Camden Market is one of London’s, and possibly Britain’s, most colorful places. Packed with stalls selling beautiful, unusual, obscure, and at times absurd items, Camden market is a ‘must see’ for anyone planning a visit to England’s capital city.

If you’ve never been to Camden Market before you’ll likely be a little taken aback as you emerge from Camden Town tube station. On any given day you’ll find yourself being swept like driftwood into a throng of people who might look like they’ve just stepped out of the Rocky Horror Picture show.

As the tide carries you toward the lock you’ll catch the smell of incense that will tangle and fade with the strains of music escaping from the various shops selling shoes that are meant to be worn but not necessarily walked in, jewelry that could wound, and clothing that has no real practical purpose. But keep walking. You’re still in the tourist trap area and haven’t reached the good stuff yet.

Yes, I know the entire market could be considered a tourist trap these days, but if you ask me the High Street is a soulless fraud that wears Camden’s reputation like a disguise. However, if you’re there on a weekend the Electric Ballroom market is worth a look-in. It was the first London Ballroom to have electric lights, hence it’s name.

The first true market space you’ll come to will be on your right as you head toward the lock. Buck Street Market has some fun stuff, but don’t get carried away, in my opinion this is still not the ‘real’ Camden. It’s mainly just stalls selling a lot of the same T shirts and clothes which might be cool, but really, how cool can a T shirt be?

As you reach the heavily studded metal bridge that crosses Regent’s Canal you’ll see the Canal market to your right. It was recently heavily damaged by fire on the eve of my last visit here, but it’s being rebuilt so maybe when you visit it’ll be open once more, if so check it out.

Cross the road here and walk into Camden Lock Market, a mixture of indoor and outdoor stalls selling an array of goods from around the world. Now you’re in the heart of Camden Market. This is the most craft based of the markets and it will likely be teeming with shoppers and tourists moving slowly through the maze of merchandise like icebreaker ships making their way through the arctic seas.

If you’re feeling hungry you can grab a bite to eat from one of the food stalls, then maybe try to find a place to sit by the lock where you can bask in the sun and people watch. On sunny days you’re sure to be entertained.

Moving through the Lock Market you’ll eventually find your way to the historic Stables Market, very close to the blue bridge that crosses the road and reads ‘Camden Lock.’ The market was built in the one time Midland Railway stables and horse hospital for the horses that pulled barges along the canal.

This ever increasing market is rammed full of traders and it will take you an age to explore. You’ll find a variety of stalls and small shops selling a wide range of antiques and furniture, arts, crafts, and clothing.

There is talk of the local authorities allowing chain stores and outlets like Starbucks to occupy an extension to this market, but to do so would be nothing short of a catastrophe. Camden Market has built its reputation on the back of the small independent traders who bring their own unique character and personality to the area. There is simply no way that a big brand like Starbucks or HMV could ever achieve or even mimic the flavor of these small traders, and frankly, to allow them an opportunity to try would be scandalous.

As you leave the Stables market and old Horse Hospital to make your way back toward the lock and the underground station, stay on the right side of the road because you’ve got one last market to see. A traditional street market for over 100 years, Inverness Street Market still has a fair few ‘fruit’n'veg’ stalls, though unsurprisingly they’re outnumbered by the more typical kind of stalls you would expect to see in Camden.

And that’s it, you’re done. Your Camden experience is over and in all likelihood it’s taken far more of your time than you expected. If you need a little rest before you once more take on the tube you could stop in at the Worlds End pub just over the road from the tube station.

Whatever happens, I’m sure you’ll be glad you came here, if not for what you bought, instead for that stories you will have collected along the way.

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Camden Market
Camden Markets guide
Camden Guide
Lonely Planet podcast : Camden Market

In my final post from my recent trip to India I’ll take you to a strange utopian township with a huge gold plated meditation chamber that houses one of the worlds largest crystal balls, share a beautiful sunrise over the Bay of Bengal, show you spectacular monuments carved in gigantic hillside rocks, and reveal how burning dead people smell just like burgers on a grill!

Not far from the former French colonial city of Puducherry (Pondicherry), which felt a little like an Indian version of New Orleans, lies Auroville - a self styled ‘universal town’ founded way back in 1968 by an idealist by the name of Mirra Alfassa. Referred to by the townspeople as ‘The Mother,’ Alfassa envisioned Auroville to be “a universal town where men and women of all countries are able to live in peace and progressive harmony above all creeds, all politics and all nationalities” She died in 1973 but her vision of Auroville continues today.

Joelle and I rented a beach hut that looked out across to the warm and perilous waters of Bay of Bengal. Next to the village of Periya Mudaliarchavady the small collection of beach huts play host to an ever changing stream of travelers from around the world. Though simple, the accommodation is well worth the 300 Rupee a night price tag (that’s about $7/£3.50).

Not known as a person who gets up early in the morning, I surprised even myself as I awoke each day to the sound of the surf as the sun began to peer over the horizon to the east. I’d stand at the entrance to the hut and almost have to pinch myself. “That’s the bay of Bengal” I’d tell myself, as if I needed reminding.

For breakfast guests would sit at what I called “the international breakfast table” and eat home made muesli and backed goods while exchanging stories of their various travel adventures. I enjoy these moments of random convergence with people I know I’m unlikely to meet again because there’s something about the crossing of paths that I love. It’s like watching the intricate tapestry of life being thread right before your very eyes as the various paths intertwine for those brief and random moments.

Two people that we spent a little time with were Pricilla from Venezuela and Hugo from Argentina. I’d met Hugo a few days earlier at a dinner party at Laxman’s house, and struck up a conversation with Priscialla early on the beach one morning in an effort to find out if she was Russian as Joelle seemed to be under the impression that all white people we saw were Russian by default.

Away from the beach huts Auroville itself feels like a moment of clarity in a mind of madness. It’s a strange place set apart from it’s surroundings. It might be cruel to describe the township as a big budget hippy commune, but that’s the overall impression I got. Make no mistake though, I’m not being critical, the utopian ideas behind Auroville are admirable, but such ideas seem a little out of step with the world we live in and somewhat cumbersome in their implementation.

For example, residents don’t use money in the form of notes or coins, but instead they use a centralized monetary system connected directly with their bank accounts. This might work for them, but visitors have no choice but to use cash, and the township has little choice but to accept this in most places.

Back in 1968 Auroville was just an Indian wasteland, but thanks to the work of volunteers funded by donations and grants from the Indian government the landscape was transformed into the lush green forest it is today. However, there is a palpable divide between the Aurovillian settlers (mostly European) and the local Tamil people who live in the very different conditions to their neighbors.

I couldn’t help but wonder if life in Auroville is reflective of what India might have felt like when it was under Imperial British rule, and given the stark differences between the traditional Tamil villagers lives and those of the settlers, I wondered if that might perhaps lead to tension. On the plus side though, Auroville does provide schooling and employment for the local Tamil people and the township was instrumental in the recovery efforts after the devastating tsunami in 2004.

At the heart of Auroville is huge spherical structure called the Matrimandir. Covered by golden discs and built in such a way as it appears to be coming out of the ground the Matrimandir is an awe inspiring building that shares its place in the centre of the township with an equally impressive sprawling banyan tree.

The Matrimandir is not supposed to be a temple per se, in that it doesn’t belong to any particular religion or sect. The buildings purpose is to be a place of meditation. Visitors are welcome, however it’s not simply a question of turning up and walking around the golden golfball. Instead visitors have to book an induction appointment whereupon they are taught the history of Auroville and the Matrimandir before being allowed to enter the building for an initial period of 15 minutes.

Entering the building, which has only this month been completed after building work began back in 1971, is like entering any holy monument, albeit with a twist of Arthur C. Clarke science fiction to it. Absolute silence is observed at all times and everything inside the building is white, including the marble walls and the socks each visitor has to wear in order to preserve the pristine white carpet.

In the initial 15 minute induction visitors are lead to the ‘Inner Chamber’ in the upper hemisphere of the structure. The large room is dimly lit by a single beam of sunlight directed through an opening at the apex of the sphere to a large pure crystal-glass ball in the centre of the room. There are no images or religious forms, just a white carpets, cushions, pillars, and total silence. Everyone sits down and then for the next 15 minutes you are supposed to meditate or contemplate.

You can put it down to ADD or something, but I’m not much of a sit there crossed legged and meditate kind of a guy. For the sake of the experience I did do about three minutes of that, but then I opened my eyes and spent the rest of the time watching the other people some of whom were clearly very meditative folk, others of whom were clearly just tourists intent on seeing inside the golden golfball, just as I was.

I feel like my experience barely scratched the surface of Auroville, but can’t write about my stay there without mentioning the strange experience of returning to the beach one night to be greeted by the smell of cooking meat and the sight of a burning dead body beside our hut.

The beach hut location also happens to be a funeral ground for local villagers. While we were away having dinner there had been a funeral, and as per Hindu tradition the body of the deceased was burned on a funeral pyre which just happened to be next to our beach hut.

It felt a little strange, almost wrong, to stand there in silence and watch the body of a person sizzle and burn. But this was just another stark reminder of how very different our cultures are. As Joelle and I stood there and watched the flames burn what had once been a person, far from being something of a creepy experience, I found myself feeling challenged about death and how our culture faces that inescapable reality with almost clinical disassociation.

By the morning there was nothing left of the pyre but ashes, and shortly after sunrise the men of the funeral party returned with clanging drums and bells to collect them.

The next stop was a place called Mahabalipuram (also known as Mamallapuram), a city full of spectacular carved monuments built between the 7th and the 9th century. Full of Buddhist as well as obvious Hindu influences, a number of the carvings that are amazingly cut into the bare rock face, are believed to have been the work of sculptors who were perhaps learning the craft or maybe demonstrating examples of different styles of architecture.

My last day in India was spent in Chennai (Madras), where the now familiar noise of the city streets mixed with the chanting call to prayer being bellowed into the thick air from loud speakers atop of the towers of local mosques. India, it would seem, did not want me to leave without my ears still ringing with the sound of this beautifully chaotic nation.

As the sun sank behind the rooftops, Joelle took me to Chennai beach for one final and unmistakably Indian experience. In the west a vast beach such as this, with its bath warm water, would almost certainly be strewn with the near naked bodies of sun seekers determined to take advantage of every last ray of light. But this is India, and nowhere is there a bikini or a sunbather. The men are wearing button up shirts, ironed slacks and shoes that would not look out of place in an office. The women are in sari’s and many are in traditional Islamic clothing. The waters edge is teeming with fully clothed people wading barefoot to feel the rush of the surf between their toes, the collective shrieks of their excitement dance and fade with the sound of the waves in the warm salty sea air.

After dinner I pack my bags for the final time and sit with Joelle on the roof of the Broadlands Lodging House that looks out over the rooftops of the city and across to a large mosque. In just a matter of hours I’ll be on a plane back home, and for that reason I’m in no hurry to go to bed.

Tomorrow will come in its own time, but for now I want to sit here and savour what remains of this final night under an Indian sky.

—

Auroville in controversy
Local concerns over Indian utopia
Frugal Traveler; In India, a low-budget journey frees the spirit

(Special thanks to Joelle and Laxman for their generosity and hospitality without which this adventure would never have happened.)

On a typical busy Indian road as well as the cars, trucks, buses, cyclists, motorbikes, mopeds and auto-rickshaws, it might not be uncommon to see an oxen pulling some kind of flatbed trailer, perhaps a cow or two, dogs, goats, monkeys, and even monks! This melee of speed, color, and smell, in breathless cotton wool heat is an experience that will almost certainly punctuate any Indian adventure. It will overwhelm and amaze you, but you’ll love it.

The busy streets of every Indian city I’ve encountered are terrifying yet at the same time somehow strangely enthralling. At the cusp of chaos they rush like blood to your head, and throb like arteries pumping the very essence of life through your body.

On a rented moped weaving through traffic, people, and livestock feels something like playing a video game. The larger the vehicle the more right it has to charge on through the traffic. Road markings are merely guides and signs are more like suggestions. The constant use of your horn, on any vehicle, is a requirement and thus a constant chorus of horns fills the air and mingles with the dust and fumes from sunrise until well after the sunset.

Riding a bus is no less of an interesting experience. There seems little order to roadside bus stops, and sometimes the buses don’t really stop at all, they simply slow down allowing those who wish to disembark to do so while at the same time fighting with those who are hurriedly trying to get on the bus which is also being swarmed by hawkers holding their goods up to the glassless windows while shouting.

Auto-rickshaws are also an essential part of the transport infrastructure and a ‘must-do’ experience. As a tourist the driver will always attempt to inflate the price you’ll pay, which even then would still be dirt cheap, but there’s no fun in simply paying what they ask. An animated negotiation over the price before the ride is a must. If the driver tells you the ride will cost 70 Rupees ($1.64) you laugh and walk away, perhaps waving your arms for dramatic effect. The driver might then drive up beside you to offer a lower price, maybe fifty Rupees. “Fifty? Ha! No. I do this route all the time I never pay fifty. Thirty, no more.” Better yet, and if you can pull it off with some swagger, learn how to say “I am not a tourist” in their local language as you walk away in ‘disgust.’ It’s not a lie, it’s an enhanced negotiation technique.

While on the road I ended up shooting some video clips using my digital camera. Initially I was simply going to post the clips on YouTube in a raw unedited format, but I ended compiling and producing a very short film (see below) in which I sped up the clips which I think goes some way to communicating the hectic and chaotic nature of the roads in India.

For those who might be interested in the technical aspect of this very short film it was shot entirely on my digital camera, a Canon Powershot S80 which I also use to take all my photographs. The film was compiled on a Mac using iMovie HD and various effects to increase the contrast and graininess of the clips. The music is a track called Ya Ali by Zubin.

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On the road in India (Quicktime version) & also on YouTube

One of the things I find most fascinating about mankind is how different cultures across the world have come to recognize and celebrate spirituality. India is often the place many people go to in order to explore aspects of this, and as much as it might be a cliche, it does seem to be the case that India is somehow more attune or open to the unfathomable.

Visiting temples and shrines here makes me feel like I’m caught up in a conversation among poets. I stand there and nod at random intervals hoping that nobody will realise that I’m faking it, and that I’m no poet, I don’t read poetry, and that it just isn’t really my thing. I do spirituality like I do golf. I know there’s a method and that practice will bring improvement, but on the rare occasions I find myself on a golf course I just slug the crap out of the little white ball in the hope that it will land somewhere relatively near the green.

Standing at the foot of one of the ornately decorated temple towers, called gopurams, I look up at the structure that dates back some 1,200 years and marvel at the fact that this was built to glorify the Gods. It is, in effect, a spectacular monument to mankind’s relationship with that which we cannot control or fully understand, to a drive that has inspired us to build radically different monuments all over the world and throughout all of time.

I can’t tell you much about the temples and shrines pictured here. Instead I’m sharing these photographs with you more for the opportunity to once again look upon them and wonder how it is that they came to be. How something that inspires such beauty can at the same time unleash such unholy horror.

Somewhere away from the politics and power struggles of the various religions of the world, there is a faith and connection in the hearts of many that is so moving and powerful that it has led the creation of some truly awe inspiring buildings, shrines, and art works. If God is a creative power, then maybe when we’re not blinded by our differences, mankind’s truest reflection of God is in our ability to create.

India is a very intense experience that can easily overwhelm you. Coming from the west I found myself once again looking around at the apparent chaos surrounding me and wondering how this country actually manages to get anything done. But here, far outside the safety of familiarity, it’s possible to find a sense of freedom and perhaps adventure which is both exhilarating and intoxicating. In the Hindi language the word for tomorrow and yesterday are the same, which is perhaps the best indication of how things are in this part of the world.

This trip to India has been entirely different to the first time I came to this part of the world back in 2004. I was prepared for the culture shock to some extent, but as Joelle says, it still takes a couple of days to get into the groove of India. Home luxuries like refrigerators, reliable electricity, wireless internet access, air conditioning, and plumed toilets were largely absent on this trip. However, the liberation from this years seemingly unending British winter was more than welcome. “You’ll never hear me complain about heat.” I told Joelle.

My first mistake was bringing so many white T shirts and light colored summer clothes. White things don’t stay white for long and it would seem I still have to perfect the technique of hand-washing things using buckets and the floor!

I should also mention that the Srinivasa wasn’t the only place I ate. Joelle and Laxman prepared many colorful and thoroughly enjoyable meals, some of which we ate in equally colorful company!

On one afternoon while Joelle and Laxman were doing their daily walk around Arunachala, the “holy hill,” I borrowed the moped and decided to go exploring. A dirt track behind Laxman’s house that headed away from the mountain looked enticing to me. I figured that even without a map it would be impossible for me to get lost as I could always just head back in the direction of Arunachala at which point I would find the road that circles the mountain.

I found my way to a small road along which there were rows or palm trees. I kept stopping the moped not to take pictures as much as just soak up the fact that I was enjoying being off the map in India, or at least off my map, not that I actually had a map of course, but you get the point I’m sure.

As I sat there on the moped looking across the fields of palm trees and Papayas I knew that this would be one of those afternoons that would become solidified in my memory, minutes weren’t merely passing, they were being carved out of time itself.

A little way down the road I came upon a small village. The first house along the road was painted in bright colors and so I decided to stop a take a photograph, but no sooner had I taken the camera out of my pocket than a smiling man started walking across a nearby field calling out to me and waving. He approached me and quickly established that the colorful house was his. Neither of us spoke the others language so we engaged in one of those conversations where we both spoke in our native tongue while making exaggerated hand gestures and nodding.

He invited me to step inside his home which was painted dark blue, sparsely furnished, and surprisingly cool on this scorching afternoon. He showed me his kitchen and seemed especially proud of his TV. He then led me outside to the steps onto his roof where he reached up and grabbed the branch of the overhanging tree taking some kind of fruit from it. Speaking Tamil enthusiastically and gave me a few of the tiny fruits and indicated that I should eat them. “Ah, we eat these?” I asked. He stepped back and wobbled his head some more while smiling broadly. I looked at them and thought to myself that I simply had to eat this whatever it was, to refuse would be a little rude.

“You’re not trying to kill me are you?” I asked, feeling a little like someone on a travel documentary. “Are you vegetarian?” I continued. “I only ask because I’m concerned you might be a white meat kind of guy.” I joked as if for the benefit of an imaginary camera crew. He then stepped forward and took the tiny fruit from my hand and broke it open with his hand, then ate one and again motioned to me to eat. With that I smiled and said “Gesundheit” as I ate whatever that was he gave me. He seemed pleased and said something which I hoped was “I’m so glad you enjoyed that” rather than “Ha, you fool, now you’re going to die!”

In truth I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. In my experience people in the rural villages are always happy to see tourists who have dared stray from the guide book. Smiling man was now waving and shouting at the entire village from his roof top while pointing at me and getting more of those strange nutty fruit things to eat. I might be here for a while, I thought to myself as other villagers started to arrive and talk to me in Tamil.

I stayed with the smiling man and his friends for a while, before eventually shaking everyones hand and saying goodbye as I made my way to the moped. A number of them were talking to me at once, perhaps under the notion that more than one person speaking might somehow make them more understandable to me. I smiled politely and then began to rev the bike, signaling my imminent departure.

At that point one of the men pointed back in the direction I had come from. “This road is a dead end?” I asked, in English, which, of course, they couldn’t understand. “I should turn around then?” Much nodding and wobbling of heads was happening, so in the belief that the villagers were helpfully telling me the road went nowhere, I turned the moped around at which point of the men got on the back and pointed forward while saying something which sounded like “Kalabala jalafalkarootala mallapagaboolika.”

I assumed he was just hitching a ride so I took off, but as we neared a dirt track and he tapped me on the shoulder indicating that I should take the track, which I did. Well, it was a hot day and if I could help a guy out by giving him a ride why not right?

At a small house the man jumped off the bike and motioned for me to park. I parked the moped and followed him to his back yard. He said something while smiling and pointing at the trees then he rummaged around a few pots in his yard and produced a large knife. Maybe in any other situation such a large knife in the hands of a stranger might make me somewhat nervous, but this man seemed to happy to be a knife wielding killer. He walked toward me smiling and still pointing at the tree while talking. Then he tied the knife to a long stick and cut down a coconut, open it, poured the milk into a cup and gave it to me to drink. As I drank it he cut down a small bunch of bananas and a large papaya fruit which he then presented to me as a gift, such generosity to strangers would be almost unheard of in the west. He introduced me to his son and we talked as best we could for a few more minutes before I got back on the moped and continued my ride.

I rode through several other villages, stopping to take pictures here and there, but generally just enjoying the beautiful hot sunny weather and being free as a bird.

As I rode through little villages made up of mud huts and rudimentary one room concrete homes, people would wave at me and shout out “Hi!” or “Hello!” then laugh when I returned the greeting. Children stopped me and often insisted that I take a picture, excitedly shouting “photo, photo!” They would pose in stiff upright stances with their hands by their sides like little soldiers standing to attention, then the moment the photograph was taken they would hurriedly crowd around me to see themselves on the screen of the camera.

A little way down the road I came upon a small village with a fairly imposing church. In such an overtly Hindu area seeing a church was extremely unusual, especially considering the fact there are some 52 holy sites around Arunachala. So I stopped for a moment just to look at it from the roadside.

A villager then approached me and said “Helping?” which I took to be an offer of help, so I asked him if the church was a Christian church “Yes,” He said “Catholic church.” With that he turned around and shouted at a child who scurried away as if to get someone. He then indicated that I could take a closer look, so I parked the bike and walked up to the square building that looked bland when compared to the many ornate Hindu temples in the area.

At that point the child who had run to get someone emerged with a lady who had a very large key with which she opened the church. She smiled at me and pointed at the door saying something in Tamil. Children then came over joined by other villagers and before I knew it I was having a guided tour (in smiling Tamil) of this one room Roman Catholic church (called St. Joseph’s) accompanied by delighted children who laughed at every word I said. After a while I bid the villagers farewell, got back on the moped and took to the road once again.

My friend Mick Singh once told me the hardest thing about going to India is getting there. At the time I didn’t really understand what he meant. Now I do.