India, Dec.23/Jan.24
Well, as promised in my last comeback special “The Resurrection,” here it is; My first proper scribble pho-blography installment. As a kind of New Year resolution-meets-personal passion, I’ve decided to get back to something I adore, yet often I neglect; Writing. Once I’ve sat down and started pressing keys, it just flows out. It’s just getting to that sitting down stage. I can’t ever say I’m uninspired or lacking of experiences to write about, over just the last year I’ve been to India, Czech Republic, Germany, Dubai, Vietnam, plus places closer to home like Hong Kong, Macau, Hangzhou, Guiyang, Shanghai, Zhongshan etc etc etc., and all of these have been memorable in a thousand different ways. So here goes. Some may consider it food for thought, some may consider it verbal diarrhea, but whether it’s a mental 4-course meal, or the after effects of a particulay powerful hotpot, it’s mine. So, feast your eyes and breathe in deep. These scribbles will be less photography based, as really my snaps are mostly nothing more than just that, snaps. But I’ll include some photography-based side notes here and there, just in case someone might find it helpful/laughable/don’t-do-what-I-did useful. I’ll start this revamped, rehashed, relived scribble with a place that carved a permenant scar on both my mind, and my heart, for both good and bad. The place that many, many photographers might describe as picture-heaven. The majestic country of India.
It all began with a wedding invitation. Two friends of mine, already legally married in Hong Kong, decided it was time to hold the full otsentatious ceremony in India, the country of the grooms birth. The bride, a delightful young lady from China, asked me to “give her away,” as is normal in many wedding ceremonies. Her actual parents had visa issues, as China and India were playing tit-for-tat silly buggers with visas for each other. I couldn’t agree fast enough. India had always fascinated me, like a moth to a flame I was drawn to the sights, the colours, the history, the people. The Uk obviously has a long connection with India, not that we did a lot of good things for people or the country, but we were still connected. Not Siamese Twins connected, perhaps more like cell mates. So, December 2023, I flew from Hong Kong to Delhi, then a connecting flight South East to Bhubaneswar, the place of the grooms birth, upringing, and family. As soon as he picked me up from the airport we were swept up with marital celebrations. After a day of travelling, notably tiny airplane seats not big enough for my big bird height, the very moment we got out the car at his family home he looked at me and said, “Dance.” Music was blaring, family members were bouncing around joyfully, so dance we did. I was tired, I smelled like I hadn’t had a washed in a week, but still, we did the fandango to Bollywood beats until breathless. Later that evening we went out with his cousins and got the most incredible street food I’d ever had (up to that point.) I’ve always been a huge fan of Indian cuisine, but as with most things, until you’ve had it in the place of it’s origin, you really haven’t tasted the authenticity of the dish. I’ll probably reiterate this several times, but the food in India is nothing less than incredible. I’ll tell more later. But alas, I won’t go further into my time at Bhubaneswar. The wedding ceremony and festivities were had, the couple seemed happy, and the family were proud. Yet unfortunately, just a few months later they had decided to separate. They both remain dear friends to me, and I wish them both all the luck in the world.
As wedding celebrations commenced, a mother with several young children watched on. They clearly weren’t from such fortunate circumstances as the wedding goers were. This mother held her sons hand as they stood and took it all in.
Several days later, we all decided to scoot back to Delhi. They were to fly from there to other countries on honeymoon, and I wanted a week or so there, on my own, to really take it all in. We spent a day sightseeing, the incredible Red Fort, the huge temple, the insane walking street. Then they were off, and I was alone in this unfathomable city. Now, when I go to new places alone, I choose to stay in “far from elegant” hotels. I can’t see how by wanting to understand a city and it’s people, you choose to stay in some upper class hotel, yet spend the days rubbing shoulders with the locals who wouldn’t even be allowed in the doors of such an establishment. So, my choice of lodgings was in the area of the city called Paharganj. On the interweb the area is described as “popular with backpackers on a budget,” so that should tell you all you need to know. It was very, very, local. Whilst walking around the streets and back alleys there, camera in hand, I was warned half a dozen times to be careful, that the area wasn’t safe. I got a lot of looks, but none were unfriendly. In fact, it was the total opposite, people were incredibly friendly. People would say hello and good morning to me many times a day, and none with bad intentions (Except for one instance, which I’ll get to later.) The hotel was modest, but the staff were helpful and happy. You had to ask for the hot water to be turned on, but apart from that it was more than adequate for me. I was out from around 8am until 8pm most days, so all I really need from a hotel is a bed, wifi, and a hot shower. Having been a musician for 20 years, I was used to roughing it and living out of a suitcase when needs be. In the area I didn’t set eyes on one other tourist, except an elderly couple haggling at the night market once. Apart from them, I think I was the only one. The token novelty, 6-foot-seven of DM’s and trenchcoat. The only problematic things I found about the area was, firstly, that it was bloody impossible to find my hotel. I was there a week and it wasn’t until the very last day I didn’t have to resort to Google Maps to find the damn place. The streets were more like alleyways, an infinite and identical spiderweb labyrinth. And secondly, alcohol. In India there are very few shops allowed to sell alcohol, so finding one can be a bit of a mission. But, like a boozy bloodhound, find one I did. It was invariably busy, you had to stand and shout at the men behind the counter exactly what you wanted (beer for me, mostly whisky for the locals) but the prices were reasonable and the chilly late evenings in my room were far more enjoyable with a beer or two.
A random cow was walking down the street, so these two gents grabbed hold of it and told me to take their picture. I happily obliged.
Being late December/early January in Delhi, the evenings and nights were cold, but by lunchtimes the sun was up high and the warm rays blessed you. I’d leave the hotel early, clad in boots, jeans and long coat, but by noon the coat was being carried and the scraf tucked away in my bag. Breakfast was whatever offered by the street vendors nearby. One particulary tasty morning I had 2 chapatis (small round bread things, kind of like tortillas) each covered with a handful (yes, an actual persons handful, served by hand) of this fragrant and spicy thick curry. Fantastic. As a bit of a sidenote, before I went to India I’d been warned by many people that I was bound to get sick from the food. People took endless pleasure in regailing me with horror stories of explosive backsides and volcanic vomiting, but, in my two weeks there my belly had absolutely nothing happen. I was even slightly disappointed that my body was perhaps enthralled by all I was shovelling in, so I was deliberately eating the seemingly “dirtiest” street food I could get my mouth around. But nothing. Barely even a pungent fart. Being a vegetarian for well over 20 years, India really is food heaven. I was hellbent on trying everything I could, I even had vegetarian McDonalds to try it out, and not one meal disappointed. Pure heaven. Spicy, sour, strong, saucy heaven. My whole adult life I’ve been 96kg, give or take a kilo or two. In my two weeks in India, I manged to gain 4 kilos, and a year later I still haven’t been able to shake it off. I was eating when I wasn’t hungry. I was eating even when I was full. I was an absolute glutton, like a seagull at the seaside stealing peoples chips. After the first day there I was fine with eating with my hands, when in Rome. It just felt totally natural. This got me several nods of admiration from the locals. I felt, in some deep and reassuring way, that I was, kind of, home.
The unfortunate irony of this gentleman selling “Fortune” magazine was not lost on me.
My Delhi days were spent walking, walking, walking. I visitied all the tourist sites, that actually were few in number. I visited every notable temple, market, some jewellery shops, even Gandhis temporary home and the place he would eventually be assassinated. It all felt nothing short of magical to me. I took tuk-tuks to places I couldn’t walk to. I got ripped off a couple of times by the drivers, but honestly it didn’t bother me. Paying two dollars instead of one dollar for a ride isn’t going to bankrupt anyone, and these drivers are just earning to support themselves and their families. I considered this as “tourist tax.” I took a pretty long ride to the area of the city known locally as “Tiny Tibet,” a place where a few hundred Tibetans had chosen to make home in bustling Delhi city. I bought some souvenirs, some prayer flags, some other small things. I took photos of young men playing cricket. I posed for photos with some people, and they, in turn, graciously posed back for me. All the photos from that day are still captured on undeveloped film, sat waiting in my camera cabinet. I’ll get them developed one day. I spent New Years Eve alone in my room. Of the places I visited, the only place that raised this London gentlemans eyebrows, was the train station. I had this ridiculously romantic notion of taking a train journey, perhaps sitting on the roof of the train with the locals like I’d seen in photos, or at least watching the world go by from the window of my Asian Oriental Express. But arriving in the train station and thinking of which journey to take, I changed my mind pretty fast. The trains are absolutely heaving with people, akin to taking the metro approaching rush hour. I’m a reasonably outgoing and friendly person, but I’m not a fan of small spaces with too many people crammed in. And let’s not mention the toilet facilities onboard. I’m sure one day I’ll dig up the courage and fortitude to take a train journey there, but not right then.
One of the very few colour photos from the trip. This gentleman was painting a fence, but not with a paintbrush, with his bare hands and a piece of rag cloth.
As I mentioned earlier, In my time there I only had one slightly off-putting experience, but that was more like a storm in a teacup. I was going to get robbed. One day I was walking around the city, late afternoon I guess as the sun sets pretty early there in January. A guy in a group of adult males broke away from the pack and came over to speak to me. He was very friendly, asking me a ton of questions and walking with me. I noticed after a few minutes that he wasn’t going to leave me alone, and I managed to glimpse his group of males following about 20 metres behind us. They’d obviously seen me, tourist alone, carrying a camera and camera bag, and decided it was up for the taking. I’m from London, and not fancypants Notting Hill or Knightsbridge London, from dirty nasty London, so I already knew how this was gonna happen. *Note; In my first draft of this paragraph, I described what happened fully, but after sleeping on it I’ve decided to not go into any details. Needless to say, it got a little bit rough, but nothing happened. They had no voilent intentions, they could have easily taken what they wanted if they had that in mind, they were just opportunists. After they skulked away, I headed to streets with more people, silently thanked my lucky stars, and went for a nice cup of tea. Had this been in my own city of London, or probably any other major Western city, I’m sure things would have played out very differently.
People are smiling for you everywhere. This trio of gents made my day.
Aside form this very small altercation, my time in India was nothing less than enchanting. On my first day there in Paharganj I was walking the tiny bustling streets like a sheepish tourist, the 5 year old me on my first day at school. By the end of the week I strutting those dusty alleyways like I’d lived there for years, even the local shopkeepers grew to know me and always greeted me with smiles and kind words. But, every rose has it’s thorn. It’s not an ideallic ShangriLa to all, by any means. There really is true poverty there, it can be heartbreaking to see children begging, seeing their mothers send them out into the stopped cars at traffic lights to wipe the car windscreens down and ask for coins. It’s also hard to ignore the sheer amount of pollution there. I checked the Air Qulaity Index every day (AQI app) and generally it’s stated that below 100 is safe enough, over 100 steadily becoming more and more unsafe. The AQI goes to 500. One morning in Delhi it was AQI 420, “Extremely Toxic” said the app. And there’s people, children, sleeping in motorway tunnels and under bridges, just breathing this in 24 hours a day. Traffic in India is sheer hell. I’d also been told countless times how dirty India was, but I didn’t find it so. I found it very dusty, yes, but not dirty. I didn’t see one person dropping litter or cigarette butts on the ground. In fact, in two weeks there I only saw two people smoking outdoors. The government there is really cracking down on smoking, and this is extremely admirable, and should be taken as a shining example by others. As an animal lover, there are homeless dogs absolutely everywhere, but they actually seem mostly cared for. It was cold in December/January, and many dogs have coats on, provided by volunteers, and outside shops and on the pathways there were a lot of dog beds put out for them to sleep on. Doing a photography project on the outdoor dogs would take you a dozen lifetimes, but what a way to spend those years. Aside from dogs, the stories about cows in India is 100% true. They roam bloody everywhere. One time I saw a busy road come to a total standstill because a cow had decided to take a nap in the middle of the road. And there was no screaming drivers, no blaring horns, just people patiently waiting. Eventually the driver of a bus got out and gave it a playful slap on the arse, and the aforementioned cow slowly plodded off. And life went on. India, being the spiritual country it is, clearly understands the value of life. How I wish all countries could embrace this feeling of love and care for animals.
Amongst the bustling streets, dogs, cows, and people alike all sleep anywhere comfy and (somewhat) safe.
My final few days in Delhi made me wanting more. I wasn’t ready to return home, to Shenzhen, not yet. Not yet. I wanted more, to see more, to talk more, to breathe in more. I did my final souvenir shopping. I ate until I could eat no more. I got a neck tattoo. I said a few goodbyes to the local shop owners and swapped some emails with people. Needless to say, as the Terminator said, I’ll be back. I’ve mentally relived my time there with fondness a thousand times. The people are warm and engaging. The country is spellbinding. And the food is the best I’ve ever eaten in my life. No place is without it’s problems, and the amount of poverty there and the depressing wealth divide is unjust and ungodly. But people work hard, smile genuinely, and are some of the most engaging and open hearted I’ve ever met. If you are planning on visiting then I’d do some research and go about it all with your eyes open, but don’t for a minute be afraid of anything about travelling to India. Just be aware, and be understanding. Personally, I found a place that I could very, very happily call home. Perhaps in another lifetime. Who knows, perhaps in this one.
Two children put up a makeshift high-wire in the street, then this young lady performed on it to hopefully make a few coins of appreciation. Life is not easy for everyone.
Photography Field Notes; I’ve been on quite a lot of photo-orientated trips, and I was damn stupid about this one. I was so hell-bent on getting some remarkable and memorable shots that I totally overpacked. I took my 5D4 with 24-105 f4 lens, the Sigma Art 50mm f1.4, and a cheap 70-300 zoom. Plus a film camera, the Canon EOS 55, and a monopod. And, I think, some filters. Considering I was out walking 12+ hours a day, this was a ridiculous set up. The first couple of hours it all felt fine, but then my shoulder would be aching (as I moronically only took a single-strap sling bag, duh..) and I’d be cursing my pathetic ego for wanting to be the next Steve McCurry. Next time I go there I’ll take a small travel cam, something like my Sony RX1 or Ricoh GR, and just work with their limitations as best I can, something light and inconspicuous.
The second photography/camera issue I had was the security at Delhi airport with my camera film. I had it clearly labelled and asked to have it hand checked, but the security guards there are the worst kind of arseholes you’ll ever encounter. They make you take EVERYTHING they consider “electrical” out of your bag for scanning. Every battery, every cable, every memory card, the whole friggin’ lot. And although I was close to begging them to hand inspect my films, they still put them right through the scanner. Total C***S.
As for photographing people, I must have had 20 or more people talk to me and ask me to take their picture. They weren’t even really interested in seeing the photo afterwards, they just liked having their picture taken. But of course, in any place like this, just be respectful. I tried to not take any cheap shots of people in bad situations, except the shot of the guys feet. I couldn’t help myself on that one, even though I know it was wrong of me. I’m not perfect. I can resist anything except temptation.
I chose to shoot almost entirely in black and white for the trip. This was later questioned by several of my photographer friends. “It’s India, how can you not shoot colour?!” Which, in a way, is right. But, to me, not only can colour be distracting, it can also easily dominate the scene and actually become the main subject. India is so incredibly vibrant with colour, some scenes look like Boy Georges dreams, red, gold and green is all you can see. I always shoot RAW anyway, so if I ever feel like it I can go over them again, but I doubt it. I’m happy to see them as I wanted to see them. So, the next time there it’ll be a small backpack, small digital camera, and a change of shoes. I did the whole two weeks in Doc Marten boots, and as comfy as they can be, after walking 20 kilometres a day for days on end, they can feel pretty unforgiving. I’d love to go in the rainly season there, street photography in the waist-high downpours I bet would be a lot of fun to shoot. One day, I’ll be there, doing just that.
