ionainindia

I've a sense that the last few days have been singularly uneventful, but that's probably just the off-shoot of mild boredom. At an earlier stage, I'd pondered going to Dalhousie for a couple of days but later decided it was better to stay put and be 'restful' in Mcleod. It has been nice catching up with people. I've been white-scarved all over again by one of my old pupils, and drunk enough cups of chai and coffee for a fortnight in just a few days. I've also acquired the odd RE artefact - some tibetan prayer flags, and a little prayer wheel.

I was also quite pleased to get a camera case - sold in support of the Tibetan Children's Village (NGO working with orphans) and considerably more colourful than those on offer at the airport.

On day 2 in Mcleod, I ran into Jo (mentioned in the previous entry) who had hooked up with an American girl, and had the pleasure of showing them the way to the waterfall in Bhagsu, one of the more attractive and gentle little walks locally. Later that day the rains set in, and there's been a considerable portion of rain each day since so not ideal weather for further exploration (hence the overdosing on chai).

The plan is to take a bus or three to Amritsar tomorrow, revisit the golden temple, and if the weather's up to it watch the daily border closing ceremony in Waggah, before making the overnight train journey back to Delhi on Sunday/Monday... Partly retracing old tracks, but aiming to make decent use of my camera too.

Well I guess I have had an eventful few days, but I’ll slide over some of that, except to remark that ill health obliged me to spend a good day or so in bed, and I’m determined to take things a little easier now.

I enjoyed my stay in Mandi. It’s considerably smaller than Shimla, almost untouristy and delightfully affordable. – I stayed in a gorgeous hotel, that was reputedly the former maharajah’s palace, which boasted cast-iron bedsteads, a beautifully clean bathroom and BBC World. The management were very kind to me, and I even met the owner (not an everyday affair).

Having been unwell, I treated myself to a taxi up to Rewalsar Lake, about an hour’s drive from Mandi, and a place of pilgrimage for Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs. On arrival, I refused the offer of ‘fish feed’ from one woman on the street, doubtful whether there’d actually be any fish. I needn’t have been so cynical – this fish were, I can honestly say, quite remarkable. The lake itself is not large – a walk around it’s perimeter need not occupy more than 5-6 minutes. But these must be the best fed fish in India, and they would come swarming, bodies half out of the water, toward the source of food (the latest lot of generous pilgrims). Really, I tried to capture some of this madness on camera, but nothing could do justice to the real thing.

Up in Rewalsar, I managed to confirm that I am not so altogether out of the norm as a lone female British traveler – encountering Jo, I’d guess about 10 years my senior, and currently retraining as a physio. We shared a cup of chai before it was time for me to get back to the taxi-wallahs, and agreed to try and meet up again at the bus station yesterday, as we were both aiming for McLeod Ganj as next stop.

Well when I reached the bus station, I was told a lot of conflicting things about buses, all of which seemed to add up to my having at least 2 hours to wait for a bus. Then a private bus pulled up, bound direct for McLeod Ganj (and many terminate at Dharmsala, requiring an additional half hour journey uphill by alternative means). As the arrangement with Jo hadn’t been firm, I figured best to take the bus on offer. This may well have been a bad decision as the route to Dharmsala was really round the houses, my legs were fairly soundly crushed into the back of the bench in front, and all in all it was a pretty uncomfortable 7 and a half hour journey. Still I made it in one piece (not to be sneezed at on some of these routes), and got a glimpse of women tea-picking along the way.

I’d only been in McLeod for about 10 minutes, when I was identified – “you were here before – you went on the trek” (this may have helped me get a better price on a rather nice room in a guest house looking out over McLeod). More impressively, on returning to one of my favourite old haunts – Khana Nirvana – for their Open Mike night, my waiter took one look at me and said “Iona”. He was one of my old conversation students, and had only got a job there a couple of months ago. I’ll go back and have a proper chat with him before I leave, but I really was impressed because he didn’t even have to think about my name (and I confess I’m absolutely terrible with my students’ names here – I can remember about two names, and the rest I always want to call Tenzin or Lhamo (very common Tibetan names)).

Had a good healthy breakfast this morning – it’s such a pleasure to come back to a place where I already know so many good cafes and restaurants – and ready to go for a wander about, and enjoy a few days gentle rest (having clearly put my body through a bit too much for its little self to cope with lately).

Well, I reckon I've walked towards 12km up and down today, not helped by my capacity to mistake a full circle for a straight line (apparently), but I have enjoyed myself.

This time yesterday I was feeling fed up to the back teeth with men, Kashmiri men to be precise - though nothing to do with my ex. I suspect this may be the curse of having sung chai's praises in my last post. The Kashmiri version of tea is somewhat different, containing no tea at all, but rather a mixture of cardamom and cinnamon - highly sugared nonetheless. It's not something you can order in the average cafe, so when offered a cup two days running, I agreed happily enough. Now I won't concern myself with the stories of Tuesday (besides to say I spent most of the day in the company of a generally agreeable guy who shares his name with a character from Lord of the Rings, and looks much like you would expect if you cloned (not the right word) George Clooney and my ex, who was relatively well-behaved).

Tuesday evening I left Delhi, via a delayed train (another 11pm start) to Kalka, and arrived in Shimla around 11am yesterday morning, on the delightful, scenic 'toy-train'. It really was a beautiful journey, and I overcame my tiredness to enjoy it to the full - marvelling at the feats of engineering involved, and trying to capture some of it with my camera (a tough challenge). Arriving in Shimla, I took a taxi to the lifts (designed to make the steep uphill journey to the town's historic centre rather easier) and picked up a tout along the way. The guidebooks warn about this, but I took the path of least resistance and went to see what turned out to be a rather nice hotel with a lovely view across to the cathedral, and a reasonable price. My only cause to regret this, was that it turned out also to be home to an apparently reputable guy by the name of Moushtak (apparently his English friends like to call him mushy peas) whose business is in organising - and at times guiding - tours in Himachal Pradesh, Ladakh and Kashmir. From his book of recommendations - which by a slightly odd turn of events I had already flicked through - he is clearly rather good at this. He was described as friendly, reliable, knowledgeable &c &c &c.  Yet I was quite quick to decide that I actually didn't like him. He rather foisted his company upon me, which was okay to the extent that it meant I was able to find the Joghu temple without difficulty (for which I must be all the more appreciative after today's 3-4km detour) but it was pretty much 10pm before I managed to get rid of him.

He was, I will say, a little different to most Kashmiri men I've met (if not all of them), and I learned part of the explanation from him. Despite coming from a village of about 250 families (2500 people - large families), he has two degrees including a teaching qualification. Now most Kashmiri traders have only a smattering of education - their spoken English may be very good, but their ability to read or write is generally negligible. Apparently this is because they come from houseboat families, where good money has generally been made through tourism which requires the ability to charm but not to write - so there is little to motivate them to take advantage of the education available.

Now part of what wound me up about Moushtak was that he thought he could read people quite well. If this was the case then I'm really defeated to understand why he didn't see (perhaps didn't want to see) that my body language was telling him to go away. Now I have to say, it is a really difficult thing to tell someone who is not actually being rude to you, to leave you alone - at least I find it that way. But for that reason, it is all the more important as a people-skill to recognise when someone would rather be on their own. Just an hour ago, I was accosted on the street by a local man who was very polite, after a couple of minutes of conversation told me directly that he'd started talking to me because he thought perhaps I was in want of company, but within another minute had assessed that I was quite happy to be left to my own devices, and excused himself. So it is possible. But for me to understand quite how Moushtak has such amazing references (though he is I'm confident more honest than many Kashmiri men) when he so clearly failed me, defeats me. I rather regret reference to the hilliness of Sheffield (not mountainous in comparison to Shimla) given that - as at a friend's invitation he is due in England at new year, and possibly relocating to teach maths (one of the severe shortage subjects) in Manchester thereafter - of all the Kashmiris I've met he is the most likely to try and seek me out back home!

Ah well, at least I've achieved a Kashmiri free day today.

The 12km took me to the old Vice-Regal lodge. As the former summer-capital of the British Raj, Shimla is filled with bizarrely British-style buildings, from the mock-tudor police-station and Hawksmoor style cathedral, to buildings reminiscent of the old gardenhouse at Swannick. The Vice-Regal lodge, host to at least one significant pre-independence conference, is alternately described as 'English Renaissance' and 'Baronial Scottish' - make what you like of that. What really impressed me was the description of it's inbuilt fire-safety system. Apparently there are 10 large tanks of water in the roof, pipes throughout the building (concealed behind the beautiful walnut panelling) and at the end... wax. So when the heat is too great (and of course this particular genius will only work somewhere sufficiently temperate) the wax melts and out flows the water - dowsing the fire. A primitive sprinkler system - never yet needed, but regularly tested. 

It took me nearly 4 hours to find my way to the Lodge, though that included nearly an hour at the State museum, where my favourite exhibits were some exquisite miniature paintings - a style of art for which I have a high appreciation. Fortunately I was able to refuel with an aloo paratha, and it took little over an hour to walk back. Some detour!

Best sign out, and cross my fingers my email is working again (there seem to be some connection problems here).

Next stop should be Mandi, gateway to the Kullu valley.

I don't think, even with the best laid plans, it would be possible to feel anything less than wiped out on arrival in Delhi. It didn't help that the plane was delayed by an hour at take-off (but on time arriving) so the crew tried to force-feed us a meal at gone midnight, and then another at 4:40am, leaving very little time with lights out. Virgin seem to have redone their fleet with advantages (in-flight movies on demand, rather than starting in unison) and disadvantages (poor engineering in the flashy toilet cubicles - someone didn't do adequate calculations on the pressure difference, and the water sprays everywhere, leaving everything "very dirty" to quote the lady in the neighbouring seat).

I was amused that the guy at the Thomas Cook exchange counter referred me to the State Bank of India with my travellers' cheques - because they had a better rate. Apparently he only told me this because my cheques were Thomas Cook ones.

I gave short shrift to a guy who wanted to 'help' me to the pre-paid taxi counter, while offering me a cut-price journey (100 Rs instead of 250). It's difficult because I think there's meant to be some semi-polite way to handle such pestering (there are ways and ways of saying 'no, thank you'), but I haven't quite found it. It was only as I was on my way into town - in what felt like a fantastically slow taxi - took about 45 minutes to go 22 km - that I recalled the tales of people robbed on the way from the airport because they didn't take the pre-paid taxi, and they were driven to the middle of nowhere with no defence. So perhaps my bolshiness was appropriate.

I checked into the Hotel Shelton, where the receptionist made a very poor attempt at flirting with me, but I did get the price down by 40%. After a bucket of cold water (as opposed to a shower), and a 2-hour nap, I revived myself, collected my bits and pieces, and headed off to the international ticket office at New Delhi rail station. Walking there, I tagged onto the back of a crocodile of foreigners, and found myself slightly freer from the usual barrage of calls from folk keen to sell me their wares. (I did laugh to myself as one bloke waved a badminton racket under my nose, saying 'you like?' - can there really be tourists who would invest?)

It was actually the first time I've been in New Delhi station (I've taken trains from 2-3 of the city's stations but not this one), and I was slightly surprised to see how run down it is. Admittedly it's not nearly so crazy as the Old Delhi station, but I think I falsely imagined 'New' might have some greater resonance in the capital. It didn't take long to find the ticket office (which serves international people rather than international trains) and I was more than familiar enough with the booking procedures (the forms are horrendously puzzling first-time round) so I was soon sorted with a ticket for Kalka departing tomorrow night (and arriving at 4:45am, or 12.15am BST), which connects to the picturesque narrow-gauge train up to Shimla. In fact I was so impressed by the efficiency, I decided to book another ticket and went through the whole pallaver again (with a slightly longer queue wait this time).

With these successes behind me, I decided the next requirement was a good cup of chai. This was a good decision. Working my way back down the main bazaar of Pahr Ganj - avoiding the array of cars, motor-cycles and rickshaws trying to squeeze through - I found myself at the Appetite restaurant where I revived myself over a piece of cheesecake and the marvellous species which is Indian chai. Pondering it's distinctive taste, I wondered if the sugar effectively caramelises during the process - tea, milk and sugar (and spices) are heated together, then strained, producing a drink which in its intensity and sweetness reminds me of liquer chocolates.

And now I'm aiming to pass the few hours before I can legitimately go to bed (in hope of a good night's sleep) by catching up on email, checking travel plans and so on.

Although no longer in India, I am now teaching my mother how to blog, so posting to prove my own continued existence and show her how to use the basic tools. It's almost the anniversary of my first trip, and kind of odd to find it all so far away.

So, Iona is almost not in India anymore...

I've been on the move since my last entry. Stopping in Mcleod Ganj long enough collect three scarves with the Dalai Lama's blessing (courtesy of my students), one Tibetan folk song, and to not quite celebrate my birthday (beyond a couple of beers with one friend, which actually is quite a celebration in Indian terms), on Wednesday I left the hills and descended to the plains.

First stop, after a long day's bus journey, was Amritsar, site of Shri Harmandar Sahib, aka the Golden Temple, and the principal shrine of Sikhism. With its roof and upper storey covered entirely in gilded copper, it really is quite a sight to behold. I opted to stay on site (basic dormitory accommodation is available free to foreigners), but caused more confusion when I also chose to take dinner in the communal kitchens. This was perfectly okay (the kitchens are open to all, partly as a means to break down caste distinctions), but I think quite unusual for them to have a Westerner dining in.

The following day I made a visit to the nearby memorial gardens which mark the spot where one British general and his soldiers shot dead several hundred unarmed peaceful protesters one evening in 1919. One young child, keen to practice his English, asked me where I was from; I felt very uncomfortable being English in such a place.

An overnight train ride took me on to Moradabad. The train was sparsely occupied, and for a while my sole companion in the compartment was a chap in his forties who I suspect had been drinking. He kept calling me madam, trying to offer me chicken (refusing to believe I was vegetarian, even though I'd told him in Hindi), and eventually telling fellow passengers (before we reached their stop) that I was mad. - That was because I had finally lost my temper; there's little more difficult than someone who is feigning politeness and all the while you can sense they're undressing you in their mind, and thinking lewd thoughts. Yelling at him publicly was the best way to make sure he didn't try anything. And it largely worked. --My fellow passengers seemed sympathetic.

The train reached Moradabad just after four in the morning, so I didn't have the easiest sleep. I waited at the station till 6, and then caught a bus for APK.

It was good to be back amongst familiar faces. Indeed it would feel strange to be in India and not see such friends. And once again I had achieved the feat of arriving in time for a festival: Teej.

Now as far as I could understand (and of course it will be possible to find a great deal more information online*) this is a festival for women. Married women dress up in all their finery, paint their hands (and sometimes feet) with henna (a significant part of the traditional Indian wedding ceremony), sing songs and swing (on a rope from a tree that is, in case you were looking for other meanings). Unmarried women do likewise. But if I understood correctly, the married ones are celebrating being married, and the unmarried are hoping to find a husband. Of course this could be a misinterpretation, but this seems to be the one time in the year an unmarried woman can henna her hands without people assuming she's just married. ... And so I have two beautifully hennaed hands. *For example, here: http://www.festivalsofindia.in/teej

I left APK again this morning, and with a little bit of delay, arrived in Delhi, and found an inexpensive hotel room with excellent air conditioning. - The monsoon has been somewhat disturbed this year, and although I have witnessed heavy rain since leaving Mcleod, the weather has been largely sunny and humid. -- Good preparation for my return home, perhaps? The heat, not the aircon.

I suspect the rest of my stories are better told in speaking, or perhaps I'm just tired of sitting in front of a computer terminal (it is warm in here). So I'll love you and leave you... and see most of you again sometime in the coming months.

Iona in India, over and out.

As I entered my last week in Mcleod Ganj, I suddenly remembered all the things I wanted to do and see that had lain forgotten about somewhere in a dark part of my mind for the previous six weeks... but to begin closer to where I left off I should go back to last weekend...

Music has been quite a feature of my time in Mcleod, since I discovered that one of the cafes (a community project which provides training and employment for tibetan refugees) runs a very friendly open mike night (only without the microphone) every Monday evening.

I didn't sing the first time I was there (I was feeling a bit fragile as it wasn't long after Umar and I broke up --an unblogged event, but we won't dwell on that - other than to say I'd have to preface any account with 'hell hath no fury...'), but I found the courage towards the end of the second session. Afterwards I arranged to have breakfast and swop songs with one American girl who's also into folk-singing.

While I've not been at Khana Nirvana (the aforementioned cafe whose menu offers liberation by mastication, khana is the hindi for 'eating' or 'food') every week, it was through there that I got my invitation to teach Hark the Herald. And late last week, when I was handed a leaflet about a benefit concert - to raise money for one little girl from the slums who has been diagnosed with a hole in the heart - this was followed by an invitation to join the line-up.

The actual 'do', last Saturday night, was a little chaotic in the organisation (not sure if it was too many cooks, or just not enough clarity about who was supposed to do what) but very good-natured and well-attended. One girl (I think because she saw I'd no instrument) tried to tell me it would be better to perform with someone else, which I was slightly affronted by, and then someone volunteered (in a quite persistent way) to play guitar for me. This was quite amusing, because although I do play a little myself, most songs I know the complete words to are not known to the average guitarist. But eventually we worked out that we both knew Dido's Hunter.

In fact I first came across Hunter at a folk-event, and only realised it was a modern and fairly popular song as I was crossing Lambeth bridge one day on the way to work and heard the familar tune blaring out of a car window (so I googled the first line and discovered Dido).

The performance went down okay, despite technical issues (a drooping microphone, and a not-too-skilled sound engineer), and I followed it with a couple of other traditional folksongs un-miked. Afterwards one Scotswoman came up to thank me, saying it was the first folk music she'd heard in ten years and how it'd made her think of home (she's living in India, practising some form of Buddhism these days). And the next day someone came up to me on the street, saying 'You sang last night; you're a very real person.' A sentence which is still giving me pause for thought.

To cut a long story slightly shorter, I found myself thinking I really should learn some local folk music while I'm here. Yesterday I had my Indian singing-lesson, so I now have two Punjabi folk songs (one asking for rain, and one celebrating the monsoon's arrival) and a devotional Hindu song, said to be a favourite of Ghandi, under my belt, and a great admiration for my teacher who seems to be a master of many instruments though he talked his own violin-playing down.

This afternoon, one of my students is going to teach me a tibetan folk-song. This is likely to be a bigger challenge, as I barely know how to say thank-you in Tibetan. Indeed when I first asked about learning, I was told I'd left it too late... so we'll have to see what happens.

Speaking of leaving things, I plan to leave Mcleod on Tuesday, and am organising my lesson hand-over today. It will be sad to bid my class farewell, but I'm glad the new volunteers are enthusiastic and ready to follow up where I leave off.

Now I must sign off - I should just have time for a piece of delicious chocolate walnut cake before I head off to class.

So an update is somewhat overdue…

I’ve just been composing dialogues so my students can do some listening comprehension, though that assumes I can collar a couple of English-speaking volunteers to help with today’s lesson. It’s one of the disadvantages of having just the students’ text book and none of the extra resources (cassettes, teacher’s guide, workbook, multiple copies of the student book) that I’m reliant on producing my own material at times.

I gave my class their end of month test last week. Classes were cancelled during the Dalai Lama’s teachings, then it was his birthday (July 6th) and then an international day of prayer for peace (Tuesday) so ends of months and attendance in general has been a little confused. I was very pleased to find that two of my students scored a remarkable 70+ out of 80. Others fared less well, though this was partly because I had half a dozen new students at the beginning of July, so they’d only had three lessons worth to go off.

It isn’t easy to teach effectively since a student who comes to three out of five lessons in a week is showing relatively good attendance. But as I was asked to teach them how to fill out absence records yesterday, I’m hoping the trend may improve.

I did some rather different teaching earlier this week. Cath, a South African writer generally based in London (whose husband, a documentary-maker, is involved with Jamie Oliver’s latest project – all very interesting) is teaching English down in Gangchen Kyshong, where the Tibetan Government in Exile has its offices. Her class are very proficient, but they’re training to be translators so they need a very broad grasp of the English language.

As their cultural knowledge is fairly narrow, Cath had the idea of teaching them through song lyrics, beginning with Hark the Herald Angels Sing. When we met, she had just got permission from the head of the translation programme – a monk who was the Dalai Lama’s translator and personal secretary for 16 years – but she wanted my help with the singing. I think she was down on her own singing skills, since as far as I could work out they were quite adequate.

Anyway, Wednesday morning found me making my way down the hill (I guess Gangchen Kyshong is about 400m below McLeod Ganj) ahead of the 10 o’clock class. They had already gone over the words, so my task was to teach them the tune. I’ve heard a bit of traditional tibetan music since coming here, (I’d heard some of the throat-singing on CD beforehand) but I wasn’t sure how they’d take to the Western scales. – Though I should’ve realised that living around here they would hear enough Western music to be familiar with it.

In the end I was very impressed, with some encouragement to breathe deeply and sing out, and the odd mistake (especially in line 4, ‘God and sinners…’ where some had a tendency to skip the three-tone jump between ‘God’ and ‘and’) we completed a full rendition for the chap in charge, who then offered Cath three extra lesson slots as he was due to make a short trip to Delhi. So clearly he appreciated the singing.

The biggest problem was actually that the words of the third verse had been transcribed in the wrong order, viz:

Mild he laid his glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Risen with healing in his wings
Light and life to all he brings.
Hail the Son of Righteousness
Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace

At first I thought it was the descant putting me off, as you will find the lines do still scan out of order. But it didn’t detract from the fun.

I wonder what surprises the next week will bring.

Last time I posted, I was planning a lesson on dating agencies. In the end this was quite fun, though two monks walked out after the first ten minutes - maybe they'd decided it wasn't relevant. My students found the reading material quite challenging; I suspect because they don't get much practice. But as I told them, I find climbing mountains very difficult, but if I don't try I won't get anywhere.

This week has ended up class-less as all the students have either opted for a holiday, or decided to attend the Dalai Lama's teaching sessions. -- He's in town this week giving a commentary on the way of life of a Boddhisatva (someone who has reached enlightenment, and 'come back' to the world to help others).

So I've found myself at a bit of a loose end. Alternative activities so far have included watching the football (not so easy to get Wimbledon here or perhaps I'd be trying that too), helping the Executive Director of a young NGO sort the wording for their web site, designing jewellery, and just hanging around with friends drinking lots of chai and/or coffee. But I think I may have to cut down on the latter as my body is beginning to protest.

The monsoon has yet to arrive in full force, but by the time I dragged myself out of bed this morning, I saw the clouds were down and around the town. There's been some pretty powerful lightning since, and I'm very much hoping my soles are sufficiently rubbery to counteract the metal tip of my marvellous umbrella.

The umbrella perhaps deserves an entry of its own. Purchased after I first announced the arrival of the monsoon (though in reality that storm was a mere foretaste of things to come), one friend berated it "why do you need a family-size umbrella?" At the time of that comment, umbrella and I had just been reunited after a near 48-hour separation; such was the value of this marvellous beast that a fellow teacher had stolen it from the LHA library while I was busy with my class.

Something over a meter tall, and with a good four inches of metal spike at the bottom, the umbrella happily serves as walking stick, sunshade, or weapon of self-defence (handy when making the way up the dark and winding road that leads me home each night - not that anyone has actually attacked me), as well as providing excellent protection from the intense rain as and when it comes.

It is also wonderfully coloured, with panels in different shades of blue, red, yellow, green and purple. As I told my conversation group one day, my umbrella is a very good friend.

Another dimension of my current India experience is the loss of my watch. It is not strictly lost, rather the battery stopped working something over a week ago. Normally I would opt for a replacement battery, but since friends advised me that staff at the one shop in Mcleod Ganj that may sell the right battery are unlikely to have the skill to remove the watch-back and fit it, I decided the better course of action would be to adopt an Indian attitude to time. -- Without a watch I have all the time in the world (but also the risk of missing my classes, so I admit to a slight reliance on other people's time-pieces and/or my mobile phone).

Just a quick post, as I'm meant to be preparing for today's class. -- I'm about to finish off a unit on plans and ambitions with an article on dating agencies! I was in two minds about whether to do this with them (especially after some of my students have been asking what I'd say if a Tibetan proposed to me -- the question took on a more bizarre form when they began speculating over whether if 'he' first rescued me from a terrifying and life-threatening situation the answer might change), but have decided to plough ahead since it should at least capture their attention. It does mean typing out and photocopying the necessary section from the textbook though.

At the weekend, about twenty LHA volunteers, students and staff did the local trek to Triund. The experience led me to conclude that I'm distinctly unfit, but this is probably exaggerated by my tibetan companions. While I was huffing and puffing my way up (and had pretty much decided to turn back one hour in, but as my bag, and room key, was being carried by another trekker who was a good bit further ahead, this wasn't a simple option) they were steaming up the hillside with no difficulty at all. Where in my experience coming down is infinitely easier than going up (if a little harsh on the knee joints) it seems the tibetan experience is entirely opposite.

Saturday's trekking took about 4.5 hours to go from Mcleod Ganj (1700m) to Triund (2900m). I was amazed by the chai stalls on the way - not that they should exist, but that they should also be selling coke, limca and other soft drinks that were somehow carried up in crates of glass bottles. It was only at the top someone pointed out the donkeys who clearly do all the relevant hard work.

I saw more ladybirds than I think I've seen in the average year (I was born amid a plague of aphids). Maybe that inspired my recital of Alexander Beetle (though I've always imagined him to be black), as we sat in the candle-lit hut which sheltered us through a cold if not stormy night, sharing stories, jokes and songs. We were actually quite lucky with the weather, as only one heavy shower hit us on the way up, and though we were forced to shelter from the low cloud and rain when we first reached Triund, the clouds cleared for a beautiful evening.

On Sunday morning, we made the additional ascent to the Snow Line Cafe. Despite its name, it does not quite sit aligned with the Himalayan glaciers. I would estimate SLC is about 3200m, and the actual snowline is around 3350. But it would have been a further 2-3km trek down and up to reach the real thing. And the views were magnificent enough from the achieved elevation.

Sunburn aside, and I suffered despite attempts to cover up, as Friday and Saturday's miserable weather - not quite full on monsoon, but largely overcast, had led me to leave the sunscreen down in Mcleod Ganj, my body seems to have recovered remarkably well. But I'm yet to be convinced to join the next LHA trip come July.

Right, better get back to my lesson planning!

This is a riddle request: One of the ways I've found to pass time here is by setting and solving riddles, but my stores have run out. So if you know any good ones (and I prefer concept-based ones rather than language ones as my fellow riddlers are not native English-speakers) then please use the comments box, or send them direct by email. Ta!

By the way, does anyone know what one food in the world you NEED a spoon for?

Whatever I was going to write has been put quite out of my mind by the onset of the rains. Since I stepped inside the internet cafe about forty minutes ago, the heavens have opened, and I find myself mesmorised by the sound of the rain, and the strange cool breeze that accompanies it. I recall saying something foolish about wanting to see the monsoon, but when I think it may mean another seven weeks of this (till I fly home) I'm not so sure.

Clearly I should have chosen Tibet for my destination. In conversation classes (4-5pm, Monday-Friday) I'm regularly asked if I want to go to Tibet. Yesterday we established that the virtue of the Tibetan summer is the absence of monsoon. Otherwise the climate there is quite similar to Dharmsala. - i.e. very cold in winter, and not too hot in the summer (though upwards of 30 degrees).

Sometimes conversation classes are quite hard-going, especially if I have a mix of students who I have talked to before and those I haven't. There is only so many times you can explain working in a bookshop, or comment on differences between culture in England and India. I did have a slightly more successful session yesterday though, when I finally met a monk who was able to talk about Buddhism without assuming that wanting to learn means wanting to practice. But then the discussion got hi-jacked by a visitor from a Himachal Pradesh education institute, who was sitting in to see different methodological approaches to learning English (especially native-speakers' pronunciation). He had some interesting things to say about the connections between Hinduism and Buddhism, but once he got going he was very hard to interrupt, and I felt my Tibetan students were not really following what he was saying. -- It's not just westerners who struggle with the Indian-English accent.

Today I face a new challenge: teaching. One of the other volunteers has decided to leave early, so I'm taking on the pre-intermediate class. I'm quite terrified by the prospect of teaching English grammar (what do I know about grammar?) but I've been given a textbook and some reassurance so hopefully I will survive to tell the tale (and teach another twenty lessons)!

Have been delighted to discover that though I thought I'd lost the last post completely when the electricity supply cut out on Friday, it was in fact saved here on LJ.

So what have I been up to since then? Conversation on Friday turned out to be a pretty informal affair, sitting around with a group of young tibetans and discussing their favourite food and my life story (not in full you understand). Somehow I got from there to being guest of the week on LHA's web cast, so you can hear me talking all about my first week in Dharmsala and previous stuff at APK with a quick visit to www.lhaindia.org. Well okay, not that quick as (a) the recording has not yet been made available and (b) the show is an hour long so you'll need a bit of time on hand. But nonetheless the chance is there.

That did entail an early start on Saturday, as the show was recorded from half eight, and I also had to negotiate changing rooms. I've moved out of my hovel at the Green hotel (whose internet facilities I'm still making use of as they're the fastest in town so far as I can find, plus they do an excellent chocolate walnut cake) and into the LHA rest and retreat house. The virtues of the later include low rent, a reasonably equipped shared kitchen, and possibly the cleanest bathroom in India. Downsides would include the elevation, as it's a good few minutes walk up the Dharamkot road, I suspect the steepest road in all Dharmsala. Let's just say I'm not inclined to eat all three meals-a-day up there.

This morning I arrived at church - McLeod Ganj started out as an escape for hot Brits in Raj times, named after the one-time governor of Punjab, and consequently host to a very British-looking old stone church, albeit a good kilometer's walk from the main body of MG - to find I had just missed the English service. So I sat through the Hindi one instead. I couldn't even figure what the readings were, though I suspect the preacher was working through the different texts since he started with the 'israeli log' (for which I reckoned Israelites) and kept talking for a good 35 minutes. I sat at the back where I was joined by a regular influx (and consequent outflux) of Indian tourists curious to see what was going on.

There are a lot of Indian tourists here at the moment, especially since today (Sunday) is the weekly holiday, and its hot down on the plains just now. Plus I heard something about it being the full moon of the fourth month, said to be auspicious - though for whom I'm really not sure. Anyway by the time I walked the kilometer back from church the roads were backed up with traffic, buses reversing down the hills and all manner of chaos for the couple of traffic police on duty.

This afternoon I met up with one of the conversation students, keen to make the best of her opportunity to get a real English accent. Between attempting to explain the trinity without becoming heretical (she asked me the name of 'the Christian god', I'd had a hard enough job to explain church), and getting her to say 'builder' (her parents' profession) rather than b-ewe-il-del, we had an interesting chat. And I've promised her some extra time after the normal Monday-Friday conversation classes too.

Beyond that it looks like I'm set to get more involved doing things with LHA, so to see what I'm getting up to, do check out their web site.

This afternoon

Nearly three months on from my last entry, and ionainindia is back, or at least Iona is back in India.

I arrived in Delhi last Saturday morning, and was relieved to find it not quite so unbearably hot as I had anticipated. Maybe this was a side effect of the early onset of monsoon in Mumbai and Gujrat, or just some weird aberration, but it was good for me.

I overnighted in Delhi, before taking the overnight bus to McLeod Ganj, a settlement in the foothills of the Himalayas, and home to the Tibetan Government in Exile. At this (v hot) season, it is wise to stay away from the plains, but it was still a slight surprise to find that here approx 1700 metres above sea-level it was raining. Dharmsala (of which McLeod Ganj is an off-shoot) has a reputation for the second heaviest monsoon season in all India, but to my relief this was just an ordinary early morning shower.

The views on the journey up here were quite spectacular at points, from Kangam to Dharmsala (which is a good 500m lower than McLeod Ganj) it was a fine morning, and despite my sleepiness I was quite breathtaken by the glimpses of snow-topped peaks. Equally the views down the valleys from here are quite something.

Reaching MG at around half-six I was met at the bus-stand by Umar (whom more avid readers may recognise as my kashmiri boyfriend, first encountered in Goa last February), who had been waiting since the estimated arrival time of 4:45am. -- Bus journeys are nothing if not unpredictable. He helped me find a cheapish hotel room, and I caught up on some much needed sleep.

Unfortunately somewhere between Monday and Tuesday I ate something that did not agree with me. Whilst not so severe as the bug I picked up in Kolkata, this particular bout of food poisoning did not clear up within the desired 24-hours and it was with no insignificant relief that I finally ate lunch today for what must be the first time in four days (I did manage a little breakfast and lunch on the interim days so don't worry too much mum!).

Now that I'm somewhat recovered, I have just about got myself organised with a bit of voluntary work. Here in MG there are many tibetan refugees, some like the Dalai Lama (though I suspect he's not in residence just at the moment) who have been here for more than forty years, and others who have only just arrived. This morning I visited the excellent Tibetan Museum, which I suspect is about the best curated museum I have seen in India. The story of the Chinese 'liberation' of Tibet, the suppression of traditional tibetan culture and the subsequent turmoils, is told gently and touchingly. The most surprising discovery for me was the sheer size of Tibet. Somehow I had pictured it more like Bhutan or Nepal, a small blip off the edge of India where in fact it is at least 2/3rds the size of India.
For those who wish to update their own knowledge of the Tibetan situation, see the government web site: http://www.tibet.com/

From this afternoon, I should be helping with english conversation classes at LHA, and perhaps also preparing a brochure for them. More details to follow. Fingers crossed I don't have any more problems with the old digestive system in the meantime!

Reaching the Agra Fort bus station just after 7am on Tuesday morning, it was obvious that this was the hub for local buses. The ground was uneven, muddy after overnight rain, and it seemed a little like someone had tried to fill up the potholes with rubbish. Of course that's not especially unusual for India but I generally forget to describe such scenes and it was a contrast with the plusher Idgah bus stand which plays host to the tourist 'deluxe' coaches.

It took more than thirty minutes to elicit a proper response from the enquiries office about the next bus to Moradabad. Bad news: no bus because of the holiday. Fortunately I discovered that not only could I get to APK with only one change in Aligarh but I was not the only person headed that direction. Just as I was being pointed in the direction of the Aligarh bus, an Indian family came asking for Moradabad, and it transpired they had come to see off their eldest daughter - to send her back to the in-laws home I guess.

Their younger daughter had turqoise paint on face and hands, clearly determined her sister would not get away from Holi games that easily. Unfortunately I also came in for some colour treatment at her hands and so spent the entire 6.5 hour journey looking an interesting shade of green. The effect was particularly noticeable taking a cycle rickshaw across Aligarh as not only did passers by turn to look at me - this was not exceptional - but they also called their friends to look as well.

I was relieved to get to APK and have a chance to clean up, though I got a few strange looks passing through the village as in this area of UP the colours don't come out till the following day - 'big Holi'. Once in the project compound I found a week-old group of PVs busy making gujia, a crescent-shaped pastry filled with sugar and spice which proved to be the typical Holi treat. They innocently wondered at the scale of production without realising the number of visitors Babuji could expect to receive the following day.

At 4am on Wednesday, we dragged ourselves out of bed to see the villagers gather round the main holi fire. In fact this turned out to be an all-male event, as women gathered around smaller fires within their own household. I had missed the explanation for this particular part of the celebrations and so will refer those interested to the wisdom of google, where I located the following article: http://www.parmarth.com/updates/janfeb2005/holi.html

While the other PVs retired to bed, I accepted an invitation to visit Amit's household. His father is the principal of the inter-college (secondary school) and the extended family (parents, brothers, brothers' wives and children, unmarried sisters) live in a house over the road from the compound. Here I joined them sitting around the embers of the fire in the backyard and exchanged the three-fold holi embrace with the women of the household. I was then obliged to eat three gujia, which was definitely more food than I needed before 6 in the morning.

Dawn had arrived by the time I returned to the compound, and I found Rajni already covered in pink powder - which she had washed off by the time the other PVs emerged from their rooms. In fact Rajni definitely had the wisdom of experience as the powder washed off very easily and she kept a low profile during the more boisterous holi playing that followed.

Once the warmth of the sun could be felt, probably around half eight, though I wisely handed my watch to Jyoti for safe-keeping early in proceedings, people began to appear armed variously with cans of spray on colour, water sprays and buckets repeatedly filled with water and powdered dye. I was an easy victim as I had failed to purchase any 'ammunition' (though thankfully Karan took pity on me and handed me his spare spray-can). Nevertheless I lost count of the bucketfuls of water poured over me, and was not entirely happy to have colour sprayed in my face as well as over my hair, and borrowed clothes.

But it was fun. At least until someone threw a balloon of paint at my back so hard that it felt as if I'd been thumped. That particular incident brought tears to my eyes, and I did give the culprit a piece of my mind. -- In fact as a married man he shouldn't have been playing holi with us anyway; strict rules govern who can play holi with whom, presumably to avoid too many awkward situations. But I recovered, and wisely took first shower meaning most of the colour came out of my hair (unlike two of the other pvs who I expect are still sported green locks even now) abe the lurid shade of pink on my back has now just about disappeared.

The other part of APK's holi celebrations was a dance competition. Again this was a male-dominated environment, as troops from the surrounding villages gathered in the afternoon heat. Dancing around in circles, each village had its own variant on the dance which is apparently peculiar to the region. It reminded me a little of the tribal dancing I had seen in Bhopal.

I left APK on Friday morning, taking a train for Delhi, and then on to Goa the following day. So here I am in the heat at the end of the season, hoping the more european culture may prepare me a little to return to the UK in ten days time.

So I guess I'll be able to tell you all the last bit of my India story when I get home.

Till then, over and out.

Arriving in Agra again an hour or two ago was a real pleasure. I had made a reservation for tonight before I left last week, and although Hotel Maya is definitely not the cheapest in town I felt it was better to go somewhere familiar than try somewhere else.

In fact I realised it was the first time in the five months that I've been in India that I have gone back to anywhere. Always I have just moved on in a circle, meeting new people - which can be exhausting physically and emotionally. So it was especially nice when they had kept me the same room. Of course the staff all recognise me - something about the combination of wearing Indian clothing, having a large sunhat, speaking a little Hindi, and yelling very loudly at the in-house rickshaw wallah made me particularly memorable.

So what happened between leaving Agra and coming back? I was phenomenally tired the day I left, and so very very relieved to sleep well on the bus. - I had paid for a proper sleeper/bed and the air conditioning was not too cold.

The weather changed overnight - grey skies and rain, and at least ten degrees cooler.

Arriving in Ajmer, I decided what I needed was to head straight to Pushkar and get myself settled into a hotel. Getting off the bus there, I was offered a free ride on one of the baggage carts to see one hotel. Though I knew Pushkar was small and I had a couple of recommendations, I thought there was no harm in having a look.

En route, I was persuaded to improve my karma with the near-mandatory puja by the lake. I was definitely humouring the young 'brahmin' - it took less energy to go along with things than to resist, and I took the tip from Lonely Planet to reduce the number of people in the family (sorry folks) to minimise the suggested donation, and then divide it by a multiple of ten.

At the hotel, my thinking was basically that while the place wasn't perfect (the owner had only bought it 25 days before) it had hot water, was clean enough, central enough and generally ok. So I stayed. This was a good decision - they looked after me.

I had a quiet day, wrote a few post cards and absorbed the atmosphere. At some point in the afternoon I was spotted by my brahmin, who invited me for chai in his boss's shop and showed me the Brahma temple (not that there is so much to show, given its status as the only Brahma temple -on which see http://www.rajasthantourism.gov.in/destinations/ajmer_pushkar/pushkar2.htm). I must have sat around at the shop for an hour or two (they were trying to improve my Hindi, and the electricity was off so I couldn't check email yet). But I declined an invitation to dinner at the boss' house, and ate unimpressive pasta with tasteless pesto at one of the rooftop restaurants. By this stage it was really cold - I had one of my warmer cotton dupatta scarves wrapped round me and still found I was shivering a little.

The next day, after breakfast, I accepted another invite for a cup of chai, and was eventually persuaded to go to see one of the outlying Shiva temples. This involved a motorbike ride, and halfway there I began to regret my decision as it became clear that of the half-dozen or more motorcycle-drivers I've had in India, this guy was far and away the craziest (and least safe).

He also tried it on, and my yelling at him 'don't touch me' was insufficient to prevent him touching my knee on and off on the way back. It didn't help that each time I would yell at him again (or threaten him with the police), because dishonourable worm of a guy that he was he just told me I was more beautiful when angry. It's nigh-well impossible, and certainly not safe, to slap someone when they're driving the motorbike you're sitting on, so I generally gave him a mouthful of abuse once back in Pushkar and then complained at the hotel.

Now I was never actually seriously threatened by him (for which I must be grateful), but I was pretty angry. Since at the hotel they knew who he was, Pini (younger son of the owner and one of a trio of 'receptionists') decided to get his older brother, Premod to drag the guy round to apologise. The eventual outcome - because Premod couldn't find him and had to leave a message, then I wasn't there to get the apology, and Premod didnt get the message that he had come to say sorry, was that he got beaten by his father and kicked out of his home (I presume only temporarily), and was later seen getting stoned.

Of such experiences is my India trip made.

It should also be said that Premod took me for a free ride on one of his uncle's horses. This was meant to cheer me up and persuade me that not everyone in India is the same - 'every hand has five fingers' seems to be the Rajasthani saying to express this. It was certainly fun, though I'm definitely not a good enough rider to go galloping.

After that I became quite hostile to any invitations. Leaving Pushkar on Saturday afternoon, I checked into a slightly-too-expensive but atmospheric heritage-home-type hotel in Jaipur in time for dinner. My main need on Sunday was to get some train tickets sorted. When that was done, I took a cycle-rickshaw to the Raj Mandir Cinema where I had a really good laugh at Malamaal. -- Like a good few Hindi movies, it's a remake of an English-language original about a villager who wins the lottery and then dies, so all the other villagers end up in a conspiracy to get the money. It was a considerably cleaner village than those I have seen in India, but nonetheless the film was excellent and I think better than the English original (even if I couldn't follow all the jokes).

My sightseeing was minimal, just the Hawa Mahal where all the Raja's women in purdah watched the world go by from the shelter of elaborate marble screens, and a general walk around the old city.

On my way back to the hotel (walking down a busy street) I ended up in conversation with a guy who was trying to recommend a local restaurant which had live music. I wasn't absolutely sure of my way to the hotel, so - for the extremely cheap price of 500 dollars (a joke of course) - he offered to show me the way. Which he did, but then I couldn't escape because he wanted to invite me for chai. And eventually to the recommended restaurant for dinner (mine not his).

Although on the one hand he was a relatively nice guy (and wasn't trying to chat me up/ask for money/ get a visa guarantee/ &c) my final conclusion was that he was a bit less than totally sane and I would have been better to be persistent and slightly rude in refusing the original chai.

This morning I got the bus back to Agra, and tomorrow I will catch another bus for Chandausi to get back to APK for Holi. I'm a bit apprehensive about the festivities; I'd rather not have coloured powder thrown over me, and it doesn't help to know it is the one event in the calendar where the norms of Indian politeness -men not touching women in public for example - get suspended, especially after the week I've had. But it will be good to see friends again and tell them a little about my travels.

Not quite sure where to start with today's update, but I guess it makes sense to go back to Bhopal...

I spent my second week drifting between classrooms, largely with salaried teachers rather than the sisters. It was interesting to compare and contrast styles. It would be fair to say the teachers were not always as skilled as Sr Sheela, but credit to them they do actually work (as compared with many an Indian schoolteacher).

The weather was a full 9 degrees above the seasonal average (and they're predicting a blistering summer) when the really bizarre happened - rain. No one could remember having rain in March before, but we had thunderstorms over the course of four nights. It was much appreciated in that it brought the temperature down substantially, and just in time for Thursday's picnic...

For some reason Madya Pradesh's forest(ry) minister had decided to use the school kids for a photo opportunity at the local safari park. Safari is not a very accurate description as it was really more of a large zoo, but it was interesting to see a white tiger and (unlike some) I was not afraid to get a close-up view of several species of snake. The animal-viewing was followed by another opportunity to discover my (new-found) origami skills, making hats. Now I must say, as one from a family of big-heads it was only at this point that I realised the real impact of the broadsheet's demise. Tabloids make an excellent newspaper hat, whether Bishop's Mitre, Kashmiri or a la Netu, but it won't fit me! Nevertheless I proved sufficiently adept (as to be fair did some of the children) at the folds to be teaching the teachers.

Next came thumb-painting. For those who missed out on this particular style of art, it involves an ink pad, at least one digit, and some felt-tip pens. There was a bit of drama because there weren't really enough ink pads or pens to go around, but little by little some marvellous little thumb-print size creatures materialised on paper (if one can materialise on paper?). I waited patiently for an ink-pad, while helping some of the younger ones to get good prints. When I'd made my own set of prints (ready for legs, arms, fur, teeth and whatever else to be added) one of the children needed particular assistance. I couldn't quite understand it when looking down afterwards I discovered my own prints had been whisked away from under my nose. -- Stealing thumb-prints after all is a crime to perplex any investigation. It turned out the culprit was one of the sisters, and she was unapologetically keeping them. It seemed impolite to ask why!

Leaving Bhopal on Sunday evening, I was sad to be parting from the children. I had just got to the stage where I was actually exchanging a few useful Hindi sentences with them, and one little girl spent Saturday pleading 'Didi, kal nahi jaie' (Didi (=big sister), Don't go tomorrow). But with just four weeks left in India, and a ticket for Agra I did as I do best and stuck with the plan.

Reaching Agra at 5am on Monday morning, I was met at the station and taken to the Maya hotel where I tried to recover some sleep. After breakfast, I was introduced to Mr Lucky, an autorickshaw driver who is on some kind of commission from the hotel. Being pretty tired I was grateful not to have to negotiate with touts and the like, but my gratitude was not entirely well-placed.

First stop was the Red fort (for pictures see http://www.orientalarchitecture.com/agra/agraredfortindex.htm). I spent a good hour and a half wandering around, and only towards the end suffered the plight of being photographed. First two young men came and asked if they could have a photograph with me. They were extremely polite - even to the extent of asking if they could pay me a compliment. A few minutes later I was mobbed by another group of cheeky young men - what a contrast! They barely 'asked' and were pratically fighting each other to stand next to me. But I grinned and bore it. - They even finished off my bottle of drinking water! Then, just as I was about to leave, another group of Indian tourists came up and all the women crowded round me - arm around my shoulder and so on for yet another photo op. But they all made a point of saying thank you afterwards.

At this point it turned out that Mr Lucky, unsurprisingly, liked to take his passengers to visit a few 'select' souvenir shops. Now quite how I came to be fool enough to buy anything I don't know - beyond that being tired meant I had less resilience, and the salesmen were excellent liars. Would you believe they had more than 70 pounds of my hard-earned money? That night, I had mild misgivings, but someone else at the hotel assured me that the price had been good and I had had plenty of other assurances at the time of purchase. Anyway, fast-forward to this morning, when on my way back from a dawn visit to the Taj Mahal, I was accosted in the street by a young man who persuaded me into his jewellery shop on a pretext about translating something for him (his opening gambit was 'how many languages do you speak?'). Well I never believed the pretext but I was ready for a sit-down and there was certainly no possibility of me being persuaded to spend more money.

In fact this random meeting was a blessing, because not only did my new acquaintance tell me exactly how much my purchases were worth (one tenth of the price I had paid) but he gave me all the encouragement I needed to go back and demand my money back. I don't get angry often, at least not with other people - I'm very good at being angry with myself - but I have to say neither autorickshaw driver (who was summoned by the hotel owner) nor salesmen knew what had hit them as I not only got my money back in full but gave them a very interesting and not exactly polite piece of my mind. I wasn't quite a bull in a china shop but I certainly let off a lot of steam, and gave them a day to remember.

Next stop Ajmer (Rajasthan) where I certainly don't intend to part with any money fast.

So time to say a bit more about what I’m doing here, and some observations.

I spent Monday to Friday mornings (the school day finishes at 12:30 – lunchtime) in Sister Sheila’s classroom, where my interaction with the children was generally limited to ‘puzzle time’. Everyday the children spend about 45 minutes with a different kind of puzzle or task, like fitting the blocks in the right place or matching pairs of vegetables, threading buttons in order of colour, or fitting pegs into the right hole. Those who finish quickly will be given a different puzzle or new more tricky tasks. I found this was one area where my Hindi was roughly sufficient.

I can speak confidently about colours, and I know the names of most vegetables. And I quickly learnt the words necessary to praise a good effort or indicate that something is not quite right.

Most days include some kind of physical exercise. Sometimes this is yoga stretches (at which point half the children turn to watch me – one of the kids can do a particularly good mimic of my hip-wiggling). Some children are allocated specific exercises – roughly equivalent to physio. The gymnasium itself is impressively equipped, I believe due to a generous benefactor.

One of things I admired on my first day in class was the use of yoga to settle the kids down at the end of the morning. Naturally some of the children (especially one hyperactive nuisance) get a bit fidgety after puzzle-time; 45 minutes is a long time to sit still in one place. But get them to stretch out and rest their heads on the floor and they soon calm down – of course it isn’t always easy to get them to do it!

Music and dance also form part of the available curriculum, and I witnessed some rather too shouty singing and some enthusiastic drumming as well as a very impressive dance class. The dance tutor comes two days a week, working with the same group of about 18 boys and girls. They must look quite striking in costume; in fact I’ve been promised a look at the photos. I was a definite sidelines participant here, as I was reluctant to show off my two left feet, though I did nearly perfect one tricky 1—123—12—123—123—123 step from my perch on the high-jump mattress. [It’s when you put the head and arm movements in it gets too complicated.]

Saturday is not an ordinary school day. Generally India has a six-day week; I recall one of my fellow train-travellers telling me how when her (formerly British-owned) company got bought out by an Indian one they had been obliged to shift into the six-day week, thus losing one of the perks of her job. And that goes for schools too. But as MSMH is residential, there is also need to do some domestic tasks. So on Saturdays the sisters occupy themselves with laundry, supervising the cleaning, vegetable shopping and other tasks, and the teachers watch over the classes and ensure the kids have their nails clipped and so on.

So I went to visit the art room. There were only a few children there, and they were mostly occupied with making flower patterns – with crayons, or with pistachio shells (the creative use of materials here is notable, I watched one group of girls amuse themselves for towards an hour when provided with empty water bottles and date stones). I made a few flowers myself, and then the teacher taught me some origami. I think she had been hoping for an exchange of knowledge but as the only one I know is a lotus which is really meant for napkins -anything except tissue paper or fabric tends to rip when you pull the petals round- I definitely learnt more. Now I can make a ball -and not by screwing up the paper- and possibly a fish (but I’m more skeptical about my ability to reproduce that one).

Later in the morning I went over to the neighbouring hospital, Asha Niketan. Also run by a community of sisters, the side entrance faces the rear exit from MSMH so this wasn’t a major outing. But they were celebrating Hospital Day with a programme of dance, song and a little drama. This was mainly put together by the nurses and orderlies, and ably MC’d by one of the doctors, who spoke in alternate Hindi and English making it possible for me to follow what was happening. The performances included several dance troops, a story about a child who asked his father about his grandmother’s death (I couldn’t follow it beyond the first sentence, but I did get that much), a humorous sketch on AIDS/HIV prevention, a comic performance from some of the PT (physiotherapy) kids, and climaxed with a tribal dance.

Leaving Sister Sheila’s class undisturbed, I spent Monday with what must be the second class of girls. They were practicing reading and writing. The girl nearest to me was repeatedly making a perfect letter “sh” but writing it the wrong way. She would make a kind of loop and then attach a line to it, rather than drawing the whole as a single line. I tried to explain to the teacher, but she didn’t really succeed in correcting it.

Today I have been at the neighbouring school for deaf children. They have 150 students, mostly residential, with classes from kindergarten through to the equivalent of A-level. I was introduced to KG1 and advised to move around the classes. In KG1 they were immediately telling the teacher ‘she’s white’. While in KG2 they were more moved by the fact that I had the same colour eyes as one girl in the class; I guess an Indian with blue eyes is a fairly rare occurrence.

By class 5 I had mastered my name in the local sign language (not quite the same as that I learnt in the UK) and we could hold a reasonable conversation with the help of the blackboard (the children in class 2 were already learning English).

Today is Shrove Tuesday, but I was surprised to get pancakes. Somehow I didn’t imagine that tradition would have made it to the kitchens here. The filling was coconut – a little bizarre and too dry for me to really enjoy. But it did remind me how I always find that I have forgotten just how good pancakes are by the time Lent is over.

 
Arriving in Bhopal at the weekend, I've had quite a change of scene since my last update, but before I go into detail, I must first amend one previous omission. My boyfriend has been protesting that I write everything important (and unimportant) on here except about him. Though that's not quite true (and besides it's not like he told his mother about me) I thought I'd best to remedy the situation, so world meet Umar (pic, left).

Suffice to say he was the key reason I stayed so long in Palolem. He gets particular credit for ensuring I did get safely to the railway station in time for my 5am train (though part of the credit is his cousin's for serving as an alarm clock - he very nearly didn't meet me).

So, apart from picking up north indian shopkeepers, what else have I been up to? During my brief stay in Mumbai I took a taxi to the cathedral, to find the taxi-driver didn't even know where it was (he will next time), spent a good half hour in one of the 9 synagogues, before being invited back for the erev shabbat service. And did almost exactly as one should when in the capital of the indian film industry - went to the movies. Unfortunately the only film which fitted my schedule (filling the gap while I waited for my train) was not from Bollywood, but beggars can't be choosers.

Arriving in Bhopal, I was met at the railway station by Sisters Christopher and Noella who gave me a warm and cheerful welcome, served me the best brown bread I've had in India and scrambled egg and sent me to bed to catch up on lost sleep (sometimes I think sleeper class is a misnomer. Sister Christopher was my main contact. She's Irish, a little over seventy and has been working in India for the last fifty-odd years. Her biological sister (or one of - they're a large catholic family) Philamena has also retired to Bhopal and they provide a good quantity of the mealtime conversation between the two of them.

 

The Miriam School for the Mentally Handicapped has something over 100 pupils, of whom at least 90 are resident on site 24/7 keeping the 8 sisters (7 teachers and 1 nurse) pretty busy. -There are salaried teachers as well during school hours but the sisters still get little rest. If you’ve had much experience of kids with learning disabilities then you’ll know that they can be both very affectionate and hard work to take care of.

 

The school day begins at 8am (the kids are mostly up at 5) with assembly, normally songs and a simple thanksgiving prayer “He Bagvan, Aapke Bacche Hain…” – O God, we are your children…

 

I have been spending most of my time in Sister Sheila’s class, which has the newest pupils (not necessarily youngest as all is according to ability.  The latest arrival has only been here two weeks, and can be quite a terror. – He was a late admission taking compassion on his baby sister who was suffering from his pinching – and he has quite a nip when he wants to. He seems like a bright child but lacking discipline and quite hyperactive. Another of the boys has quite taken to me and it can be difficult to detach him (he starts clinging onto me instead of paying attention). My presence can be quite a distraction but I think that’s beginning to wane, and one advantage of being with the lowest class is they automatically speak Hindi to me (rather than assuming I won’t understand). Of course I often don’t understand, but it’s good to have their challenge.

 

From BBC World I gather its now around 3 degrees in London, while it’s a surreal 35 plus here. I would gladly share some of the present heat with those of you stuck in the UK, but I guess it should warm up before I fly home on April 2^nd. Only 5.5 weeks to go… and a mosquito just bit my ankle (one thing I'll be glad to get away from).

Until I checked email I had completely forgotten the supposed significance of Feb 14th, and I have to say how refreshing it is to be so far removed from a letter box that I can't possibly get concerned about the absence of cards. -- I've been quite proud of the fact that I have never received a card on Valentine's day (though I've had two the day after). So what have I been up to?

I had the worst night of sleep – so bad I don’t think it could actually be called sleep – on the train from Ernakulam to Mangalore and consequently spent the majority of the following 24 hours asleep in my hotel room. I had an RAC ticket for the train which was nearly on time when it rolled into Ernakulam (23:45). RAC = reserve against cancellation, so the ticket is given on the assumption that a berth will be available because someone else will in all probability cancel. In the meantime they allocate a side-seat which is simultaneously half-a-berth. So if you’re good enough friends with the person opposite you (and wafer thin) it is just about possible to get some sleep.

Anyway my companion was better at getting sleep than me, but fortunately the ticket man showed up at 1:15am because a berth had become vacant for her, leaving me with a 2-side seat berth. This would have been fine but then someone else got on and decided to irritate me by sitting on one of the side seats (for which I had the ticket), and opening the window (so I got cold air in my face). Now there have been many times in India that I have regretted being polite – those moments when what I’d really like to say to someone is ‘go away’ (and even that is a polite way of putting it) but instead nod politely or ignore them. Anyway I didn’t want to start a confrontation in the middle of the night in a train carriage with a bunch of strangers, so I tried very hard to ignore the gentleman concerned and get some sleep. It didn’t work. After an hour or so of trying to ignore this gentleman I decided that ‘accidentally’ kicking him a few times, and generally reducing the amount of space he could sit in. I’m not sure whether this worked or if he just reached his stop but he did eventually move. By this point I realized my sheet sleeping bag – which I had originally been using as a pillow – had been stolen. This amused me – dear to me though it was, I can’t really imagine the thief getting much joy from it.

The loss did lead to further hilarity as in Mangalore I had to purchase cloth to have a new one made. To begin with it was very hard to get fabric of the right dimensions – space to stretch the elbows and so on. Once I had achieved that (by purchasing fabric in excessively wide dimensions, possibly enough for a double sleep-sheet should one be required), the next challenge was to communicate my requirements to the tailor. I ended up with a hilarious bulb-shaped sack which I have not yet needed to use. But it was fun.

Beyond an 8km round-trip in the rickshaw to see Sultan’s Battery, a watch-tower of no great interest except if you’ve been reading White Mughals and are particularly keen to see some kind of structure from the period in question, the only other touristy activity I undertook in Mangalore was a visit to the chapel of St Aloysius College. I don’t know what they teach there, but the chapel is absolutely stunning – covered with wall-to-wall frescoes (painted 1890-something, restored 1994).

From Mangalore I took a daytime train to Margao, Goa’s main city. This was a far pleasanter journey, though I nearly missed the train after I got into deep conversation with another British traveler who was headed for Gokarna, and from there to Gujarat where she was looking into adopting a baby. I was fascinated by the whole web of issues involved in a single British woman adopting an Indian child; I don’t think she really had her head round it, and I doubt talking to me helped but it was a weird conversation.

Having located the right carriage, I was quite pleased to find I had been slotted into a women only compartment. I spent the first hour or so talking with the women, who were headed for Mumbai. They were concerned to discover I was traveling on my own (and told me I should have brought my brother) but once they realized I had already been here four months they decided that God would take care of me. Although I spent a good part of the journey with my nose in a (not very good) book, they really were lovely travel companions – sharing their food with me, and giving me a few big hugs before I disembarked at Margao.

From the station I rather rashly agreed to take a ‘motorbike taxi’ (not to be confused with an autorickshaw) to the hotel. It turned out fine, but I did realize that it was a foolish risk to rely on a strange man to get me safely to my destination. I won’t do it again. At the hotel I was served the worst Biryani I can imagine – I swear it was just rice with some ready-made sauce (from a jar) stirred in – and they hadn’t even stirred it in properly, and slept.

Not being overly convinced that a Goan beach holiday was for me, but aware that I did need some good rest, I took advice from various friends and acquaintances about which beach to head for. Some said Anjuna, both others told me there was nothing there. Patnem was recommended as a quiet spot within walking distance of more lively places. And Palolem was said to have a bit of everything. Since it was near Patnem, and the season had already peaked I chose Palolem.

On arrival I found a nice place to stay – a room inside a family’s house. – Their several outside rooms with attached bathrooms and so on were all full, so I was offered use of their own facilities (a shower in the kitchen, and an outside loo).

The first day I felt very uncomfortable in Palolem. I wanted to leave. There I was having spent the best part of four months covered from top to toe, and nearly allergic to the sunlight (I go red not brown), surrounded by the bronzed and beautiful in a state of undress. But I dragged out my one vest top and persevered.

It was worth it. I’m still not at ease with the midday heat and bikinis, but I’ve found that between one excellent health-food café, the best pasta I’ve eaten outside of Italy, and my usual trait of befriending Indians rather than Western tourists it can actually be quite fun here. That said too many late nights hanging out at the beach cafes (there’s no such thing as moon-burn) took its toll and I got a mild fever over the weekend. Fortunately I seem to have slept/shaken it off, but I will be resting here a couple more days before heading up to Mumbai and from there to Bhopal where I will be visiting another NGO: ‘Miriam School for the Mentally Handicapped’.