Delhi. The predicted nightmare turns out to be a dream. Mostly.
30th May 2006

It can’t be difficult to find the capital, can it?
Lhasa Hotel, Delhi
Progress requires visas but getting them is hard work
VSO programme in India
A dip into Bahai faith. Little learnt.
Plan B

Delhi, Delhi

It looked like it was going to be one of those days. Everyone and everything in the villages tested our patience. Leaving before dawn may mean that you avoid melting but it also means that often there is a limited selection of people to confirm directions with. Maybe like much of the world first thing in the morning their brains are not quite in gear, but they played dumb on what we may be asking for.

In theory the manager of the hotel had given us a map, to cut across country to the main highway to Delhi. But within minutes we were lost on the directions of ‘just go straight’ out of town. Obviously, to a local in the matrix of residential roads, it is obvious which is the main road, but they all looked equally important to us. When we got to the edge of the village we met a T junction. The next village on our route was Udaipurvati. We roll up to two young men and asked which way. Consider how many different ways the word Udaipurvati can be pronounced and intoned. Bear in mind that it can be written Udaipurwati, too. We tried them all like usual and got the predictable blank response. They read out the word on our map, which sounded remarkably like the word we’d been saying, and pointed the direction. Same as ever.

I’d naively thought that with the traffic being lighter in the morning, there’d be less stupid overtaking maouevres going on. It was almost as if vehicles were actually driving around Rajastan looking for us and waiting for the most dangerous possible moment to overtake unlit vehicles coming towards us. Those vehicles that had lights had them fixed on high beam and blinded each other and us. I lost my rag several times and shouted pointless obscenities at the pillocks hidind behind the glass of their BMW-seeking missiles. Hippy was concerned that my judgement would be impaired by my tension, but I needed to be alert to be ready for the next random hazard. It is a fine line between knife-edge allertness and tension.

I had made the tension of the morning worse by firstly losing the instructions given to us in the wind and then having to run back and get it and then half of it ripping off in the wind moments later. The trials of the morning had taken their toll of Patrick’s temper. By now I realised that the instructions were useless, the poor handwriting meant that I could not match any of the Hindi names with anything on a sign post and not all the juntions were marked. I reverted back to using my spartan knowledge of Hindi script to make semi-educated guesses about direction.
The guy have said that this was a short cut to the highway, but 100km down and we we still not there.

He’d recommended an eatery that had probably the worst selection and poorest food we’d had in India. It was India’s answer to a motorway service station. Yes, it was air-conditioned and there were cleanish toilets but that was all there was to recommend it. But the carpark was full of middle class cars, with families of chubby kids. Sadly, this is obviously seen as THE place to eat on the way up to Delhi. But service stations in the UK are equally overrated. But why should you have to eat dire plastic food, to get a place with a toilet. To be fair to the chap who advised us to use these services, there were several plus points which may have seemed important to him; if you’re traveling in an air conditioned car, an air conditioned restaurant is pretty much essential - anything else is pretty much pointless, the place had a car park (we can slot in anywhere so never really value a car park as he would) and yes, the toilets were clean - this man was brahmin caste and these things are important, I think. Just a shame you couldn’t even get a decent cuppa.

This was it, after 2.5 months in India we were heading into Delhi. We had planned to enter on a Sunday in the hope that there was the faint possibility that the traffic would be less frantic. Our worst fears were realised as we hit the outskirts, the main road was closed for some kind of maintenance. Here we go! But no. There was a diversion sign. Passing the airport, the taxi mini-buses drove like prats but that is to be expected anywhere in the world. The rest of the traffic seemed to obey basic road rules (kind of); they drove at sensible speeds, stopped at traffic lights, indicated sometimes and mostly stayed in their lanes. There were meaningful road signs. There were traffic lights with full compliments of bulbs. The roads were broad and defined by convincing white lines. There were very few bovines. In a word it was heaven. After all of our worries about the stories of madness that we had been fed by other travellers, we found it better than Istanbul, Cairo, Bangkok and several other huge cities. Score 1 for India. Maybe our standards have just dropped.

What was nice was that, despite the apparent organisation of the traffic system in Delhi, still the things that make India India were accommodated; a herd of goats were marshalled over a 4 lane flyover, the rickshaws frequently drove the wrong way down the dual carraigeway, a couple of elphants strolled with their riders along the kerbside. Maybe we had just had the mind set that Delhi would be a nightmare to drive in, and just because it felt driveable we were relieved. But, that day, these Indian complications we saw as a charming tolerance for all Indian road users, the goats seemed more disciplined and stayed to one side and the rickshaws used the hard shoulder when riding the wrong way rather than weaving randomly against the oncoming traffic, giving the feeling that even these familiar chaotic features had some order to their chaos. As for the elephants, there were no signs expressly forbidding them using the highways and so why not?

Tibetan Colony

We found our way to the Tibetan Colony with consumate ease. There was one ‘just go straight and turn left moment’ and when we got onto the subject of which left would that be, exactly, the guy hopped on his bike and showed us (it was in fact the fourth left turn, not the first). OK, so we passed by our destination on the wrong side of a dual carriageway without any provision for turning back. No matter. At the first junction we got to (curiously devoid of light bulbs in the signals), the laisez-faire Indians allowed us to effect a U-turn.

The Tibetan Colony is pretty cool. Boiling hot, obviously, in terms of weather - this is Delhi in the height of summer after all. There are scores of Tibetan monks cruising around in their maroon and saffron robes, so much more stylish than the saffron monochrome of the SE Asian Buddhists. The Dalai Lama smiled serenely at us from most vertical surfaces, a sort of ‘Big Brother is smiling at you’ experience. The rooftops are festooned with prayer flags and there’s tinkling bells at every turn. The restaurants serve hearty portions of Tibetan food and, surprisingly for India, beef and pork dishes. Berthette didn’t draw the annoyingly in-your-face crowds that we’ve been used to, just the odd person passing asking simple questions like how far we’d come. The hotel rooms were large, clean, all had air coolers and were reasonably priced. There was just enough space in the side street for Berthette to loiter without causing an obstruction. Perfect.

I knew we were in the right part of Delhi when, tired and sweaty in full bike gear and sitting in the reception of the hotel, a charming, intelligent, worldly Tibetan doctor engaged me in conversation. She, like most Tibetans in India, is a refugee, and lives normally north of Delhi, in Daramsala, home of the Dalai Lama while he is in exile. She has no passport, but the Indian government issues Tibetan refugees with a ‘yellow paper’ that entitles her to travel out of the country, but then has to reapply for entry to India each time she leaves. She bore no grudge, and her dignity and confidence invoked no sympathy. This was just the way things were. She was proudly, Tibetan, spoke English, Hindi, Taiwanese and Tibetan fluently with passable Mandarin, works with a Taiwanese NGO in doing charitable work. We were humbled by her education..Kind of the antitheseis of the pathetic refugee one is generally presented with by the media.

Visa issues

We had two missions in Delhi; getting the visas for Iran and Pakistan and dropping in on the VSO office to get the low down on the Indian programme. We tackled them in that order. Bad news, the Iran embassy explained the latest rules for application for a visa. The goalposts move with such regularity that even their website is out of date with current procedure which is that one needs to have clearance from the foreign ministry in Tehran who generate a code which you present with your passport, photos and a wedge of cash at an embassy of your choice. Just to ensure that things are not too easy, you need to have a contact in Iran to make representations for you. When I pulled my most perplexed face and explained to the nice man behind the window that I am a tourist and as such am not likely to know anyone who could sponsor us, he handed me a piece of paper upon which were writ the details of a visa agency in Shiraz who could make an application on our behalf. Ridiculous, of course, that an agency which doesn’t know us from Adam and Eve can make an application to the authorities explaining what decent folk we are. We made our applications that evening on the agency’s web site. No doubt we have an equally arduous procedure for the Iranians to get a visa for the UK. The cost was a bit scarey though, 5300 rupees (80 quid to you) each plus the agency fee of 40 US each on top. The only saving grace on the costs is that we know that petrol is 5 cents a litre in Iran. What the Iranian government taketh away the oil firms give back. But a few point in Iran’s favour, it has to be the smartest embassy offices we have been in around the world, spotlessly clean, and free tea, coffee and water. but maybe that’s is why the fees are so high.

The procedure for Pakistan is much simpler. You need a letter of recommendation from you government (or local consular representatives), application form, photos and fee and to wait for a couple of days and the job’s a good un. We’ve been through the letter saga before and, like sponsorship by an agency in Iran, this is a ridiculous hurdle. You complete a form at the British embassy which is a copy of the details in your passport, this is checked against the details in your passport and then your names are typed into a standard letter which is duly stamped. Being British, not only do we have to pay top dollar (£40) to get the Pakistan visa, but our embassy charges £42 to help us. Compare this, for example, with £20 for the Dutch who pay £15 for their letter. The Irish consulate issues their letters for free. Rip-off Britain overseas department. We did get something for free from our embassy and that was a print out of the current security situation in Pakistan and Iran which we could have looked at on the internet without needing for trees to be cut down to get the information. If we took any notice of Foreign Office advice, we’d still be in Turkey trying to arrange an armed convoy to take us through Syria. Let’s just call it unsolicited scaremongering. As a diplomat once explained to me, the government has to issue these warnings and err on the side of caution to cover their arses. I can see that. I’m sure there are significant numbers of foolhardy travellers (us, maybe) who turn around and blame their governments for not warning them that they would get shot/robbed/kidnapped/diseased. However, by issuing warnings, they leave themselves open to attack; “I read all your travel advice and it said nothing about the possibility of stepping on sea-urchins”...... etc.

We went back to pick up the visas as requested two days later. There was just one worrying moment - the first foreigner in the queue, a Japanese chap (who, incidentally, get their visas for free from all sorts of countries), was told to return the following day for an interview. If it was going to be difficult for the Japanese, what was in store for us? No problem. In fact the nice chap behind the window even took it upon himself to remark how attractive Helen was, working only from her passport photo. All very pleasant which makes a change from the stuffed shirts involved in most visa and immigration jobs.

This was the first embassy where we were dealt with completely in the street, queuing up and speaking to a man through a window. I did feel slightly embarrassed that there was a separate window for foreigners, which seemed to be manned continuously, whereas the three windows so the Indians trying to gain visas were left unmanned and the queues were building up, to the point that most people had set up camp in the pavement with tiffin tins and flasks of chai. Clearly this is a normal procedure. It is no wonder though that there is little love lost between these countries. The Indians got their own back by strewing their litter about the place. All a far cry from their sophiscated neighbours with AC comfort and Persian carpets.

We had ignored the ‘No parking’ signs outside the embassy, for two reasons, firstly this was India, and traffic instruction signs are generally ignored and secondly the were already about 4 cars belonging to Indians waiting for attention parked up. All was fine and dandy, until a group of men noticed the bike and began the usual thing of standing around it, commenting on it between each other. It was funny the group was mostly Sikhs, who were clearly struggling to contain their curiousity. You could see that they had a multitude of questions burgeoning inside them but they felt it was inappropriate to ask a woman, so they remained frustrated and mute. It wasn’t until an arrogant hindu male joined them that the questions began to flow. Perhaps rather than being arrogant, he was simply batting on an equality wicket. The sound of conversation alerted the guard, who suddenly became all officious. The other parked cars were invisible to his attention, but our bike was making a noise in the form of conversation. This was so Indian, the bike had been there for over an hour, invisible to the guard, but the noise meant it existed and had to be moved. This was just like in traffic that no-one ‘sees’ you unless you use the horn. Any arguments by me that we wouldn’t be long and anyway what about these other cars, got me no where. The guard was now going for a ‘jobsworth’ award. I did what most Indians do when hassled by officials, ignored him and eventually he shuffled off.

It was now past the 48 hours that the visa agency in Iran had promised to confirm our applications. We’d heard nothing. Hmmm. Give ‘em another day, it may be a public holiday or summat.

VSO, India

And so to VSO. The Programme Director, Kevan, was out of town attending a conference in Orrissa. Not to worry, he’d given us the name of a colleague who would welcome us and fill us in. Moushumi was very helpful indeed. Together with two of her colleagues, Reshma and Raki (forgive the spelling) we chatted all about what VSO are doing for India.

We were hugely surprised to discover that, for a country with over a billion citizens, VSO only has 26 volunteers in place. The reason is pretty clear. Education standards are generally very good and there are sufficient qualified people to fill pretty much all the jobs in the NGO’s. There are sufficiently skilled people but they tend to work in the private sector where remuneration is better. Everything gets a little complicated, then, when one considers the whole volunteering concept. If an NGO cannot afford to pay local people to do the work that they require, their only option is to take on staff who are working for less because of idealism, wanting to make a difference in the developing world. It could be said that this is little different to the movement of ‘guest workers’ from economically deprived countries or regions to make good elsewhere. Obviously, this is quite contrary to the lot of the volunteer moving from developed countries to those less developed who are taking a cut in pay. It is a worry, though, that NGOs may end up dependent on volunteers to do jobs where skilled people are actually available locally but at higher prices. We have only scratched at the surface of understandly the way that people think in India and the motivations for taking a job. It may be that things are more complex than just wage issues, there may also be issues that some qualified people are not happy working with lower caste and prefer a job with people of similar standing. VSO has responded to the skills surfeit in some developing countries by offering volunteering opportunities in others. Thus we met Filipinos and Kenyans working in Tanzania, Indians working in Nepal and so on. Perhaps there is scope for encouraging internal volunteering, too.

In common with all VSO programmes, India has chosen three of the development foci cited by VSO as their vision for development. Here, placements are aimed at the areas of HIV and Aids, Disability and Participation and Governanace. India has some fairly specific problems when it comes to inclusion of all castes. Constitutionally equality is assured, but tradition dictates otherwise. Currently there is something of a situation developing over the setting of quotas for entry to medical courses. The goverment has suggested that 50% of university places for medical courses should be made available to members of the lower castes. This has brought the doctors and students out on the streets of Delhi claiming that standards will slip and so forth. It has been suggested in more cynical circles that it is more to do with protecting their own interests or at least the interests of their kin - a vast number of them would have been displaced by citizens from the lower castes had this quota system been in place when they applied fo their courses. We have struggled to find objective information on this quota thing, so we don’t know if the colleges will be accepting people with lower qualifications to fill the quotas in which case they may have a point or whether they are simply caste-ist.

Mushoumi rang around some volunteers to see if it would be possible to visit a volunteer in their placement to get a flavour of what was going on. We hooked up with Mutya, from the Philippines, who is working for an NGO called ASTHA. Housed in a building provided by the local authorities on the south side of Delhi, they provide therapy and education for children with special educational needs. They are not limited to the children who attend at their centre but do outreach work in some of the slum areas of Delhi providing information and support to families with handicapped children. The Indian staff that we met were supremely well organised and dedicated to their work but had not been able to source and information officer. Mutya’s job, then, is to gather and process information for the benefit of the communities where the children live. It is so important that information is shared between families with similar problems. In many cases, parents have devised simple strategies of their own to provide stimulation and therapy for their children wheras others with equal commitment but perhaps less imagination have not and the exchange of ideas has improved the lives of the children and their families, too, immeasurably. The majority of their clients live in unofficial housing the slums where it is hard enough to live if you are hail and hearty, but for the disabled the practicalities of living become all the more ardous. Just a simple thing like lack of toilet facitilies. Generally people can find a corner to squat and do their business, impossible if your body doesn’t function well. The families have often, even in their meagre surroundings, been inventeive in their solutions for little or no cost. Two small walls of bricks by the bedside with a bucket between, an impromptu commode. Not elegant, but more dignified than some of the alternatives. These ‘solutions’ can be passed on to other families in the situations.

Just as Mushoumi had told us in another situation, the good intentions of the guys at ASTHA are hampered somewhat by the bureaucracy of government departments. Apparently, it is writ in the Indian constitution that a government job is a job for life. It is pretty much impossible to make an officer redundant unless they commit some heinous act. Without any great motivation, the wheels of the institutions grind slowly on. One of the hugely important documents that a handicapped child needs in India is a certificate of disability (I cannot recall the actual name for this document) but acquiring one is a complex multi-stage process that the average underprivileged family cannot cope with. Part of ASTHA’s work, then, is helping families come by these crucial documents which then open the doors to some support form the authorities. Apparently, there is disability benefit, and other assistance that is freely available from the government, but without the fistful of completed forms none of it is accessable. Just the physical issue of repeatedly getting to and from the hospital for assessments in order to be able to make a claim is an insurmountable hurdle as most families find it too expensive or too difficult to transport their disabled relative.

It was a shame that because of the summer holidays there were no children at the centre so we couldn’t get a real taste of what happens on a day to day basis. We’ve seen large numbers of locally based organisations scattered around as we have travelled through India and it was hugely reassuring to get a glimpse of one and see how professionally they operate. I can’t recall their web site but Google on ‘ASTHA Delhi’ and you’re sure to find them.

Bahai Bahai baby!

Close by the ASTHA centre is the central Bahai temple for India. Jayshree, one of Mutya’s colleagues, gave us directions to it. She was spot on but we were surprised and dleighted that she used the term ‘bifurcation’ for a fork in the road. We’ve since heard someone else use the word so it is obviously the accepted Indianism. We need to use more words like this in England!

The jury is still out on the Bahai faith. Another day, another prophet. Who decides that a prophet is a prophet and not just another loony? I make it sound as if Bab was a loony but a lot of what he said makes good sense and Bahai is certainly a religion that I will put on the back burner. World peace, unity of religions all sounds rather appealing. Their temple is stunning though and thoroughly deserves the multitude of architectural awards it has won. Imagine if you will, the Sydney Opera house orientated vertically and rotated about that vertical axis to give 12-fold symmetry. You end up with a facsimile of a lotus flower. It is even surrounded with little ponds to maintain the lotus theme. Despite the baking heat outside, there was wonderful coolth within and tranquility, too, until a group of Indian youths refused to obey the rule of silence. I believe Indians find silence a bit unsettling. The ushers were a bit spooky, though - all a bit too pretty and a bit too young which gave something of a strange cult feeling about the place. We visited the information centre. Sounds easy but involves having to visit the temple first, get a voucher off one of the spooky youths and then return to the entrance. Why??? Anyway, there was plenty of blurb about the founder
(that Mr Bab from Shiraz, Iran) and the nice temples around the world but not much information about the fundamentals of Bahai faith and so we’ll have to fill you in when we’ve read their book.

Having praised the traffic system and driving in Delhi to high heaven, it has to be mentioned that we got knocked off at a set of lights on the way back to the hostel. Woman driver............. (space for Helen to leap to the defence, or attack!) Pat had rather got into the flow of Indian motorcycling and was weaving through the rush hour traffic, squeezing through a gap from one lane into the next. Technically according to Indian road rules the person behind is at fault, however ridiculous the manoeuvre the vehicle in front of you carries out. So she was to blame but maybe it was also unwise to be wriggling throught the traffic as much as we were....... Actually it was a good thing it was a woman as they are the only ones who seem to drive at a sensible speed and so the collision was more of a bump than a smash. I managed not to be too offensive and she seemed appropriately apologetic so we called it a day. He was not offensive at all, in fact. Quite remarkable.

Usual frustrations

The order of disappointments is hard to remember now but we had to give up on the Iran application with the first agency as we’d heard nothing from them and they wouldn’t answer their phone. Fortunately we’d discovered another bunch who responded immediately to e-mail and started the process immediately. We even managed to find a friend of a friend to sponsor us there. Trucker Fi knows some friendly carpet vendors in Shiraz who we called up and agreed to have their names bandied about on application forms. We feel pretty positive now .......

The computer has been in steady decline; mouse freezing up, battery seemingly devoid of capacity and other little stuff. We found an Apple dealer who told us to come back in the morning. We returned first thing. He was not there. He rang in and told us to go to the Apple repair centre - why didn’t he tell us that the day before? We found said dealer who seemed to be competent and he nodded sagely while we explained our problems. He said he could get it tested by Friday afternoon and find out if any parts needed replacing (today was Thursday). Cool, if anything was needed he could get the order in from the depot in Chennai and it could be winging its way up over the weekend. We called on Friday afternoon to get an update and he hadn’t completed the tests. We prayed that hardware didn’t need to be replaced .......

The tyres are getting a bit touch and go. I’d rather underestimated the distance we’d be covering from Bangkok to Ankara which is the next place we’re sure to be able to get tyres. Now we only have a spare for the rear. A bike shop told me of another bike shop in Delhi that had BMW spares and maybe some tyres. I rang them to discover that 21 inch tyres are just unheard of in India. Better stop using that front brake too much then ......

It also means that we will rather be on ‘route one’ back to Europe without doing all those interesting side trips I hade been mentally noting down. I can see his point, but it all seems such a shame really. Where has all his traveller optimism gone? After all we have managed to find a ‘brand new second hand’ tyre in a wee town in Malawi why not in Quetta or Shiraz.

On a visit to the Apple centre we had the chance to pop down to Qutb Minar. It is easy to picture what this is like when you consider what a minaret is; a small minar (minarette). So is a large one a majorette? I think not. I was impressed by Qutb Minar for two reasons. Firstly, it is not excessively spindly and so has lasted for 650 years with just a bit of renovation after earthquake damage in 1803. Sure, from the bottom it looks a bit chunky but from a distance it is grand and it’s endurance is testament to the pragmatism of the original architect. There must be nothing more frustrating on a project that will take a couple of generations to finish only for it to start falling apart before completion. The other rather interesting thing about the Qutb Minar complex is the iron pillar that has been standing, apparently rust-free for over 2000 years. Clear evidence of extra-terrestrial influence in the sub-continent.

We got the computer back complete with a new top case (presumably to address the track pad issues) and keyboard (I imagine they had one lying around that they wanted to get rid of as there was no reason to replace the old one unless, of course, they managed to knacker it when removing it to replace the top case). The cooling fan not coming on had been tested by some piece of software which seems odd. No matter how happy all the intelligent bits of the computer may be, there are plenty of other reasons why the fan doesn’t kick in. Surely the only real way to test to see if works is to sit the computer in an extremely hot place (of which there are many in summer-time Delhi) and leave it performing some processor intensive duties until it whirrs. But I’m a civil engineer, what do I know?

Shopping

Delhi has a reasonably significant Islamic community and so we thought that we’d be able to equip ourselves with some suitably sober clothing for our leg through the relatively fundamental states of Pakistan and Iran. Could we find a scarf for Hippy? I guess my asking the question rather implies the answer. Oh there were scarves, plenty of them, but sari type accessories, fine, see through, embroidered and glittery, hardly the plain subdued affair I was looking for. Even when we explained what we wanted to an Islamic chap, he could not understand why I wanted something so ungirly. In the subterranean mall adjacent to Connaught Circle we managed to aquire some modest pyjama pants and some kurtas - those long Indian shirts. We are relying on there being an enterprising chap on the road from Amritsar to the border who will be advertising, “Last chance to cover up before Pakistan”.

Connaught Circle is the shopping centre of New Delhi and must have been an extremely attractive hub in its hey day. Now it is suffering from exhaust staining and lack of maintenance. There is a huge section that is being prepared for construction and hopefully this is the beginings of a bit of urban renewal. There are plenty of bookstores around, though, which was the reason for our being there. We are acquiring beginners’ guides to all of the major religions so that we can try and work out what makes everybody tick. So far it seems that religion has little bearing on culture; all declare that we should ‘love our neighbours as ourselves’ but very few people actually do. Our other quest was for maps of Pakistan, Iran, Turkey etc. Clearly motoring from India to Europe is not a massively popular activity. We are hopeful that we will meet motorists coming the other way when we get to Amritsar or Islamabad.

We’d taken the metro into the centre of town to avoid the parking hassles with Berthette and we can be unequivocally positive about this infrastructural boon for this bustling borough. Even when returning at rush hour, the shiny, six-minutely trains were not outrageously crowded. It is awfully sad that the London underground is getting so long in the tooth. It is not a great advertisement for the city compared with the relative newcomers that we’ve seen in Cairo, Buenos Aires, Santiago, Singapore and Delhi. Even the monorails in Bangkok and Manilla seem far more modern and impressive. Yes, I’m afraid that having led the world in the technology stakes for so long is now hampering our forward momentum. Still, we do like that classic underground map. The only downside to the Delhi metro is that because of its infancy it doesn’t cover very much of the city. We had to blow a whole 13 pence for a rickshaw ride from the hotel to the nearest station. It felt rather heartless having a chap toiling away on the pedals for a couple of kilometres up and down a slight hill so we gladly paid him a 50 percent tip on top of his paltry fee and he was genuinely thankful. It really is hard to believe how little one dollar a day is and how it can be possible for people to survive on so little.

All we can do now is wait and hope that Iran is sympathetic to our request for entry. Our application, if successful, will generate a code for use in Islamabad and so there was no further reason to hang around in Delhi. The cool hills to the north which are precursors to the Himalayas sounded very appealing and so we readied ourselves for the off. Checking things over on Berthette outside the hotel, I had successive conversations with a Russian Buddhist monk, a Mongolian American, a British Tibetan and a French Swiss cyclist. Top that!

To complete this section of the journal, I will leave on one of our typical world pricing whinges. How can it be that it is probably cheaper to make a phone call from India to our next door neighbours in England than it would be to call them from our home? It’s no wonder people talk to their neighbours over the fence. - If they ever talk to them, that is.

Dehli had not been the nightmare we had been imagining, and we highly recommend the Tibetan colony area for a little peace from hectic Delhi. But we were leaving still somewhat with our plans in the air. If the Iranian visas are not forthcoming, we do not really have a plan B, Patrick through some anomaly in the Indian Embassy in Bangkok only got a single entry visa into India whilst I was given multiple entry. Our only alternative by land out of Pakistan if Iran is no go, is Afghanistan, and then a series of the ‘stans, each needing us to go through a similar rigmarole of courting embassies, and any one of them could refuse and thwart our route around Iran. Plan C, I suppose could be to fly over the top, but that option is very unappealing given our nasty experience with Cruella in Bangkok. There is, a new option on the horizon, the French Swiss cyclists, recommended Oman and Yemen, could there be a boat from Karachi to Oman? - just a hope. Iran Foreign Office if you are checking up on us, we may be a little unconventional, but we are nice people really. Please let us in - it is so unbecoming to beg.