A few noisome incidents in India

I would like to start by saying that I really did not enjoy my trip to India, although I do look back on it fondly now. Let me explain before I offend anyone. For one I was too young and this was my first experience witnessing such extreme poverty. I found the sight of five year-olds selling cigarettes on street corners and men huddled around dung fires very disturbing.

Secondly, we spent far too long in Delhi. That's not to say it's an unpleasant city by any means. In fact, the old city is quite beautiful, with its tiny streets and overly polite rickshaw drivers. The Chandi Chouk is a magnificent bazaar, although many of the original stalls have been replaced with the usual tourist junk. Towering over all this is the Red Fort, a mammoth construction with its crimson walls extending high above the roofs of the rest of the old city.

Still, three weeks there in the midst of a blazing summer was a little much, especially considering that my mother refuses to stay in the larger chain hotels like the Hyatt or Hilton. She likes a more local atmosphere. In this case that meant the Hotel Imperial in New Delhi, just a short walk away for Connaught Place. It also meant no air-conditioning and you could see the pollution creeping down the hallways like some malignant fog, giving most of our group hacking coughs and chest infections.

On the night of our arrival we accidentally tipped the bellboy 10 times what we should have. As a result, every time we were in our rooms, someone came in to ask if we needed anything or to bring us flowers, all looking for tips. Finally we just kept the "Do Not Disturb" sign permanently affixed to the door.

This was not, however, the most rustic place we stayed in over Christmas. Another local hotel in the small town of Mandawa, which despite having been the fortress of the Maharaja, did not have electricity. However, to my sister and me, this was nothing compared to the distressing fact that for the first time in our lives we did not have a Christmas tree. So we made our own out of a large Evian bottle, a green plastic bag, several hair bands and lots of glitter. Sometimes you just have to make do with what you have and I shall never forget that tree, or the charcoaled Christmas dinner we were served that night.

I was actually a big fan of Indian food until I went to India. I said that this was because all the decent Indian chefs packed up and moved to London. The truth is that what we were tasting was proper Indian cooking, rich in hot spices - far too flavorful for my modest Anglo-Saxon taste buds, which were used to the watered down curries of South Kensington. I spent much of the holiday eating chicken in a basket.

Yet the pollution, food and lack of electricity were nothing compared to the bizarre experience my mother, sister and I had one morning, as we walked back towards the Imperial Hotel. Making our way through the crowded streets we never noticed the man following us, although with hindsight we should have smelt him. We stopped at a cross walk as a wave of auto-rickshaws, or "putt-putts" as we affectionately called them zoomed by. These tiny, three-wheeled contraptions, which emit more toxins into the atmosphere than a Soviet power plant, are one of the primary modes of transportation in the city.

The light changed, and as we crossed the road, a man in a very dirty white robe pushed between us and moved quickly across the street. Apart from the horrible smell that lingered in the air after him, we did not think much of it. This same smell followed us for the next two blocks, until my mother stopped to allow us to check if we had stepped in something. Sure enough nestled comfortably on top of my mother's shiny white Adidas trainers was a small clump of excrement. Now I couldn't figure out how it got to be on the top of her shoe unless shit was falling from the sky. All of a sudden the same man who had pushed past us appeared at our side. Pulling out a large rag he advanced towards my mother. "I clean! I clean," he said. My mother, being her usual polite self, told him it was quite all right and to go away. "No! I clean it! Very cheap, give you good price!" he said more aggressively. At this point we caught on - his scheme was to throw shit on the shoes of unsuspecting tourists and then offer to clean it off for a modest price. My mother rounded on the man and he quickly scampered off.

We saw him a few days later tracking an American family down the same street, excrement in hand. Maybe we should have warned them, but then who are we to deny a man his livelihood.

Still, despite this odd experience, there were many enjoyable moments in India. My favorite was Udaipur, one of the larger cities in the province of Rajasthan. Founded in 1568 by Maharana Udai Singh, it has come to be known as the "Venice of the East," with its extravagant palaces and romantic gardens, full of blossoming trees. The Hotel Lake Palace, perched on the edge of the mirror calm Lake Pichole, is one of the most beautiful hotels in the world. There is nothing quite like walking out onto your balcony in the evening to see the red tint of the setting sun moving steadily across the lake. Riding on an elephant up the streets of Jaipur to the Amber Palace is an experience I shall always treasure, sitting on rugs being slowly rocked from side to side, as the giant mammal moves steadily forward, its feet occasionally cracking the paving stones beneath. Lastly, how could I not mention the Taj Mahal, one of the most impressive buildings I have ever seen. We visited it three days in a row to satisfy my mother's desire to see literally everything. This is a desire that seems to have rubbed off on me, since I do intend to go back to India. There is still much left for me to see, from the teeming slums of Calcutta to the studios of Bollywood.