I hope you like the scarf

Clare, Uttam and Pete

The autorickshaw Uttam drives now is one he rents for around Rs 200 per day. “I pay for tyres, brake pads, brake fuel and so on,” he says. Pete asks if he’ll buy his own one day, and he tells us he’s saving for one, but saving is tough going.

I enquire about the Indian driver licensing system. Apparently, it exists. All up, it costs several thousand rupees to become fully licensed. First up they have to sit a learner’s licence – “You can sit that when you are 18. Then you go for private licence within one to six months, and then after three years you can go for government licence,” Uttam says. “That one gives you discounted medical care – they pay 25 per cent if you have a crash – and other benefits too. But not if you crash when you are driving drunk,” he adds. “You need to renew your government licence every three years, as well. And then you can get your commercial licence, but the government licence is good enough, so I do not need this one. Uttam tells us the government licence costs around Rs 3000, but it can change “according to goodwill”. Uttam says, “If you know someone in government, it can be little bit cheaper, say, 2500 rupees only.” It seems the notion “It’s who you know, not what you know” is universal.

Barn’s phone rings in the rickshaw, and it’s an Indian number calling. We assume it’s a hotel about a booking, but he looks confused and repeats the caller’s introduction. “It’s my new friend calling? Sorry, who is this?” He explains when he hangs up that it was a customer service representative from Vodafone India who he had spoken with earlier in the day when he was having issues with his sim card. The first time they spoke, Barn was having trouble remembering his new Indian number and she had given him a lecture: “You are verrrry confused, sir. Please write down your number on a piece of paper, and then read it out to me exactly as it is written down.” Just as they were making headway, he accidentally put her on hold and the call was disconnected. Amazingly, this girl displays exceptional customer service contradictory to my earlier rant about Vodafone. She had saved Barn’s number and rang him back from her personal phone when her shift was over, to see if the issue had been resolved. Ten points, Vodafone India. She then proceeds to call him back five more times in a stalkerish manner. Negative ten points, Vodafone India.

Our tour of Varanasi finishes with a trip to the Muslim Cooperative Society – the oldest manufacturing area in Varanasi. A Muslim man shows us around, and we bypass the mosques and head down some alleyways to see silk khadi (hand weaving). We’re told it’s a slow process, with some Muslim dresses taking five to six weeks to complete. A group of men and a young boy are painstakingly threading silver beads onto a piece of silk and explain that silver ones are used for wedding garments only. We meet another man who’s weaving 7000 Kashmiri silk threads finer than strands of hair on an ancient leg-operated machine that has programming cards with codes for different patterns. It’s the same kind of device they’ve been using since the 14th century, and we’re told it’s like an early version of a computer. Again it’s painstaking work; “I’m going to look at my pashminas differently now,” Clare says. Me too.

The man showing us around says they export to lots of countries: “Europe, the USA, Jordan, Dubai, Australia – many, many counties.” “New Zealand?” we enquire. “Many, many countries – but no, not New Zealand. You know Australia? We export our bedspreads for 8000 rupees to Deevad Joes.” “Ohhh, David Jones!” we chorus.

No more duvets, please!

Before we can return to Uttam in the rickshaw, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. We have to visit the man’s silk store, where he proceeds to unfold all the king-sized silk duvets he has, trying to tempt us to buy. There’s ones with pictures of the fort we visited this morning, more with elephants. Initially, none of us has the heart to say we're not in the market for duvets, but as we slowly drown in fabric, we shake our heads, saying we can’t take any more luggage. But he persists. “We can post!” he says, continuing to unfold. “They’re washable in liquid soap!” he enthuses. “Made from baby cocoon silk!”

He gets out some Rs 3000 ($75) pashminas made from the tummy hair of Himalayan goats. “We have ones from the beard part, too!” he exclaims. "God, they're expensive," Barn mumbles. We start to look at each other. There’s only one thing to do now. One of us will have to buy something so we can escape. I should get my mum something nice, but not $75 nice (sorry, Mum). The man looks at Barn, suggesting he buy a scarf. “He doesn’t have a wife,” I say. “Girlfriend?” the man replies. “You like the green one, sir? Maybe for a business friend?” We all laugh, imagining Barn buying one for his new boss at Russell McVeagh.

At this point, it’s getting dire. I ask if he has any cheaper ones and he brings out a pile that are only 50% pashmina, for Rs 300 ($7.50). Taking one for the team, I pick up one the colour of Mum’s mother-of-the-bride outfit from my sister’s wedding last year. “I’ll take it!” I say, not even bothering to bargain with him. I hand over the 300 rupees and we bolt out of there.

On the way back to our hotel, we ask more about Uttam’s marriage. He says he’s 24 and has been married for two years. Despite his family’s protests (he was meant to have an arranged marriage with a family friend’s daughter), he married for love. “I met her in Assi [Assi Ghat]. I see her one or two times, and we talk. Then friendship turns to love.” In Indian marriages a girl’s father has to pay the husband – it’s a tradition from hundreds of years ago. The government is trying to outlaw it, as apparently it’s not uncommon for women to be murdered after their dowry has been handed over. But Uttam reckons the government can’t do anything about. “For good family, nice family, you just have to pay. But she have no dowry, she have no money, but I say I can do without that.”

They had a small wedding, marrying in a temple, with just a few friends there. “My family would not attend, and her family would not come either.” Uttam tells us that he had great support from a Swiss girl, Anna, who he met when she was volunteering for Red Cross in the area. “She was good friend, she support me a lot and help me, but she’s gone back to college, to university now. Maybe she will come back again, she said maybe in five years, so maybe in 2015,” he says, with a sadness in his eyes.

Taking one for the team

When we get back to the hotel, Erin and Harriet have deteriorated. The poor things are in pain and in need of medical attention, so Barn calls the doctor. One arrives around 7.30pm, diagnoses the girls and prescribes a host of medicines. Barn, the legend, then hops on a motorbike driven by the hotel manager, in search of a 24-hour pharmacy. He’s gone for what seems like an age, and returns, valiant, medicines in tow, having visited six pharmacies. They’d also had to make a return visit to the doctor, as he’d prescribed a medicine that either did not exist or was not available in any of the five pharmacies visited previously. What a champion. At 9.30pm, we dose the girls up and send them to bed, before we head to the rooftop restaurant of our hotel for some dinner and to get Barn a well-deserved beer after a frantic day in the Holy City of Varanasi. Mum, I hope you like the scarf.

Woohoo! What a ride!

It’s too early in the morning to be awake while on holiday, and we’re taxiing through thick fog on the enormous runway of Singapore’s Changi Airport, having survived our first night sleeping rough in an airport. In a perfect world, the ‘rest area’ we chose to inhabit would have been more like a rest area and less like a thoroughfare; the air-con would have been a shade warmer than the ‘Arctic Blast’ setting it was switched to, and the dulcet tones of Christmas carols on repeat would have definitely been turned down a notch. But beggars can’t be choosers.

After leaving Auckland at 11.30am on Tuesday with Harriet, Pete (the infamous Barney) Erin, Emily, Chris, Caroline, Graeme, Anthony and Gab, we’re now on the second leg of the journey to Bangkok. We’re sans a few of the original crew who are on later flights, but have welcomed Renee into the fold off her flight from Perth and will soon be rendezvousing with George and Joan, Hanna, Kate and Christie, and then Tim in a couple of days’ time.

We’re mere hours into a two-month adventure, but I’m afraid there’s already been a casualty: the lovely blue polystyrene ball-filled travel pillow I carried all the way back from Germany three years ago has been left onboard the Jetstar flight we got off last night. I generally pride myself on not losing things, but after suffering serious cabin fever on the ten-and-a-half-hour flight, we were so desperate to escape the confines of the plane, that a travel pillow just wasn’t a priority at the time. Alas, the pillow has since been replaced by a shiny new red one, and it serves as a valuable lesson on personal belongings for the weeks ahead.

We make the right decision to head straight to the outdoor pool and Jacuzzi at the airport to meet up with my cousin Sarah and her man Mark who are en route to Paris. It’s an excellent venue for a reunion, a cold beer (much more palatable than the warm Heineken purchased for an extortionate price on Jetstar), a refreshing dip and a shower. Sarah and Mark gloat about the Thai green curry, fish and blackbean sauce and white chocolate cheesecake they were served on their Singapore Airlines flight from Christchurch, while we complain about the lack of meals available for purchase on our very budget flight. We also bemoan the lack of a single sick-bag onboard the aircraft when the contents of Harriet’s stomach decided they wanted to re-enter the land of the living – according to Erin, the airhostess looked at her incredulously, as if this was a totally outrageous request. Sarah helpfully adds at this point that “Singapore Airlines even dished out free toothbrush sets” – to which Emily replies, “The only thing Jetstar dished out was dirty glares and terrible customer service.”

After bidding adieu to Sarah and Mark, we pile into a maxi-taxi and head into central Singapore, and make our way to the Newton Circus Hawker Centre – an outdoor food court with dozens of stalls offering everything from satay sticks to stingray. The stall-holders all try to lure us in – with varying tactics and levels of success. One pulls a live crab out of a tank and chases us around the seating area waving it in the air, but we make a run for it and settle in at a table by a man who promises “very good price for you.”

Well fed and watered, we venture onto the MRT (subway) under the direction of Barney, and find out way to Merlion Plaza, where we’re greeted by the magical lights of the Fullerton Hotel on the Singapore River. We take obligatory photos of the Merlion statue shooting water from its mouth into Marina Bay below, and happen upon a rehearsal for New Year’s Eve in Singapore, which includes the countdown, a booming “Happy New Year!”, and a brief light show on the water. We dash back to the MRT for the last train back to the airport, and we all jump on board just as the doors are closing. All of us, except Harriet, that is. Upon realising this is the last train and that she has no phone on her, she throws herself through the nearly-closed doors and claws her way through the first set of doors on the platform, while we desperately try to stop the train’s doors from closing. Harriet displays incredible Amazonian-woman strength – the kind Emily likens to that of a mother who summons the adrenalin and power to lift a burning car off her child – and makes it on board in one piece, narrowly avoiding what could have been the first missing persons report we commission on this trip.

Safely back at the airport, thoroughly worn out but very satisfied, we set up camp for the night and I’m reminded of a card my friend Anna gave me when I graduated; it said, "Life should not be a journey to the grave, with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather, to skid in sideways with champagne in one hand, strawberries in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, 'Woohoo! What a ride!'"

The landing gear is down, and all electronic devices must now be switched off. We’re about to navigate Bangkok’s rail system and head into the city for some street food for lunch, before our final leg of this part of the journey – a flight to the party island of Koh Samui. What a ride, indeed.

Now, did anybody bring the champagne and strawberries?