It Ain't Half Wet Mum

One thing that we have not learned is to avoid WBTDC establishments.  After the usual bureaucratic check in we are shown to our room,  which we share with a plentiful supply of mosquitoes. We quickly change out of our wet clothes and head for the Dining Room where we are invited to order. Our first choice is unavailable so we opt for rice, dal, onion pakoras and fish fry (Bengali) washed down with a super strength beer. There are no mossies in the dining room as all available airspace is occupied by flies. There are more here than at the Kakrigumma market dried fish stall.

The food is OK apart from the fish which has been fried to the consistency of armour plate. We are joined by a couple who are in Bishnupur to make a documentary about silk weaving, one of the local specialities. She is an Indian lady Tarn, Alberto is an Italian. Their food looked very good. D goes to investigate the bar which is a dark smoke filled void that would have frightened Taggart. We opt for a nightcap from our hipflask in the room. There is no wifi here so we try out the mofi gadget but with no success.

We sleep well until the dawn chorus of coughing breaks out. Some freak of acoustics means that every word said in reception can be heard in our room. The rain has stopped but it is overcast and rather gloomy. R succeeds in firing up the mofi and is able to catch up with Facebook before the signal disappears. Down at breakfast our friend from last night, Alberto, is filming the breakfast waiters at work. The tea, toast and eggs meet our requirement and the flies are a bit less active this morning. An Indian couple come in to breakfast and we start to chat. They have been to visit their daughter in Weybridge but are under the impression that they will now need an additional visa to visit Scotland.

Bishnupur's main attraction is its temples, built in the 1600s and  they are the reason for our visit. As we leave the hotel we are hailed by a cycle rickshaw walla who offers to take us on a tour of the temples. We agree a price of 300 rupees although the man from breakfast who is watching us suggests that we should not be paying more than 250. We don't weigh quite as much as when we left the UK but combined we are still a hefty load so we don't drive the hard bargain. As we are about to climb in the drizzle starts and for the first time in India we don our rain jackets.

A few minutes pedalling takes us to the Ras Mancha, where you buy tickets giving access to all of the temple sites. The fee for non Indians is 100 rupees, as opposed to 10 rupees for the inhabitants. This temple appears to have no current function as there is no requirement to remove shoes before climbing the stairs to the plinth. It is built with small bricks that had patterned terracotta motifs applied as decoration.  Originally the whole building was stuccoed but most of this has now gone.

After a good look around we rejoin our rickshaw man who takes us down a few narrow lanes to another imposing temple. There are stalls selling souvenirs as well as a young girl selling postcards.  After looking round here our chap beckons us to take a look at a tree where the head of Ganesh has been picked out in paint on the trunk. 

We spend the next couple of hours moving from temple to temple.  Some are in better condition than others and one has some intact stucco work, giving a glimpse of how things must have looked in their pomp. At one place a large party of Indian tourists arrived while we were admiring some of the terracotta details. They walked briskly round the building and then returned to their vehicles. Including drivers there were 30 people in one stretched Landrover and a very small minibus.

Eventually we were templed out and asked for a return to the hotel. On the way our man stopped outside a large Saree shop and led us down a passageway at the side and through a door into a tiny weaving shed. Two young men were working away on hand looms making silk sari lengths. Afterwards we visited the shop where R treated herself to a shawl. We had a quick stop at the small local museum, which had some interesting pottery, and got back to the Lodge just before the heavens opened again.

Once in our room we phoned room service for a pot of tea. When we awoke an hour later it had still not arrived so we tried again. This time it was delivered within a few minutes. The rain had not relented and we were reduced to watching a topical debate programme on BBC World TV channel. For a while we were able to get a mofi signal and managed to up date the blog as well as sending a suitably rude message to the person who recommended Bishnupur. At least the chilly weather is deterring the insect life as we sit here in our fleeces.

Boredom drove us down to the Dining Hall in search of afternoon tea. We requested biscuits for 2 with this (2 pieces Rs 5/-). The waiter disappeared out of the hotel and returned clutching a bag. A plate appeared containing four savoury crackers. When you are down on your luck nothing goes right. Tarun and Alberto appeared and ordered tea and a plate of pakoras. The weather had ruined their day's filming. They passed around the pakoras and the conversation turned to recipes. 'What is Scottish food like?' requires a diplomatic answer. By now it is dark and still raining. We pre-order our supper and collect a bottle of beer from the 'Bucket o'Blood Bar' in order to celebrate the cocktail hour. Gad, this country could ruin a man.

The next step is to organise tomorrow's transport to Asansol whence we travel overnight in 1AC splendour to the 'City of Light'. When we checked in here and put Varanasi as our onward destination the man at the counter said 'Ah. Benares.'  The plan is to get there in time to have a meal in a hotel before catching a train at 10 p.m. D factors in an hour for contingencies and asks the hotel to book a car to arrive in Asansol at 6 p.m. The first effort has us timed to leave at 6 a.m., then 6 p.m. Then 2 p.m. for a journey that all agree is 3 hours maximum. D digs his heels in for 3 p.m. but nobody wants to give. At last a compromise of 2.30 is grudgingly conceded. What the hell. We may as well watch the rain in Asansol as here. It is far and away the most difficult place to organise transport that we have been to in India as well as having the worst weather.

Undeterred we decide to arrange a local excursion for tomorrow prior to our departure.  As we exited the museum earlier today we met a Mr. Achintya Banerjee, whose card declaims " Senior Most Tourist Guide" and who suggested that we might like to take a trip to a pottery village. A little research on India Mike suggests that this place is Pachmuda/Panchmuda/Panchmura, well worth a visit and that Mr Banarjee is an excellent guide.  D calls him to see how long this might take. The subsequent conversation goes down the same track as before. The tour will last 3 hours so we suggest a start time of 11 a.m. which will get us back in time to leave for Asansol. Mr B wants to start at 8 then 9 so D says forget it at which he suggests a meeting at 9.30 to discuss.  D says OK but we won't be leaving before 11.

Let's see what happens.

Sign of the Day

We dine in isolation as it appears that all of the other inmates have chosen to eat in their cells. We have a Bengali speciality, Mixed Chow Mein, that is basically diced omelette with spaghetti. At last it has stopped raining.