Pahar Ganj

I'm not such a big fan of Indian cities. When I arrive in one I sort of panic a bit, flounder around and sweat a lot, looking to all the world like a naive and inexperienced backpacker. Then I get ripped off with my accomodation because I'm usually tired at the end of a long journey and I don't want the hassle of the haggle. Finally I end up looking for the quickest and simplest way out and, ticket purchased, hole up in my room watching HBO and Star Movies until the appointed hour of my departure arrives.

Let’s face it – I AM a naïve and inexperienced backpacker.

On my first trip to Delhi I ended up having a lovely couple of days with a lovely Israeli girl. With her by my side - bold, brash and beautiful in the mould of so many of her countryfolk - I felt empowered and walked the mean streets of Pahar Ganj with a certain swagger. I even felt brave enough to book a ticket on a bus to troubled Kashmir. When she left and I began to regret my ill-conceived decision to go to Kashmir everything quickly fell to pieces. For a start, my bus to Kashmir was delayed for a day so I had to spend another night in Delhi. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I was in Delhi and didn't want to be there. I was going to Kashmir and didn't want to go there either. I began to become intimidated by India, alone as I was in this vast city in this vast country. I did not feel in control of my fate whatsoever. I wanted to go home.

Then a cow pissed on my foot. That was the last straw. I disappeared into my hotel room and didn't appear again until the bus to Kashmir was leaving. It turned out that Kashmir was quite intimidating too but that's another story. Leaving Delhi on that bus however was a pleasant experience indeed.

On my return to Delhi I wanted to do it right - no hotel rip-offs, no smooth travel agents persuading me to go to places I didn't want to go to, no floundering and sweating, no cows pissing on me... I'm pleased to say that in the end I did do it right - well, half right, anyway. There was a moment when, shortly after I had arrived from the airport, the receptionist in the Pahar Ganj hotel I had found myself in by some accident or twist of fate asked me, quite reasonably, if I wanted a fan or aircon room. I responded, "I don't know! I don't even want to be here!"

I felt like a jibbering naïve and inexperienced backpacker.

The following day I had more balls and managed to negotiate my way with all my bags through the back streets of Pahar Ganj until I located the main bazarre. That was thoroughly good work, believe me. Alas, I was totally confused once I'd reached the bazarre and spent ten minutes wandering up and down looking for the Nepali shop where I'd reserved my bus ticket earlier that day. Agitated, I wandered past a smooth Kashmiri travel agent - "Hey man, what you looking for? Where you going? You sweating man! Chill out! Come to my place..." I politely explained that I didn’t need his help or him in my face but he wouldn’t stop sleazing all over me – I have never known a group of individuals who love themselves as much as the Kashmiri men in Pahar Ganj. In the end I lost my rag, turned around and snarled, "Your place? You mean Kashmir? I've been there mate and it's a fucking shithole! Now please fuck off and leave me alone!"

I don't lose my cool often but when I do...

Pahar Ganj is - for me, at least - one of the craziest places in India. I have no doubt that it's relatively sedate and civilised compared to many places in India – places like the charmingly named Black Hole of Calcutta for example - but I have my reasons for being slightly anxious when I'm within it's precincts, reasons I've just explained - the place has demons for me. Situated centrally in the country’s capital, it is a bit like Delhi’s equivalent of the Koh San Road in Bangkok, in that much of Delhi's backpacker community centres around it's main bazarre, which provides pretty much every item a backpacker in transit needs from a place - apart from peace and quiet perhaps.

With these photographs I wanted to capture some of this intensity and vibrancy, the bustle and the commerce which makes Pahar Ganj so fascinating to me and which, for better or worse, has given me some of my most profound and startling experiences of India.

View my Pahar Ganj photographs

A short term on Palolem Beach

While I got quite snap happy with my friends and surroundings during my time in Thailand, there was not a subject which particularly interested me and compelled me to reach for my camera. As soon as I arrived in India I started carrying it with me everywhere I went because everywhere I looked I observed something I wanted to photograph.

This fact perhaps reflects the different feelings I have for these two countries. Thailand is a great holiday destination, rich and exotic and full of such beautiful people with such easy smiles... but sooner or later you start to get the uncomfortable sense that in a lot of cases there might not be much beyond those smiles except a deep and somewhat tragic understanding of the ways of the western world.

In contrast, Indian smiles are often hidden behind a deep reserve and caution. An Indian man will quite comfortably stare at you for minutes on end, his head cocked to the side and a scowl of concentration on his face - while you feel increasingly awkward and wonder what you've done to deserve such unwanted attention. All you need to do is stare back with matching intensity, wiggle your head from side to side and treat him and everyone else in the vicinity to a big beaming smile - then watch as he is immediately dissarmed and smiles back in delight, head wiggling fit to fall off.

India is a country I find totally compelling - the variety and the complexity of the cultures represented here is totally overwhelming and it would take someone like me a lifetime to really understand the place, which I think is the reason why so many people return to India again and again throughout their lives. It's endlessly fascinating. With each new place you visit you learn something new, or something you thought you knew is turned on it's head. It has the ability to continue to suprise you every day and in every way. Sometimes those suprises are good, sometimes they're not so good...

I started my second journey into India in the same place as my first. Goa, with it's multidude of beaches and Catholic churches is a good place to start because, they say, it is not "The Real India" – it’s an censored version with a lot of the offensive bits taken out, and as we all know from years of wincing at BBC-hacked TV versions of movies, the offensive bits are often the most interesting. I was not planning to return to Goa because I didn't think it had anything new to offer me. I had just come from Thailand which has a beach culture which is so much more unregulated and uninhibited. A young man can only do so much partying before he hankers for something more substantial and this was how I felt once my final Koh Tao hangover had subsided and I was on my way to Bombay.

I was wrong about Goa, it did have something new to show me - something valuable I was able to learn about myself and about other travellers who choose to come to India - but that is another story and will be told another time. I was also reminded that although Thailand may have nicer beaches, clearer waters and a more dynamic nightlife, in terms of people watching, Goa's beaches win hands down every time, but nonetheless, a week spent back on Palolem Beach could be seen from one point of view as a week too long.

Some of you may recall I was there for three weeks in 2005 and complained in my blog of the awful sense of laziness and inertia which slowly but surely engulfed my being until I felt like a raw husk of a man, a vampire who sweated through the days in a shaded hammock and only came alive at night once half a dozen beers and a couple of cocktails had been consumed.

An hour ago I left Goa for the second time. I remember feeling the first time no desire to go back. I feel the same way now. Clearly this is only a temporary condition then – perhaps one that has come about as a result of over-indulging in Goa and before that in Thailand… I’ve had too many nights out with not enough sleep because in this heat and humidity it’s impossible for me to stay in my hut much past 9am.

I departed in significantly more style on this occasion than the first time. Right now I’m flying high above the middle of India headed for Delhi. This flight compresses a 48 hour train journey into a trifling two hours. I had planned to catch the train and revel in the sights, sounds and smells of The Real India on my way north but that would have meant staying five extra days in Goa and I had to get out! I didn’t have it in me to laze anymore.

It was pointed out to me by a good friend that I’ve become a Champagne Backpacker, jet-setting around India with a laptop, mobile phone, iPod and digital SLR camera. I can hardly deny it. This afternoon I paid 900 rupees for a taxi to the airport instead of jumping on a couple of local buses and paying little more than 50 rupees for the hundred kilometre journey – which would have taken four hours instead of one and a half.

Yes – I took a taxi a hundred kilometres, and it isn’t the first time it’s happened this week, it’s the fourth time. I’ve been pinging around Goa shelling out rupees like there’s no tomorrow. In one weekend at The Big Chill I spent around 15,000 rupees on my ticket, taxis, accommodation, alcohol… and assorted sundries – that’s almost £200, probably more than you’d expect to spend in two days at a UK festival. Over the last few weeks I’ve been leading a very extravagant lifestyle but all that is about to stop because I’m heading into the mountains and planning to quit fags, drugs, booze, meat – and sex.

None of that should be too difficult. The cool mountain air and the state of the butchers’ shops up here should be inspiring. I added sex to the list as an after-thought. If, in two months of travelling in Australia and Thailand, I didn’t see any action then I think it’s fair to say that the trend will continue in the mountains, so I may as well pretend to myself that I’m being virtuous. Some of you might say that’s an apathetic and defeatist attitude but, to be entirely honest, I can’t be bothered and I don’t much care.

View my Palolem Beach photographs