Travelogue 2023/2 North Kerala Coast by train (India)

Travel in India

"Nothing comes easy in India. There are always unexpected complications. And even the shortest walk on the street becomes an adventure."

Despite massive modernization in India, those statements have remained true for the past 30 years. Sometimes it is tiring that you always have to pay attention, you always have to adapt to a new situation, you always have to process new impressions, you always have to filter out what you do and don't want to hear, you always get talked to (however friendly). But you also get a lot in return, you see fantastic things, experience the strangest things, talk to special people.

For two weeks we traveled down the coast of North Kerala. Mostly by train, mostly fairly short journeys. We took slow regional trains, sometimes with a seat, sometimes squeezed together standing in the hallway. Open windows provided much needed ventilation. Our trains ran on time or were delayed by up to half an hour.

Arab influences

For more than 2000 years there have been trade routes between Arabia and the Malabar coast. As a result, the first Christians were here in AD 50 and the first Muslims in AH 10. The smaller coastal towns are still predominantly Islamic - vegetarian food is less common here than in other parts of India. Maybe because of that old commercial spirit people are more open than I'm used to in India. They spontaneously smile at you and welcome you to India.

Besides those ancient middle eastern influences, there are also newer ones. Today, hundreds of thousands of Indians work in the Gulf. With the money they earn there, they build large modern houses. Every village, every town has sprawling suburbs with beautiful villas. And you see it in the many shawarma shops, the mint drinks, the gold shops.

At a tea stall we spoke to some young men who were constantly traveling back and forth between different Gulf states, trading in expensive cars, gold and whatnot. Real wheeler dealers. In a garden restaurant we spoke to a man who had worked in Dubai for 20 years at management level, who was now taking early retirement and had bought a plot of land in the interior of Kerala with the money he earned, where he started farming as a hobby. In both cases they paid for our drinks.

Forts, backwater and beach

The Portuguese, the Dutch, the English, the French and various regional warlords fought each other for centuries for influence over the prosperous coastal strip. You can still see many cultural influences, the most tangible are a number of forts. We visited five. That varied between a search for some overgrown remains of a wall, and a large restored complex with walking paths, bastions and lookout towers.

Most forts have stepwells, where you can descend to groundwater level. They are less beautifully decorated than in North India, but functional if your fort is besieged. Some have (secret?) tunnels to get to the sea.

Kasargod

Kasargod was a bigger place than expected. We settled on the edge of town, near the new bus station. There were hotels and restaurants, and quite surprisingly a group of food and drink stalls where young people gathered after school. Even boys and girls mixed with each other.

The thoroughfares were congested with dirty and noisy traffic. But as soon as we turned into a side street, we walked through a rural area. From endless noise and hooting to almost serene silence. Finally we got to the place we were looking for, where the ruins of Kasargod Fort are supposed to be. Everything was overgrown and with difficulty we recognized the remains of a bastion and a watchtower.

5 km outside the city was the well-maintained Fort Chandragiri. The perimeter of the fort was still completely intact or restored. Thick high walls surround a field the size of two football pitches. There was a footpath along the inside of the outer walls, with a number of bastions. You had a good view over the river, the estuary and inland - a good place for a fort.

We had gone there with a rickshaw "the long way 'round", but we walked back, just like the locals, over the railway bridge over the wide river into the town. It was a long walk, and in the meantime it had become quite warm and we had run out of water. When we arrived at the almost 1400 year old Malik Deenar Juma mosque it was immensely busy there. Today was the last day of a festival in honor of Deenar (who also founded the Mangalore mosque we visited), and people had come from far and wide. We were warmly welcomed and a friendly gentleman fetched us a few bottles of water.

Bekal

In Bekal we lived in a kind of mini-resort, literally in the shadow of the fort. The peacocks walked between the coconut trees. Close by was a beach where you could sway in the waves of the Arabian Sea. And within walking distance was a lunch restaurant where they twice cooked an evening meal especially for us. Sublime home cooked meals. The lady was from Bangalore and felt anything but at home in this small hamlet, where they lived because her husband had to maintain the family temple.

Payyanur

In Payyanur we made a long trip over the backwaters - river arms and lagoons separated from the sea by a narrow strip of land. Surrounding it are small communities and coconut plantations. When we looked for information about departure times at the jetty, we were treated to fresh coconuts by the neighbors. Normally you drink them with a straw, without that it became a huge mess. We saw a video of it the next day on the phone of one of the crew members!

We were on a ferry that zigzagged back and forth between several jetties. Most people just crossed to the other side, but we eventually covered about 10 km as the crow flies. Some parts it was just us and the five-man crew. The views, the water birds, the fishing boats, the palm-fringed coastline: it couldn't get more beautiful than that.

Kannur

In Kannur Fort we got a personal tour from a local policewoman. She came towards us when E leaned over a fence. Instead of whistling her back, the two ladies climbed together over the walls and battlements of the fortress. She knew quite a bit about the history, and the three of us studied the tombstone of Susanna, the young wife of the former Dutch commander. The text was in weathered old Dutch. The policewoman had an older photo on which the text was less weathered. Finally we managed to decipher everything. We promised to record it and send it to her.

Kozhikode

Kozhikode was by far the largest city in North Kerala. Busy but also with a more metropolitan atmosphere, e.g. at the tables on the lawn of our hotel and in the mall. In the oldest part of the city you will find 14th century wooden mosques with beautiful carvings. As in Mangalore, the old districts along the coast were the oldest and poorest. We also visited theold Tali temple and the archaeological museum.


Kozhikode was our last coastal town this journey. From here we went inland. Via Palghat and Dindigul (two more forts!) we reached Trichy.

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How the journey began: Amsterdam-Dubai-Mangalore-Kuala Lumpur by lowcost carrier and narrow-body

How the journey continued: The Jungle Railway (MY) and Pattani Sultanate (TH), by train

Practical tips to make this trip: Lily's Mini Travel Guide

Travelogue 2023/1 Amsterdam-Dubai-Mangalore-Kuala Lumpur by lowcost carrier and narrow-body

From Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur with one-way tickets booked separately, with low-cost airlines, with small planes? Yes, you can, with stops in Dubai and small airports in South India.

Amsterdam-Dubai

A one-way ticket to Dubai with Transavia was so cheap that we didn’t mind the early departure. Although I wasn't so sure about that when we were waiting at the gate at 5AM. We had spent the past 1½ hours looking for security and immigration counters that were open. It makes sense that not everything is open at night, but there could have been better signage...

It was strange, flying for 7 hours in a narrow body aircraft without service. But the staff was very friendly and everything went fine. We just had not expected to be dropped off at a low-cost terminal in Dubai. Kind of an old shed. No metro here, as in the shiny terminal across the tarmac. It took a while to find out how to take the bus into the city, but in the end that worked out well.

At dusk we walked the last bit to our hotel.

Deira

We concentrated on Deira, the old town on the north side of the creek. Well, not all was old, our hotel was at the site where the fish market used to be.

Across a major road was the Gold Souk, which is a maze of ancient streets and lanes.

You have the hypermodern Dubai with skyscrapers and shiny malls. You have the new construction like in our neighborhood, which is quite tasteful. You have the 60s-80s buildings along the main streets in the old city, ugly concrete buildings of 3 to 4 floors that contain all those gold shops. And you have the small alleys behind them where they forgot to demolish the houses from the time they used mud as a construction material.

We walked a bit along the gold shops that were on the tourist route, where you were constantly harassed, and then entered the smaller streets of the perfume market and the textile market. It was very pleasant and peaceful there. We were admiring the colorful dresses in a shopwindow when a lady approached us and said that this was a great store. Under her black robe you could see the edge of such a colorful dress. When I made a remark about that, she opened her black robe wide to allow herself to be admired.

In the area in and around the Gold Souk, most residents, shopkeepers, restaurant staff and gold traders are from Kerala. We got talking to a salesman who came from Kasargod - the first town in Kerala that we want to visit. We immediately got his cousin's phone number.

All in all it was a nice trip around the back of the Gold Souk.

The great thing about Dubai is the mishmash of half the world you see. Tourists from half the world, workers from half the world, everyone with their own clothes and their own habits. An Arab lady all covered in black; a Philipina in shorts and a tank top; a stout lady in an African dress; a Russian with too flashy clothes and too much make-up and too bleached hair.

Food is also available from all over the world, we ate Indian and Iraqi.

Dubai-Mangalore

For this route we had bought a one-way ticket from Air India Express. It was only a three-hour flight, again with a 737, but due to time difference and delays, we arrived in Mangalore at 6PM. It took a very long time before we could enter the country. Not because of bad will, but because of ignorance. It seemed that so few foreigners entered the country here that the officials were unfamiliar with the procedures and the equipment.

Once in the city and in our hotel, we were a bit overwhelmed by the huge transition from organized Dubai to the total chaos of India. After six years we had forgotten how dirty everything is, how everything once broken, stays broken, how big the holes are in the road and that there are even bigger holes next to the road, how you are constantly submerged in noise and air pollution. Mangalore seemed to have all the lesser sides of India, without the mysticism of Junagadh for example or the atmosphere of a city like Mysore.

Mangalore

The next day we were able to discover a few gems in Mangalore.

In the morning we walked through the oldest district, where it was very busy with carts and lorries loading and unloading goods in the narrow streets, to the river. We took a ferry to the other side. There was a long and narrow peninsula between the river and the Arabian Sea. It had a village feel, there were more cows, goats and cats on the street than cars, and the houses seemed to be built on dune sand. We zigzagged through narrow alleyways until we reached the beach: miles of white sand. Birds and fishermen hunted for fish.

In the evening we visited the third oldest mosque in India, almost 1400 years old. Built in the year 22 of the Islamic era, only 5 years after the death of the Prophet. This could happen so quickly because of the existing trade routes between Arabia and the Malabar coast. The oldest wooden part was somewhat hidden behind a newer hall. An old man said that women were not allowed to go to the back. But when I got there and got talking to some of the elders, they were okay with me to go and fetch E. She made an impression by knowing the name of the father of the sultan who renovated the mosque. Together we admired the ancient architecture and lavish carvings. Very impressive.

Trichy-Kuala Lumpur

We traveled by train and bus from Mangalore to Trichy (*).

We had selected the flight from Trichy to Kuala Lumpur with AirAsia because it was a day-time flight. But after our booking it was canceled and we were transferred to a night flight. The small airport of Trichy was easy to reach, quiet and well-managed. It had as many flights to Dubai, Singapore and Kuala Lumpar as to Indian cities. On board the Airbus 320, another narrow-body, the East Asian flight attendants caught the eye. And the uncomfortable chairs. Suddenly four hours of flying was a long time. Of the three flights, this was by far the least comfortable.

It was an interesting experience: with one-way tickets booked separately, with low-cost airlines, with small planes from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur. All in all a successful experiment.

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(*) How we traveled onwards from Mangalore: North Kerala Coast by train

How we traveled onwards from Kuala Lumpur: The Jungle Railway (MY) and Pattani Sultanate (TH), by train

The last king of Burma and the last emperor of India (2/2) The Last Mughal - William Dalrymple

William Dalrymple - The Last Mughal

Dalrymple describes the events surrounding the great uprising in India from an original perspective, which differs considerably from British historiography.

Bahadur Shah Zafar was the emperor or mughal of India in name, but all the power was with the British occupiers. After the mutiny in 1857-1858 he was exiled (forever disturbing the balance between Hindus and Muslims in India along the way) to Rangoon in Burma - now Yangon in Myanmar. There he died in 1862. He was buried as quickly as possible by the British in a secret place, not to create a place of pilgrimage for anti-British. His grave was rediscovered in 1991.

The location of his grave had been a secret for a long time. But the book gave some clues as to where it was, so now we wanted to look for it. The first step was to find a hotel in the part of the city where the grave should be. Theatre road now had a Burmese name, but our guess was it must have been near the National Theatre.

The second step was to inquire about the Shah's grave at the hotel reception. Five people pieced the answer together, and they even sketched us a map. It was a half-hour walk. Through the embassy area, with many vacant ministries. The capital was recently moved to a newly built city in the interior. The Russian embassy was an unprecedented fortress with high walls, lots of barbed wire, heavy security and fenced off streets.

When we arrived at the destination, we had to ask for the exact location. Five different people gave four opposite directions. But after fifteen more minutes we had found the right place.

A modest compound with small minarets; some halls ("established in cooperation with the Government of India"); three "graves" that looked like a made-up bed, for the Shah, his wife and his daughter-in-law. A little further on, where his real grave was found in 1990, a basement with another tomb.

There were some visitors who worshiped the deceased as saints (in the religious sense). It was lively and serene at the same time. The whole thing was simple but made quite an impression.

 Yangon, January 2008

The last emperor of India had been exiled to Burma. The last king of Burma had been exiled to India. I had now visited the last place of residence / grave of both. This makes history tangible.

PS Nowadays both places are easy to find on Google Maps and attract quite some foreign visitors.

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The last king of Burma and the last emperor of India (1/2) The Glass Palace - Amitav Ghosh

The British used to ban defeated and deposed rulers from their colonies to other countries. This way they prevented them from becoming a martyr who might inspire rebels.

The last king of Burma and the last emperor of India were exiled to each other's country, and I visited the last hometown / resting place of both. In both cases following instructions in a book in which they appear.

Amitav Ghosh - The Glass Palace

The Glass Palace is a beautiful novel against the historical background of Thebaw, the last king of Burma, and what became of his staff and acquaintances. The different storylines develop across India, Burma and Malaysia. I had already visited most of the places where the book is located: Mandalay, Rangoon, Calcutta, Penang and even the hidden archaeological excavations of Lembah Bujang.

Thebaw was deposed in 1885. He was exiled to Ratnagiri, a small town on the west coast of India, some 300 km south of Bombay - now Mumbai. A small palace was built for him. He died in 1916 and was buried in a walled part of the Christian cemetery.

So, the reason I visited Ratnagiri was to visit the king's palace. It was a lot more impressive than I expected: fairly large, three storeys, verandas and balcony, majestic, on a large compound. The outbuildings now house an archaeological or educational institute. The main building was empty. Grass grew through the cracks, roof tiles had snapped, windows were broken. The doors were locked. For a moment I considered breaking in, which would surely succeed with some force, but I rejected that.

I walked around the building a couple of times and found a staircase that took me to the rear balcony. One door there was not locked. That was a way inside. I wandered through the deserted halls and rooms, over the large wooden stairs and up to the front balcony, from where the king looked out over the mouth of the river and the bay. That was an important element in the book, and it was overwhelming I could enjoy the same view.

Opposite the palace, a stone staircase led down the hill. I walked down to a small settlement of shabby huts. I climbed back up and went looking for the Collector's Bungalow. The collector and his wife also played an important part in the book. This place was harder to find, everybody pointed me in a different direction. In the end it turned out to be a surprisingly simple retreat for what was at the time the district's most important British civil servant. At the bottom of the garden was indeed a place where you could sit and look over the river.

Ratnagiri, November 2004

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Travelogue 2017/3, Amdavad (Ahmedabad), Gujarat (India

...a lively, almost boiling city full of vitality and contradictions, poverty and opportunity, tradition and progress...

Amdavad old town

Jama Masjid, the Friday Mosque, was built 600 years ago, shortly after the founding of Ahmedabad (Amdavad) by Ahmed Shah.  Clearly he had a big vision, as the large courtyard had room for thousands of believers, just like the main building. 260 Pillars created a mystical atmosphere, the sculptures were very refined, the proportions and the dimensions perfect. The consistent stony colour added to the serenity. The outer wall had murals of large Arabic letters. It was very quiet and peaceful, and the building was really impressive. 

Next to it stood the mausoleum of Ahmed Shah, along with his son and grandson. The graves were revered daily and covered with coloured cloths. This building too was a masterpiece of architecture and sculpture. We sat for a while on the steps at the entrance and saw a miniature neighbourhood before our eyes.  Right next to the mausoleum, laundry hung out to dry above a couple of anonymous graves, girls were getting ready for school, women sat on the street baking chapatti's on a wood fire.  Goats were herded (one baby goat carefully kept in a crib), cats strolled at ease on the street. It was a lovely homely and relaxing scene, you would want to move here instantly. 

Once this had been the core of it, now it was a different world than the metropolis Amdavad had become in those six centuries. The day before in the bus we drove kilometre after kilometre along industrial complexes, then large areas full of modern offices, before we entered the city centre where the traffic was crawling along poor neighbourhoods. It was a lively, almost boiling city full of vitality and contradictions, poverty and opportunity, tradition and progress. 

Next was the mausoleum of Rani, the wife of Ahmed Shah, also completely hemmed in by the encroaching city. Again the building was superb, with lots of fine sculpture, but it was much less maintained. The elevated walkway around it even housed a family. Still they were better off than the family we saw on the sidewalk not far from our hotel, covering themselves up for the night. 

We walked through the maze of alleys. Motorcycles and bicycles zigzagged around the cows and the potholes and us. Houses, shops, workshops. Close together were concrete buildings and old stone houses with havelis, overhanging balconies of carved wood. Some well maintained, most neglected. We stood there admiring a  facade when an old lady motioned us inside. Her shabby courtyard  also had a facade full of carvings. Just down the road was a square with a bench where we could sit down. In two hours we had covered 200 meters as the crow flies. But zigzagging so much and seen so much, that we were fully saturated. 

We went to a restaurant for lunch by auto-rikshaw. The four of us crammed in the back, the small tricycle overloaded. A kamikaze ride through crazy traffic, steering left and right to avoid collisions, diving into each gap, braking and acceleration. Scruffy males cheerfully waved at us from other rickshaws and freight cars. For contrast two beautiful girls in modern dress, all made up, sat on the back of a motorcycle. When we stood still in traffic we inhaled pure exhaust fumes. 

Stepwells 

A stepwell is a well with stairs dug until the ground water level. That sounds easier than it is. To gradually descend to the depths required, 20 to 50 meters, you either have some sort of spiral stairway, or build a long straight slope. This one was of the latter type. The slope and the pit themselves were fully ornamented with statues, arches, platforms. Over the full length that gave beautiful vistas, the full depth of about five floors with balconies above the well. Deep underground it was a relatively cool place, and thus a sort of village square, where gossip and news was exchanged. The overall design, the elegance and the details of the stonework were gorgeous. Actually, it was a kind of three-dimensional, inside out, underground, oversized artwork.

We visited seven stepwells in Junagadh, Amdavad and Patan. 950 to 500 years old, simple to richly decorated, in good and in bad condition, with slope and with spiral staircase, deeper and shallower. This variety gave a good idea of the differences and similarities.

What we were really concerned with

All these sights are a good excuse to travel through Gujarat, but actually we were more concerned with: Where can we buy dahi (yogurt for breakfast)? What are the toilets of the bus station like? How clean is the bathroom in the hotel? Is there hot water for the shower? Where do we have lunch? Did we get bananas? Do we have Wi-Fi? How hot / cold is it? What time do we have breakfast? How often have we been addressed / stared at / photographed? Who is sick, weak or nauseous today? How much can we get off the fare of the auto rickshaw? At what time does the bus leave?

North - South

Amdavad was a worthy conclusion of Vibrant Gujarat, as the slogan of the tourism office goes. It’d been a long time since I've experienced India so intensely, and we were ready for a quieter stage to digest it all. No better time or place than our friends down south.

The sheer size and diversity of India was evident once again. Language and ethnicity in the north is close to European, while the south is Dravidian. Even though the Muslims are a minority in Gujarat as well, they are much more visible there, both in architecture and dress – maybe because of several centuries of Moghul rulers.

Gujarat is semi-desert rather than tropical. Wheat and cotton in stead of rice paddies and coconut plantations. Camel carts in stead of oxen carts. The infrastructure was better  and the road discipline was even better (that is: less suicidal than in the south).

On average the ladies in Gujarat were dressed more  modern, their hair done more fancy, and blue jeans were no exception. People spoke less English, but as they were more extrovert, you engaged in a conversation more easily. But once you got to know them, people were equally as friendly all over India.

The weak instant coffee was no match for the real filter coffee in the south. Then again, the Gujarati thalis were much better than the Tamil meals.

Travelogue 2017/2, Gujarat, feels like the first time (India)

Our trip through Gujarat was very intense. All the impressions and adventures were overwhelming at times. It felt like the very first time I had visited India.

Some parts of the journey went smooth, the people were very friendly and helpful. Transport was easy, and (in the beginning) the distances were shortish. The food was superb, espescially in Junagadh. The weather was sunny and dry. Midday temperatures of about 25 degrees, nights and mornings were cold (15) and windy.

Sometimes we’d encounter Indian bureaucracy or lose track of what was going on. Especially the shortage of cash was an issue. Credit cards were rarely accepted.

Junagadh

Junagadh is a medium sized town in the middle of Gujarat, full of palaces and mosques in Islamic architecture, a 23 centuries old fort, a mountain with holy Hindu and Jain temples, and lots of people. Lots. I don’t know whether it was because I was more familiar with southern India, or because I was so tired, but everything felt as overwhelming as the very first time I had been in India. The lively colours, the countless people that greeted us, the crazy traffic, the fantastic shops, the cows in the street – it was just too much.

We picked a hotel in the old town, but the air pollution in the narrow streets was so bad  we had to move to the newer part of town, next to the bus station. It was slightly better. And just as noisy. It made you wonder how long this could go on. The smog entered your throat, eyes and head.

The old town was an endless collection of old palaces, mosques and mausoleums, surpassing each other in how neglected and crumbling they were. In between the vibrant city life. If you are afraid  good old India is disappearing, go to Junagadh.

Sasan safari

It was an enchanting and magical sight in the headlight beams. Trees, bushes, giant leaves, trunks, boulders  - everything looked like an animal. Later, in the morning fog, they looked like grey ghosts. It was dry forest, not very dense, with some slopes, creeks and tribal villages.

With all our sweaters and coats on, it was still cold in the back if the open Jeep. We saw a rabbit, deer and peacocks. Then, some Jeeps that were parked on the side of the road. Something had to be there. Yes, very vague behind the bushes was a lion’s head. Then a lion got up. They walked closer to the road and we got a better view. As grayish-brownish as the  shrub and dirt, and above all, huge, gigantic. One adult female and four adolescent children. Ignoring our presence they strolled around, laid down for a moment, walked on. Majestic!

The second half of the safari the sun came up and we saw lots more deer and peacocks. Also an antelope, some black faced monkeys, a crested hawk eagle, a common hoopoo, and two spotted owlets. One female on a branch and one male opposite hidden in a tree trunk, really you just saw its eyes.

Somnath town

Somnath is an important Hindu temple on the Arabian Sea that draws pilgrims from all over India. 

The old town of Somnath was a maze of narrow alleys. Most of the houses were made of concrete, the older brick ones often run down and deserted. Cows and pigs roamed the streets or the open sewers. There were just some small shops, until we reached a wider street with a street market. Old women sat on the ground with vegetables in baskets in front of them. The veggies looked good and varied. Old men sat in tiny rooms, open to the street, with a sewing machine or performing other crafts.

We visited an old mosque with an ancient Persian stone inscription. In the back was a beautifully tiled room with a grave, covered in clothes as tradition wants it. The caretakers were most welcoming and friendly. Down the road was a Hindu temple with a silver façade and a black marble statue inside, hardly visible underneath all the cloths. Men were performing rituals, women were praying. A little further again was a big Jain temple, beautifully maintained, colourfully painted, with decorated pillars and coves with statues of wise teachers. A group of women was performing rituals but could spare us a friendly nod with the head.

This street had some larger, older houses with wooden balconies, maybe of merchants. The old town was pleasantly quiet without traffic, and the pilgrims for the big temple didn’t bother to come down here. No other Western visitor even considered visiting this faraway corner of Gujarat.

Portuguese Diu

Diu is a small island on the south side of Gujarat. Until 1961 it was a Portuguese colony, and the Portuguese had left a far better legacy than the British. The contrast with the mainland was huge. Everything was better kept, cleaner, neater, quieter and more peaceful. The architecture was quite different, in Portuguese style, with churches, monasteries and chapels. A welcome change after ten hectic days.

The street pattern and the curved shoreline provided total disorientation, and we regularly lost our way. Thanks to the wonders of GPS all ended well. We did see several other western tourists, but in the end it turned out to be only a handful who were there for a long time and who we bumped into again and again. On weekends it was very busy with domestic Indian tourists, coming to get that drink that is illegal in Gujarat.

We fully enjoyed the "holiday within the holiday" with, among others, a motorcycle tour around the island and a walk on the city walls.

Palitana

Palitana is a provincial market town, a regional centre where people from all over the region come to shop. Farming tools, rope, cables and provisions.

Money troubles

November 8,  Prime Minister Modi declared almost all banknotes invalid, as per immediately. It was a move against black money and corruption. However, without additional structural measures, it was a senseless action which inflicted a lot of damage to the Indian economy, which runs primarily on cash. Especially the poorer half of the country does not even have a bank account. Farmers cannot buy seeds and miss a harvest. It means bankruptcy and starvation. Since then, new banknotes have been distributed sparsely.  There are way too few, and people can only withdraw very limited amounts.

We could take small amounts from the ATM, at relatively high cost. The first two days that sort of worked, after that we didn’t see any ATM's that worked for a week. Slowly I began to worry. We tried regular ATM's and bank offices, but all we got was zip, zero. In Veraval we were referred to Somnath. In Somnath we were referred to Veraval. One bank pointed  to the other, and vice versa. Credit card and even cash were refused by  the banks.

In Diu I walked into an office of ICICI Bank, and the manager said at half past one the ATM would be filled.  We happened to walk past the office again at 12pm, when the guard waved us over and said  the ATM would open in ten minutes. So we started queuing. After twenty minutes, the shutter opened and a man came crawling underneath. An hour delay, he said. We decided to split. Two of us went for a bite to eat. After twenty minutes the others came over: the machine was broken, it would take another hour. While they had  lunch, I went to look at the SBI  across the street. There was a queue and something seemed to happen. I joined and was immediately waved forward. White privilege. That helped me jump at least 15 places, only 10 people left in front of me, inside the booth. Then came an Indian lady in sari who was immediately allowed all the way to the machine. Ten minutes later it was my turn, and sure enough, I got money. Wow!

When the others had finished their lunch, they tried the SBI. But they were not waved to the front and the line barely moved.

We walked back to the ICICI - there too was action. We joined the queue, but were directed to the front by the guard – after all originally we had been the first in the queue. Two of us took money out. When the other two moved in, the machine was empty. All in all it had been operational less than half an hour…

Travelogue 2017/1, Two nights at Mumbai airport (India)

Take your mind back to New Year’s Eve 2016-2017. Where were you? At midnight we were on an escalator towards Bombay airport departure hall.

Seldom an outbound journey has been so adventurous and the arrival so overwhelming

In spite of the early start - we were at Schiphol at 5am - the journey started well. After days of fog and cancellations there was a brief window of visibility, in which we took off. Changing in Zurich was easy and the flight to Mumbai was comfortable. We had the first row in economy with extra legroom but no noisy toilets or freezing emergency exits. The veg meals were delicious.

No long queues for immigration and customs. The brand new, huge terminal "T2" wasn’t exactly beautiful, but a huge improvement. In the arrival hall we had some trouble getting money. Because of the recent demonetisation there was a huge shortage of cash, and you could take just 2500 rupees out of the ATM. With  a 230 rupees service charge. That was, if you found an atm that actually had money, about 1 in 10.

Midnight. We spent the night sitting, walking and waiting. At 5am our domestic connection should depart. At 5:05 the pilot announced a delay due to poor visibility in Rajkot. The fog had caught up with us after all.

We had to deboard and received new boarding passes for the same flight one hour later. Which was then cancelled three hours later. By that time we were too exhausted to wait around for the evening flight, so we decided to wait until the next day. Getting our luggage and getting out of the airport was a true ordeal. Clearly departures was a one way process, and to backtrack we needed special assistance and authorisation.

There we were, in front of the airport. No travel desk, no travel guide, no clue where to go. Airport hotels were 200€ per room, the city centre was too far away for an early departure the next day. So much out of character, I ended up with a shady guy offering a taxi and rooms nearby. Negotiations and exchanging money on the back seat in a dark parking garage. On my own I would have felt uncomfortable,  but with the four of us I felt safe.

Within 10 minutes the guy dropped us in a narrow winding street full of tiny shops, street stands, potholes, colourful people, cows, goats and a small hotel. Which wasn’t too bad really, except we paid way too much as the guy obviously took a large commission.

It was a fascinating little neighbourhood, very poor, one step above a slum, very lively, the tiniest shops, and people dressed in their Sunday Best – after all it was New Year’s Day. At the beginning of the alley was a main road with an elevated metro line, some expensive restaurants and hotels, and a middle class neighbourhood on the other side.

The rest of that day and night we slept, we ate, we slept, we ate and we slept. The next day at 11am we flew to Rajkot, Gujarat.