, 14 days of which they had spent in a Rikshaw racing from Jaiselmer to Kochi!

"Rikshaw Run", which puts me in mind of those great 70s classics - the Gumball Rally and Cannonball Run- happens three times a year across different parts of India.  Contestants pay rental of their Rikshaw, which they are welcome to "Pimp", and then set off as fast as their little Piaggio Scooter engines will carry them.  The rules are simple - first one across the finishing line wins.  (Not surprisingly, the genesis of Will and John's participation was hatched quite late one night...in the pub.)

But what fascinated me was for someone fairly familiar with Indian roads as myself - after what is now collectively my 5th month in India - the idea seems like suicide.  For two India virgins such as Will and John, the baptism must have been one of furious fire.  "Yeah we realized we could only really travel during the day once we got run off the road by a lorry one night," said John, with some nonchalance.  Apparently an on-coming truck with headlights on full beam had fully run them off the road and into the trees on a bend.  Will - who was driving - said he was relieved to find that the red liquid swilling around john's feet in the back was not blood but break liquid (not that that isn't a problem!)

The rules of the Indian road, as I've described before, take some studying.  They won't be in any formal manuals.  It's survival of the boldest.  Everyone seeks to drive down the middle of the road, overtaking everyone else.  That isn't always possible of course and so you demur to the larger or bolder vehicles - essentially a game of chicken.  This is great If you're a 4 wheel drive with ample torque.  However, if you're a flimsy Rikshaw with very little horsepower, and in a race to Kerala, this presents considerable challenges; particularly if you've never really traveled in one of India's most iconic vehicles, let alone driven one!

But as this blog post bares witness, the two of them arrived safe and sound and when we met them in a salubrious late night bar they were on day 4 of their celebratory bender. Apart from a few days in Jaiselmer, a strange half-way party with Russian Lingerie models in Goa and these few days in Kerala, they hadn't really had much time to enjoy India.  But I'd wager they had seen far more of it than we had in our two month journey.  They had broken down several times and enjoyed the charitable help of several local villages on each occasion.  In India, everyone knows someone that knows how to fix a Rikshaw!

(Photo Credit: Courtesy of TheAdventurists.com)

Along the way they had raised money for charity - an organization that brings clean way to the poorest villages - and had made many new friends.  The other characters in the race sounded like perfect material for the film, like the ménage a tois of one man and two women that split angrily down gender lines as the race went on; or the four portly American gentlemen who struggled to fit themselves into the Rikshaw, let alone their luggage!

We were left feeling quite envious of their adventure and while we cannot begin to complain about the wonderful journey we've experienced, there is something quite legendary about an experience such as their's.  I could listen for hours to anecdotes like that and so eagerly encourage someone to shoot the yet-to-be-written film script so a few years hence I can enjoy the story some more.  Danny Boyle...I'm talking to you!

India: Plus Ca Change...

"India is where all human realities - past and present - exist at once."

Historian Michael Wood 

As I've already said, it's 15 years' to the month since I was traveling in India for the first and only other time. In that time obviously India has changed a lot. A great deal in fact (and so have I of course!)  But in so many ways India has not changed at all.   In fact at the most essential level India hasn't changed in the last 100, 500 or even a thousand years. 

Since I was here there is now a very efficient, nation-wide mobile phone network, better (in my experience) than Australia's or America's.  There is far more foreign investment thanks to Prime Minister's Singh's economic reforms of the Naughties; and the country has grown substantially to become a global economic superpower as a result.  But just as since independence the country has adopted TV and developed a huge film industry; and since the arrival of the British built out an envy-of-the-world rail network; the essentials remain just the same.  In the time that the moguls have come and gone, and as far back as Alexander the Great, the core of Indian life remains the same: family, community and puja.  Despite Call Centres, Bollywood and Bangalore's Software houses - India remains a fundamentally agrarian society.  Ancient knowledge from the ancient texts of Ayerveda to the Yoga Sutra still define how Indians live, the core answers to the meaning of life were resolved for Indians many thousands of years ago.  All the rest is mere detail and decoration.

So I haven't really found any significant change in the country at all.  Everyone is still trying to get you to visit their cousin's Emporium.  The mysterious head wobble remains for me a very inconclusive answer to a question.  Any five yard stretch of street can at once present both the most wonderful and the most foul smells you've ever experienced and you continue to run the risk of 24 hours in the bathroom with each meal you dare to enjoy.

But the traveling experience has been revolutionized in a very short space of time by the huge technological developments of the last 15 years and it's only when you come and do something again like this that you get a feel for how much life has changed.  In many cases the balance of power has significantly shifted for the traveler thanks to technology.  For instance, where before I was totally in the hands of a Rikshaw driver's sense of direction before; now, using the magic Blue Dot on Google maps, I can tell when he's going off course via his cousin's Silk Emporium!  Equally, feedback on a  hostel - good or bad- can be delivered on the WiFi network in the lobby that very moment using Tripadvisor and shared with the global traveler community.  This is so important because on my last trip I found that a hostel would rest on the laurels of a good Lonely Planet write up for years, knowing that the traffic would keep walking in the door no matter how low their standards dropped.  Now they must keep their game high perpetually.

(Equally as I wrote on my business blog, the advent of tools like Tripadvisor has changed the mechanics of Trust for the Indian Tourist service provider in ways that are quite fundamental.)

In good ways and bad ways, today's ability to keep in touch with friends and family while traveling is cosmic.  You can be in the Rajasthani Desert or the Keralan Backwater canals and post blogs, pictures and status updates to the folks back home using Facebook or Twitter instead of postcards and round-robin emails to lists of addresses from your address book.  Skype has destroyed the STD long-distance phone call business and free hotel WiFi has challenged the Internet cafe business that was so very nascent when I was here before.  Text messages (SMS) make a rendezvous with a fellow traveler an instant and cheap reality where Post Restante and "leave a message on my home voicemail" were long-winded and fraught with failure.

 The iRevolution has changed the quiet times of course, of which there's much in hotel and hostel rooms, on trains, in airports and at railway stations.  Fifteen years ago, I carried 15 of my choicest  albums in a clunky carry-case with my Walkman.  Now I have every album I've ever liked on something a quarter its size.  You can watch your favorite TV shows and movies in HD quality on a tablet screen that really doesn't weigh anything at all, and instead of a bag cluttered with books,  you can take an entire library of novels with you - and even the Lonely Planet Guide book itself - on tiny devices that take up less space than your shorts.  (Not to mention an array of board games for those long journeys - Backgammon, Risk, Monopoly anyone?)  As for the ability you have to record every second of your adventure in high clarity and digital photo or video footage and share with the world the next day - posterity is so much richer for it!

But all of this development is, while seemingly important in western life (and certainly a chalk-and-cheese difference in terms of comparing the two journeys then and now) mere detail on the surface.  A veneer even.  For what remains amazing about India is the very fact that none of this matters.  Indians don't care about it.  Sure, they all have mobile phones now - but their way of life remains bound around simplicity, spirituality and family just as it was when the Bhudda gained enlightenment.  What India teaches you about yourself, about your body and mind, how to adapt to change, perspective and different ways of understanding the very meaning of life is just the same as it was 15 years ago and I'd wager was just the same for the Romans who came here thousands of years before.  

Technology may have helped the way we process all of that, but that is all.  "The more it changes, the more it is the same thing."

 

The Elephant in the River

Often it's not until after you've come back from your "Tourist Excursion" that you remember that you've a considerable responsibility as a tourist in how you distribute your spend, as it not only has economic impact but also a moral one.  We unfortunately only realized this too late as we drove away from what sounded like a magical early morning experience but instead turned out to be an unwitting contribution to the sad exploitation and humiliation of one the earth's most splendid creatures.

It is hard to think of a more awe inspiring and majestic animal than an elephant and being in their presence leaves one with a uniquely privileged feeling.  Quite emotionally intelligent in their dealings with each other, we are told, elephants have always held a special place in our hearts and minds.  No where more so of course than in India where they are revered as a god - the great Ganesh, god of fortune, providence and good luck.  It is for this reason that their treatment at our eventual destination early one morning is so perplexing, and angering.

My last experience in close proximity to an elephant was in Nepal 15 years ago where I am sad to say I rode on the back of one through the jungle on a brief "Tourist Excusion" in the Chitwan National Park.  The guilt-edged residue of that day clearly had not left enough of a mark on me it seems to inform my decision around this engagement.  However, I did vividly remember the awesome power of the animal as I watched it tear down a tree in a single movement.  (Speaking of movements, being witness to some of his bolidy functions was equally surprising!)

On this occasion we were to watch elephants at a Training Centre at Kodanad bathe, and perhaps even take part in the ritual.  However "training centre" did not accurately describe the facility, which put me in mind of a animal-loving atmosphere staffed by caring volunteers and enthusiasts.  It was instead more of a drill camp where these marvelous creatures in captivity were cruelly it seemed schooled in the duties of a captive animal.  Very little carrot was used in their education as far as we could see.  It was all stick.

Chains are never a lifestyle choice and so whenever you see an animal in chains, it acts as an icon of its imprisonment.  These animals we're bound in chains and rope and denied any freedom of movement outside the commands of their handlers.  And that was part of the considerable difficulty of this: this fine, majestic creature under the strict control of two fairly portly, seemingly unsophisticated gentlemen who seemed intent on using their control of the animal to command humiliating tricks for the benefit of tourist in order to line their own (not the facility's) pockets.

The supposedly enjoyable and relaxing bath we thought we had come to see was another example of their denial of freedom.  They were scrubbed by a scrubbing brush and unable to move outside of what was required to enable to cleaning.  To underline this, he was forced to keep his trunk tucked neatly over his tusk (as pictured).  The only really pleasant part of the visit   was when his handlers went off to wash themselves in the river and the elephant was (relatively) free to wash himself how he wanted - by skillfully employing that most unique cleaning tool of his.  This seemed like his only true moment of freedom to be himself.

His handlers commanded every other movement with unfriendly sounding shouts and the use of a wooden stick, and another one with a metal tip for harsher punishment.  This animal seemed beaten; both physically on many an occasion, but also spiritually.  There was stoic resignation in his demeanor but as he washed I almost wished he would make a dash for freedom while his handlers turned their back.  The beauty and wonder of his form and presence was juxtaposed by the sheer sadness of the scene.  The only thing more conflicted was the sight of the babies, so cute and innocent but not yet fully initiated into their "training program".

I was left with the questions: is there anything we really need to train an elephant to do that we can't do another way?  Do we need to ride them to enjoy their company? Is it not time that we ennobled ourselves by truly setting this wonderful animal free, everywhere?  Can we not secure swathes of national park for them and see them free to roam their own natural habitat?  Is the elephant not the next whale?

Smelling Jewtown

While images, videos and words can bring one's adventure to life for others, one thing I wish I could capture is smell. India is well known for its assault on all senses - for good and bad - and while it's a blessing that readers of this blog are protected from some of the more putrid smells of the sub-continent; it would be awesome if you could - for instance - digitally bottle the aroma of what is questionably called "Jewtown".

So with the ability to convey smells digitally still not invented, please grind together a rich cocktail of ginger, pepper, cumin, nutmeg, tumeric and cardomom - with maybe a hint of perume - and read this post with that aroma wafting around your nose to mimic the air.

 

The terrific pungent cocktail of spices and perfumes that pervade the very atmosphere of this old section of Kochi in Kerala is an ancient one. The  spice trade that continues today is a global one that dates back to the days of the Phoenicians. Since then the Romans, the Chinese, Arabs, the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British have all done a roaring trade in this vibrant harbour.

 

Those last three have left a more lasting mark.  (Although the iconic Chinese Fishing Nets still dominate the harbour skyline.)  The area known as "Fort Kochi" remains startlingly reminiscent of the days when those three great empires in turn monopolized trade around the world, and a walk down its narrow lane ways is quite evocative of bygone eras of the Spice Trade that defined many hundreds of years of European colonisation in India and across south Asia.

 

But an even older - and with the perennial spicey air, even more evocative - is the area officially known today as Mattancherry.  But historically is known as " Jewtown".

 

I first became aware of the Jewish community in Kerala perusing the exhibits of the Museum of the Diaspora in Tel Aviv. There, with transparent nation- building agenda,  the Israeli government set out to collect and curate the collective experiences of all those Jewish communities that set out from The Levant when the Romans exiled them after the failed rebellion, and subsequent sacking of Jerusalem, in AD 70.   The Keralan Jewish community landed in 72 AD in fact.  Their descendants had been trading with India since the days of King Solomon around 900 years BC.

Well known for their aptitude in trade and finance, Jewish communities flourished here from that early time lubricating this lucrative business with loans, connections and general know-how.

 

Typically ghetto-ised, this is mercifully one of the few Jewish communities of the diaspora  to mostly escape the kind of persecution their brothers and sisters routinely suffered across Europe and North Africa. This is exemplary testament, I think, to the characteristically cosmopolitan, hospitable and tolerant traditions of their Indian  hosts.

 

The area remains a hub of furious spice, tea and perfume business; and with those products still transported in sacks and bottles not too dissimilar from those they have always been moved about in, and with the 16th century shops and warehouses still standing, it's not too hard to let your imagination drift  back to the romantic days of the spice trade here, or in the Mallacas themselves for that matter.

Jewtown on the still-standing Jewish Synagogue (above), first built in 1568 but represents other didications from as far back as the 4th and 14th centuries. The international nature of the Quarter is epitomised by features in the Synagogue including Belgian chandeliers, Chinese floor tiles and a rug from Haile Selassie, the last Ethiopian Emperor.  The place makes the perect climax to a visit to Jewtown because it seems wonderfully trapped in time.

 

For the real experience I strongly urge a visit to Kerala for about a hundred other reasons - but this is a good one!  (The fact that the first Indian Biennale is being held in many of the oldest buildings in this area until March is another.)

Goa: A Tale of Two Beaches

"It was the worst of times, it was the best of times," in that order.  Our Goan holiday began badly.  A misguided attempt to re-write history led me to book us into a hotel in Anjuna, a beach town in the former Portugese colony where I had stayed 15 years before and not enjoyed then.  The fact that it had most certainly only got worse in the ensuring time did not inform my hope that I could have a better time on this trip.  Anjuna was heading in a bad direction then, and now it seemed to have arrived there.  

(Palolem Beach - around Breakfast time)

Fifteen years ago, it was still a relatively rustic, rural and unrefined beach retreat.  It was famous for its weekly flea market which had become a Mecca for backpackers and itinerant hippy drops outs and a great source for Thai-dye, hammocks and trance CDs.  Its population was primarily young Israelis de-mob happy after their National Service and any number of European backpackers wizzing about on scooters looking for the next rave party.  Other than that, what seemed to me then - prior to living 12 years in Australia - an idyllic beach was lined only with a few lean-to bars and restaurants, certainly not enough to obscure its iconic palm-tree Forrest back-drop.  Today, that back drop has been entirely eroded by Wall-to-wall bars, the Israelis replaced by Russian mafia and the hippy vibe rubbed out by a distinctly derelict pseudo-criminal edge that might lead you to mistake it not so much for Goa but for Gomorrah.

So we de-camped rather abruptly.  About as far south down the Goan coast as we could get in fact.  We found a beach in Palolem that much more closely meets most people's expectation of what a Goan escape represents.  (Awesome resort called Ciarran's - best on the beach!) While Anjuna is much more Ibiza, Palolem is very reminiscent of Thailand.  While bars and restaurants do line the beach, the hinterland is far more limited and the hut-culture is a carbon copy of Thai resorts I've visited.  The drug trade is almost entirely under control (one offer in Palolem in a week versus every other person in Anjuna in only two days!) and while music does make an appearance during the day, it is not the loud duff-duff that permeates every aspect of Anjunan life. Holiday makers - Western and Indian - and travelers trying to relax dominate the beach scene in Palolem versus the drug-casualty drop outs and drug pushers that seem to dominate its northern rival.

The two experiences are probably best exemplified by the sunsets we watched on each beach.  The last sunset of 2012 we watched at a secluded bar at the end of Palolem beach, sharing it with a few couples, one or two groups and even a young family.  With a background of very quite ambient trance, everyone chatted quietly as they drank their sundowner drinks, concentrating carefully on the spiritual moment that is a sunset.  When the quite beautiful vista reached its crescendo everyone clapped and a feeling of bonhomerie transcended the scene.  

(The Anjuna Sunset - with our friends)

However, while that was more characteristic of sunset experiences on Anjuna beach 15 years ago, the same moment only a few days before was quite different.  We spent much of it watching a young chap attempt to revive his near-unconscious and vomiting friend as he lay paralytic in the sand after what seemed a drinking bender gone wrong.  Eventually his other friends arrived and they argued drunkenly about whether to abandon their hapless chum or not.  Repetitive duff-duff hammered our ears from the next bar, at which a lone forty-something drug casualty danced with himself like it was 1999.  Gangs of over-stylized local men cruised the beach looking for action with a swagger that betrayed attitude, arrogance and mischief.  No one seemed remotely interested in what was an equally beautiful sunset except us and possibly the few cows and dogs that also shared the beach with us.  

Goa is a funny old place.  After weeks of traveling a country peppered with well-attended little shrines on every street corner worshipping Hindu gods, it's strange to see them here instead dedicated to the Virgin Mary.  And while most taxi, bus and Rikshaw drivers have small Ganesh, Vishnu or Shiva statuettes on their dashboard, in Goa they are usually depicting Jesus.  Temples are swapped out by Portugese churches as a testament to the Jesuits' far more effective conversion track record than that of the British Evangelical Missionaries.  Cars seem to far out number scooters on the highways contrasting sharply with elsewhere in India, and the adverts speak far more about swimming pools and casinos and far less about cement and sarees.  

But if Palolem in the far south is anything to go by - and by all accounts Arambol in the far north remains the chilled out sanctuary it was on my last visit - it is at Goa's geographical extremities that you will find the more moderate experience and in its centre where the extreme is at its most intense.  Always hard to pass by on any Indian Odyssey - especially at Christmas - I can say that after this second visit,  wherever you stay Goa remains compelling, engrossing and tantalizing and well worth any aggravation.

Rajasthan: Glorious, bloody and spectacular

That was how the audio tour of Jodhpur Palace sought to sum up the history of Rajasthan among other similar melodrama: "Glorious, bloody and spectacular."  Fortunately our road trip around what the tour also called the "Land of Kings" has only been glorious and spectacular and something I would urge anyone to find the time to do.  Its a region of quite remarkable beauty not only in terms of its countryside - varying from desert to jungle - but also in its architecture, artwork and of course its people. 

After what has seemed a relentlessly intense and overwhelming journey across North India through infamously crowded metropolae such as Calcutta, Varanasi and Agra; Rajashtan has offered some very welcome respite from India at its most.  The people have taken tourist-bating - the sport of continued interference, salesmanship and confidence tricks - down several gears bringing new freedom in our willingness to engage with them.  (Although that is not to say that the endless game of "come to my Emporium - no obligation to buy" - hasn't been pursued with the same enthusiasm).

What is so marvellous about this part of India is that for the citadels of Jaipur, Jasielmer, Jodhpur, Udaipur and many others, all the mystery, romance, chivalry of the desert and its kings are not fairytale fantasies but instead the extraordinary facts of a thrilling history.  Magical and at times preposterous, tours of the palaces and hill-top forts that pepper this land reveal the stuff not only of legend but of Bollywood script.  Maharajas, Maharinis, elephants armies and breathtaking treasure form the backbone of the history of Rajasthan in a character that becomes almost predictable.  The opulence of the regal palaces is some of some of the most awesome artwork - both islamic and Hindu - and the impregnable nature of the forts bely a past that still seems tangible today (in a way that we discovered quite personally and surprisingly).

In many ways, despite twenty-first century trappings such as mobile phone branding, Bollywood and the internet, Rajasthan has not changed all that much and Indians remain as deeply embroiled in their relationship with the deities as they were then.  Many of the Maharajas still sit on their thrones - most notably in Jaipur - and the influence of their ancestors is palpable and ubiquitous, particularly in the way their monuments literally overshadow the modern cities.  But for most Indians, life is no different than it was in the days of the Moghuls.  A detour on the Silk Route, the area still does a roaring - and quite regionally specialised - trade in all the same products: gems in Jaipur, silver in Jaiselmer and spices in Jodhpur.  Continueing the history of the place as a bastion, and only 130 km away from the Pakistan Border, Rajasthan boasts countless army deployments off everything from helicopter gunships to camel contingents.  In the corner of an museum in BIkiner Fort we discovered the relatively obscure Maharaja (Ganga Singh) in a painting containing Lloyd-George, Winston Churchill and Lord Kitchener as THE Indian military representative to a meeting of the Imperial War Cabinet fighting the First World War.

The desert reality of Rajasthan is ever present with every camel that walks down the street and the experience is incomplete without a camel trek (advisedly brief) across dunes into the sunset.  My own highlight of this part of the trip underlies the magic of the place as watched a traditionally dressed muslim emerge (pictured above) from the dune-haze like a mirage while talking on a mobile phone in order to sell us beers as we watched the sunset vista.  It confirmed like nothing else the maxim we are often reminded of: "in India, anything is possible".

(I must take a brief moment here to praise the network of people who ensured we had a smooth, enriching and rewarding tour.  Janu of Janu's private tours introduced himself to us at Jaipur Train station and from that moment set about tirelessly attending to our logistics and welcome with remarkable astuteness and resourcefulness.  Rakesh, the driver/guide Janu appointed to our service drove us around all of Rajasthan with the care and attention of a true professional. Sanjay of Sanjay's Villas in Jaiselmer laid on the most enduring memorable excursion into the Desert involving not only aforementioned camels and beers but also quite oppulent "gl-amping" and the romance of peasant folk music.  As well as their man in Udaipur - Jamel - I sincerely recommend that anyone venturing into their domain plug into this highly capable and cost-effective network to get the very best out of their stay here.

While I've come out of Rajasthan with any number of my own stories, including our Christmas retreat in a living Maharaja's Palace by the lake in Dangapur, it is some of the yarns I've picked up along the way that will define this adventure.  There's the little nine-year-old girl we found perfectly tight-rope walking - without a safety net - seven feet up outside the gates to Jaiselmer Fort.  Her own father had been disabled and so her mother had set her to work monitizing the amazement of tourists for the sake of the family's survival.  The look of concentration and determination on that little girl's face is one of the most inspiring things I've ever seen.  Then there's the devotee who volunteered to be buried alive in the foundations of the 15th Century Fort at Jodhpur as the human sacrifice to negate the curse placed on its future by the disgruntled hermit who was evicted from his mountain-top retreat to make way for it.  

FInally, there's the quite astonishing story of Kuldhara.  Quoting the "Travelenz" Blog: 

"The story is that the Diwan of Jaisalmer,  Salim Singh, is believed to have developed a lecherous eye for the village chief’s daughter who was stunningly beautiful. He was keen on adding the beautiful lady to his harem or else face the threat of unreasonable taxes. With pride and honour overruling all worldly interests, the chiefs of the 84 villages decided to go away in a single night with whatever they could carry with them leaving behind not just their homes but also a curse. That anyone who tried to live in the village would perish."

The spooky ruin of streets, houses, temples and wells that remains to this day is the greatest testament not only to the mystery and romance of the desert but also to the sheer mystery and insanity of India.

 

Calcutta's Colosseum

It is known as The Colosseum - mainly because of its shape and a chequered history of inhospitable crowds and poor odds for visiting teams - but the first time I saw Calcutta's Eden Gardens about 15 years ago, I dared to dream that one day I might see England play there.  Through a quirk of fate, that dream came true this week, and it has not remotely disapointed.  Not only has the cricket been tremendously enjoyable - including fine performances from two of the world's greatest test batsmen- but the atmosphere has been electric, just as I imagined.

Getting to the ground was more than a challenge. Because of the heat, and unlike most test cricketing nations that kick off around 11am, Test matches in India begin at 9am, so we failed to get there on time due to an abject inability to read the small print on the tickets.  That failure was even more punnishing when we got there to be told that cameras of any kind were "not permitted" (something else mentioned on the tickets) and so we had to walk back to the hotel to leave them behind.  Although only a short 20 minute walk, that walk took us through the Calcutta Bus Station - easily the worst square half mile I've ever been in, full of the most putrid smells and rotten filth and fraught with the danger of traffic and the sad sights of tiny, often injured and certainly destitute puppies.  

Finally we made it along to the ground, and were soon put upon by one of the stranger invasions of privacy I've experienced.  It is often said that one of the problems with India is that you can find yourself being stared at by a crowd people as you go about your business.  This annoyance reached new heights as a TV camerman parked himself infront of us as we watched the cricket and trained his lense on us...for about 10 minutes.  After 10 minutes he relaxed his tired arm, but instead of walking away or focussing on the cricket as we hoped he might; he instead called up his tripod carrier so he could film us some more without effort!  We weren't entirely sure why we drew so much attention, but we eventually concluded it was True-Aussie Terresa's "I love India" hat!

While Terresa made her colours clear, I too had ended up accidently wearing my sympathies on my sleave - literally.  On the way to the ground a chap offered to paint the St George Cross on my arm.  I said "no" but he refused to listen and did it anyway.  However, the badly painted white and blood-red cross led most people to just think I had sustained an injury!

The first day we cooked in the hot Calcutta sun, ironic of course as England's Captain is named Alistair Cook.  England accounted for themselves well and held India to 270-odd at stumps, taking the crucial wicket of Sachin Tendulkar well short of the century his adoring fans had hoped for.  We made it along in the afternoon for the second day and by then England had bowled out India for a modest 316 and were well on the way to a controlling first innings total with the Captain and opener on the way to a century of his own.

Yet at times - in this ground well known for its riots and once referred to as a "Cauldron" (by Bob Willis - one of the only English 11 to win here) - various incidents of crowd insanity were far more compelling than the genteel events at the crease.  The ground certainly boasts the noisiest and fastest Mexican Wave of any I've been in.  The Barmy army -  who usually command any ground they visit - had been strangely silent on day one and, I suspect, probably didn't expect to be spending the day in a "dry" ground. By Day two, however, they were far more rowdy - had they all found a creative way to smuggle in alcohol I wondered?  But pretty soon the Indians had crowded out their area and at times drowned out their tunes - I've seen the barny army quiet, but never silenced.  Luckily they had brought a trumpet which certainly helped.

 

Most of all though, the adulation for the "Little Master", Sachin Tendulkar, is beyond hero worship. Whenever he was posted to the boundary to field, the crowd flocked to meet him like so many moths to a flame. In fact the crowd followed him to such a degree soldiers were deployed to manage them wherever Sachin went to field, often getting crushed against the fencing in their efforts.  The sheer noise of their excitement at his very presence was indeed deafening and always detracted from the cricket.  In fact, noise and heat were - as I had expected 15 years before - the overwhelming aspects of this experience.  Very few people could concentrate at the crease against the din raised on Sharma's run up or when Trott faced his first ball.  But - I am happy to say - England proved solid and unswayable and could be - as I write - on their way to their first victory here since the 70s.

Our Eden Gardens adventure ended as it had began - on the TV.  A TV interview for both of us on our exit of the ground about our views on the match.  I said that I thought England might win, Aussie Terresa proudly declared said she hoped India would!