Long Way Up

The Final Frontier

sophinda — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 23:50:00 GMT

I finally left Kathmandu on June 22 – although delays caused by the many blockades meant my bus made very slow progress. This wasn’t a particularly enjoyable bus journey, with even less room to move than usual, and whilst I was attempting to get some kip, some bastard stole my Ipod.

Things didn’t improve much when I reached the border at Sunauli, where I was met by a man who told me that, due to the delays, I had missed my connecting bus to Varanasi and wouldn’t be able to leave this tiny border town until the evening. I was by this time exhausted and the man took me to find a hotel and someone to rearrange my transport, demanded some cash for his services and departed. I didn’t want to waste the day, especially as I’d already wasted two in Kathmandu, so decided to visit Lumbini, Buddha’s birthplace, 17 miles from Sunauli. The hotel owner said he would arrange a taxi which should take about 45 minutes to get there. In the meantime I went to my room to grab some sleep. When I returned however, the hotel owner informed me that all taxi drivers were on strike and that the only available transport was a cycle rickshaw which would take and hour and a half. I seriously considered not going (had I known it would actually take almost three hours each way, with just an hour and a half there I definitely would have left it) but realizing I would do nothing but sit in the hotel all day if I did stay, decided to give it a go. I had wanted to visit Lumbini anyway, and doing it this way would mean I would see a slice of rural Nepali life, from which tourists are generally shielded. I soon realized why the taxi drivers had refused to take me. We encountered three blockades within the first mile or two. Protestors had taken huge buses and lorries and simply parked them across the roads. I jumped out of the rickshaw and squeezed around the edges, whilst the rickshaw cyclist, a very helpful and patient father of five, carefully steered the vehicle through the narrow gaps at the side.

It was as hoped a fascinating journey. The inhabitants of these impoverished borderlands seemed as transfixed by the presence of some whitie gallivanting through their villages as I was by their daily activities. Perhaps the thing that struck me the most was how beautiful the women looked – in spite of their simple lifestyles. Colour and adornment are clearly everything in this society, and I saw women and girls emerge from mud and straw hovels, dressed immaculately without even a crease or a smudge of dirt on them. Beautiful saris in every bight colour you can imagine billowed from makeshift washing lines. Someone in Kathmandu once old me that Nepali people will go without food before allowing themselves to become disheveled and I just hope this wasn’t the case with these lovely people. They certainly seemed happy enough. Many of the children smiled and waved at me, and when a large group emerged from a children’s home, dressed very smartly in matching uniforms and looking, I’m delighted to say, very happy and healthy, they all waved and smiled very enthusiastically which was marvelous. Of course there were a couple of blokes who followed us on motorbikes, asking for money, but you meet the odd tosser everywhere. I was slightly alarmed, having just left the birthplace of the Buddha, when my rickshaw diver told me he’d fight them if they became too persistent…

Lumbini, where Queen Maya Devi of Kapilavastu is believed to have given birth to Prince Gautama Siddhartha from her armpit (?) in 563BC, is an enchanting and very spiritual place. Devotees of many nationalities have erected temples in the Japanese designed Lumbini Development Zone, which extends for miles around the sacred centre, but short on time, I asked to be taken straight to the Maya Devi Temple. This rather nondescript red brick building contains a stone marking the exact place where the Buddha was born, outside of which stands a plain but significant pillar, erected by India’s great Buddhist emperor Ashoka, when he visited the site (then part of India) in around 249BC. The lake in which Queen Maya Devi is said to have bathed before the birth can also be seen and I spent an hour here, just chilling and taking it all in. On the way back we were drenched by the monsoon which by now had swept up from southern India to encompass the whole of the Indian Subcontinent. When we arrived I was told the buses were not running to Varanasi due to more strikes, so I would have to take a shared taxi to Gorakhpur, India, and from there take the train.

I crossed the border and got into the taxi which I shared with an Indian family, who spoke no English. We drove in silence for about an hour and a half until, at around 9pm when I was just beginning to doze off, a large vehicle ploughed straight into the side of us. The front passenger seat took the main impact and I was astonished to observe that not only were the mother and tiny daughter occupying the seat unhurt – they were completely unphased. In fact, as I sat in the back thanking God for the lack of injuries, the little girl, aged about two, seemed quite entertained by the whole situation. By now it was pitch dark and felt a lot later than it was. We had stopped in a very remote part of northern India and through the window I could see a crowd of onlookers, all men with long beards, whose dress seemed almost tribal. I must admit that at this point I felt a bit vulnerable and ever so slightly stupid. Here I was alone in a damaged vehicle in a remote part of India in the dark, surrounded by about 30 men, none of whom were likely to speak my language and I barely had a word of theirs. I had very little cash – meaning I could not abscond to a guesthouse if need be, though even if I could have done I don’t know how safe I would have felt so far off the beaten track. The father and son, who had been sitting beside me in the back, got out to inspect the damage but, wishing to remain inconspicuous, I smoked a fag out of the window, and hoped to God that the taxi would be able to continue. To my immense relief, after about 20 minutes, we continued on our way, and arrived in Gorakhpur about an hour later. I felt sorry for the taxi driver, who seemed a decent bloke and was perhaps the only taxi driver I encountered on the Indian plains who didn’t try to fleece me.

Gorakhpur station wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience either. My by now extremely heavy luggage always caused me problems and I dragged it to the station and tried to find my train and platform. This was my first visit to an Indian railway station and it was to be a sobering experience. It was only about 10pm, but the main foyer was littered with bodies - families, single men, old ladies, some sleeping, some sitting huddled together on the hard ground as cockroaches scuttled between them. These were not passengers but just a tiny fraction of the countless souls seeking refuge each night at railway stations across India. Having read about such things in the past, I should have been prepared for it, but on this chaotic journey, on which my plans and transport method had changed several times, I simply hadn’t given it any thought. I eventually steered my luggage around these poor people and found an information kiosk. No sooner had I located my train however, that I realized to my horror that I had lost my ticket. I was carrying five pieces of luggage, which I searched thoroughly and after 10 minutes, resolved to leave the station and find somewhere to stay for the night, by this time feeling close to despair. As I walked away my eyes scanned the crowded platform for the missing ticket. I saw one crumpled on the ground and picked it up, more in hope than expectancy – but to my utter amazement – it was mine!! I boarded the waiting train, unsure if the Indian Gods loved or hated me, but they certainly liked to give me a scare.

About 10 hours later I arrived in Varanasi, the centre of the Hindu universe, which grew up around the sacred river Ganges. Hindus believe that to die here releases the soul from cyclic existence, so this is an extremely auspicious place in which to die and be cremated. The bodies of loved ones are brought from all over India to be burned at the city’s Manikarnika and Harish Chandra Ghats.

Which in my humble opinion is all the place is good for. I HATED Varanasi. I can honestly say it was by far my least favourate place I’ve ever visited (and I’ve been to Benidorm!) I honestly cannot think of one redeeming feature the place possessed. On arrival I took a cycle rickshaw to the warren of narrow streets comprising the Old Town, from where a porter helped carry my luggage to an hotel recommended in the Lonely Planet, but which has to have been the filthiest place I’ve ever seen. I’m not generally too fussy about décor and cleanliness, as long as a place is bug free and comfortable (I joined the March to Tibet for goodness sake) but after inspecting the toilets I decided against staying there and spent another hour being led through the steamy stinking backstreets, looking for somewhere else.

The heat of the Indian planes in summer was unlike anything I had experienced before. I was astonished to discover that the temperature itself was not excessively high – around 35/36C (mid 90s farenheight) which, whilst hotter than it generally gets in Britain, I have enjoyed in Europe and Australia. However, at 80% humidity in Varanasi, where the stench of rotting rubbish, shit and burning bodies hangs in the stifling air, it is almost impossible to feel comfortable or clean for long – no matter how often you shower. In Varanasi it is also impossible to leave your hotel as a westerner and not be accosted within seconds by people who either ask you outright for money, or try to capitalize from you in other ways. Young men, working on commission, come up with big smiles, asking such questions as your name and where you come from and insist on showing you around, repeating that they are not after money. To be fair these guys can be helpful. One for instance led me to the burning ghats and the daily puja to the Ganges, held every night at 7pm at the Dashashwamedh Ghat to appease the great mother. But there is always an astrologer or silk merchant they want to introduce you to – often a ‘relative,’ and whilst their English is often quite strong, they struggle to understand the word ‘no.’ I remember telling one guy for about the 14th time that I didn’t want to meet his astrologer because I didn’t believe in it, and besides I only had 5000R to last me until the end of my trip (sadly not a lie.) He then replied with disgust that there was no point trying to take me to his uncle’s silk factory then – and asked for ‘some help for me,’ i.e., cash.

Another time I returned to the roof of my hotel where I ordered a drink and leaned over to look at the view, relieved to be away from the street grabbers. The hotel owner, a stout middle aged guy with a huge moustache, came over, welcomed me to his hotel, and warned me not to be taken in by any of the 'street boys,’ stating they had hidden agendas and were probably on commission. I laughed and told him I’d already declined to meet an astrologer, a jeweler and three silk merchants that day - to which he replied that he was a silk merchant and that he wanted to take me to his bloody factory. I asked him if he had any boys working on commission. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘All businessmen do.’

Even the animals are bad tempered in Varanasi. One morning I was walking through the narrow streets when a bull suddenly charged at me and before I knew it I was hoisted several feet into the air on the creature’s huge sacred horns! I screamed and it backed me into a wall, at which point I managed to disentangle myself and stagger off. To be fair the bull made no further attempt to impale me and remarkably I was virtually uninjured. I was wearing quite loose clothing and I think that took most of the impact. You see bulls wandering around all the time in India and Nepal as they are highly sacred in the Hindu religion, and killing one carries a jail term. Indian cattle are considerably smaller than their European counterparts and are normally very peaceful, but I guess Varanasi is enough to sour the sweetest of temperaments. I was a bitch, shouting at at least one person every day. The extent to which I sometimes disliked the locals I encountered - mostly men who constantly stared at, attempted to swindle, and sometimes grabbed me, made me uncomfortable. I kept reminding myself that I was the odd one out in their country and should try to be more tolerant of their ways, and moreover, that the population of India exceeds that of the entire western world and that their customs were therefore more ‘normal’ than those I was used to. But every time I ventured out alone in Varanasi or Delhi I would return to my hotel earlier than planned exasperated and exhausted. I had experienced the same treatment when walking through Harayana on the March to Tibet, but found it much easier to laugh at when I was one of at least 12 westerners, and with lower humidity. I didn’t like what this town was turning me into.

But perhaps the worst thing of all was the bugs. I have been terrified of most creepy crawlies from a young age and whilst spiders are my number one horror, bloody great cockroaches the size of mice come a very close second. At around 9pm every night, the bugs came out. Varanasi was infested with terrifying black bugs, a couple of inches in length; which jumped. These things, though harmless, were everywhere and if you were brave enough to sit outside you would have at least one on you at any one time. Each night I attempted to brave them, but was soon driven inside to my room which usually contained about five, which seemed to make a beeline for my mosquito net. Scarier still however, was the mouse sized cockroach inhabiting my bedroom. This nocturnal horror was extremely active and made a hissing noise which chilled my blood. I don’t think I have ever spent such a fearful three nights as in that hotel, cowering beneath my flimsy mosquito net which never fully fitted the beds, meaning there was always a little hole in the corner through which they could get in. Thank God the cockroach never did run over me in the night, although I nearly screamed the place down when packing to leave, I found him hibernating in a pair of trousers.

I also saw my first dead body in Varanasi, at the Manikarnika Ghat, where cremations take place 24/7 every day of the year. I was led to a viewpoint, where I was, of course, asked for money towards cremation fuel. Something I had not realized is that women are not allowed to attend cremations, as it is believed that women are more likely to express emotion – something strictly forbidden at the burning ghats. I must say I found this profoundly unfair and felt more than a little guilty that I as a westerner was allowed to observe the cremations of people I had never known, whilst their wives, mothers, sisters and daughters were barred. But as my self-appointed male guide put it: ‘they have to accept it.’ After cremation, the ashes and human remains are thrown into the Ganges to achieve the state of Moksha – in which the soul will rest in peace for eternity.

In Varanasi, the mother Ganges is not just polluted. It’s septic. Water considered safe for bathing should contain no more than 500 faecal coliform bacteria per 100 ml. In Varanasi the figure is 1.5 million. No dissolved oxygen exists. I did meet one crazy Russian guy who braved a swim, but I was careful not to get so much as splashed by this water (believed by Hindus to cleanse your body of sins) in which the local population paddle and bathe seemingly without a thought. I was there during the monsoon when the Ganges is very high – too high to take a dawn boat trip or walk along the river side exploring the ghats. A downpour which occurred during my long awaited departure for my train to Delhi flooded the city, and my stoic cycle rickshaw driver kept going as the water rose to around two feet. Residents, some of whom were wading up to their thighs in the filthy water, seemed unphased. All the time I expected the rickshaw driver to say he could go no further, but thank God he got me to the station and I was able to board my train to Delhi. I had originally planned to go via Lucknow, where the Indian Uprising was sparked in 1857, but after my experience in Varanasi I decided I couldn’t face it and headed to the capital, where I returned to Majnu ka Tilla - the city’s Tibetan settlement where my journey began, and where I spent very happy times following The March to Tibet in April.

On arrival in Delhi I took another cycle rickshaw to Majnu Ka Tilla, and was so happy to be welcomed by two delighted Tibetan monks who remembered me from the march. I saw a few friendly faces over the coming days including, most unexpectedly, my lovely Aussie friend Lauren, with whom I worked on the magazine in McLeod. It seems everyone from McLeod heads to Majnu ka Tilla and I was so happy to be there. Delhi was still stiflingly hot, and when I ventured out of Majnu Ka Tilla I was soon driven to screaming point by the locals, but it felt so good to have a friendly air conditioned place to come back to. I have always considered air con rather unnecessary in chilly England, but here it was an absolute necessity. It never gets cool in Delhi at this time of year, and I was astonished to walk out of a lovely air conditioned restaurant at 11pm to find it still oppressively hot outside. Over the next three days I explored the Red Fort, the Baha'i Lotus Temple and India’s largest mosque, the Jama Masjid – completed in 1656 from white marble and sandstone, and boasting a seating capacity of 25,000 worshipers and two 130ft minarets – one of which I climbed. Single females are forbidden from climbing the narrow tower alone, but when I bought my ticket they lent me a bloke. At the top however, it was difficult to enjoy the views as the small viewing platform was desperately crowded with young Islamic men to the extent that my rent-a-bloke had to ask some to move aside in order for me to see anything. On the way down a boy who looked in his late teens squeezed my arse, and when I turned around to give him a piece of my mind was slightly shocked when my companion seized the lad and slapped him hard three times around the face.

I was by now fast approaching the end of my trip. Over the last few weeks I had been building my plans around the fact that a Tibetan magazine had asked me to interview the Tibetan Prime Minister in McLeod and write an in depth political feature for a special anniversary edition - focusing on his stance on the forthcoming Olympic Games in China. Of course I was delighted and began to look forward to the interview. About a month before I had asked the editor of Tibetan World if he would like me to arrange the interview and he replied telling me not to trouble myself, assuring me he would sort it. As the time approached however, the appointment remained unconfirmed and a couple of hours after I booked my bus ticket to McLeod, the editor came back asking me to arrange it, by which time it was of course too late. I was pissed off, not least because had I not thought I needed to return to McLeod, I probably could have squeezed in a visit to Ladakh, in the far north or India, for a week or two. But with just four days left until my flight back to London, I resolved to go to McLeod anyway. I was not happy on the Indian plains and it seemed almost fitting end my trip in the place I knew and loved.

And it was as lovely as ever. Monsoon had hit meaning sunny McLeod was not so sunny anymore, but returning to somewhere so familiar where I had been so happy felt like coming home. Grinning from ear to ear, I jumped off the bus and ran to The Ladies Venture Hotel, a fabulous establishment run by Shanti Baba – a wonderful Kashmiri who stood for peace, parties and pleasure. I had been visiting this place with a variety of friends to chill, drink chai, talk, smoke and eat fabulous food which Shanti never charged us for, on and off since January, so it seemed very fitting to end my journey there. My only concern was that the monsoon heralds spider season in McLeod, where the eight legged foe can be BIG. I’ve heard many horror stories starring amorous arachnids in McLeod, which can grow to the size of a man’s hand. But through a combination of vigilance, paranoia and extreme good luck, my last weekend remained spider free.

On my first day back it was almost impossible to walk down the street, so many of my old Tibetan friends rushed out to greet me and I was so happy to see them again. A nice girl I met at Kopan Monastery in Kathmandu was also in town, and I dragged her to Carpe Diem amongst other places.

Whilst I missed all the wonderful friends I made here who have since moved on, I attended teachings at the Tibetan Library of Works and Archives, did a couple of conversation classes with Tibetan English students at the Hope Education Centre – a fabulous institution founded last year by the son of a successful New York based Tibetan opera singer. The people are truly humbling and so grateful for the hour and a half you spend with them. When I announced after my last lesson that I sadly would not be returning, the organizers hugged me and draped a Khata (Tibetan ceremonial scarf symbolizing goodwill, auspiciousness and compassion) around my neck, which I’m looking at now, hanging in my room with the rest of my travel memorabilia.

I ate, drank, hung out with friends old and new – often, though not always, at Carpe Diem – a fabulous Nepali run restaurant which became my living room when I lived in McLeod. Pilgrimages to Moonpeak Expresso, home to arguably the best chocolate cake and banana bread in India, if not the world, were also made. I also made the most of the Tibetan Buddhist aspects I knew I wouldn’t get at home, and just enjoyed McLeod. It’s wonderful how a former British hill station, now home to the Dalai Lama in exile, brings so many people, Tibetan, Indian and western together, to eat, drink, be merry and carry out good work. God bless McLeod and everyone I met there.

After three wonderful nights I caught the night bus to Delhi, and after a scare at the airport where staff said they had no record of my flight alteration and demanded £50, I was allowed on the flight.

After six months in the third world, Virgin Atlantic’s economy class, with it personal TV, soft pillows, blankets, clean toilets, roast chicken dinners and WALKERS SHORTBREAD felt like the most luxurious thing I’d ever experienced.

THE EPI-BLOG

To all my fantastic travel buddies,

Well I'm back home after six months in India and Nepal. Got back a couple of weeks ago actually but it's taken me this long to recover and get sorted.

Well, what can I say; what an incredible time it was. I hoped it would be, but the trip didn't always turn out as I had planned, which is probably all to the good. But it could never have been anything like the experience it was without a little input from you guys. Each and every one of you, whether we met for just 20 minutes over a cup of tea and sublime chocolate cake in Moonpeak, in a monastery, half way up a high Himalayan mountain, marching for Tibet along grotty Indian trunk roads, in Carpe Diem - or if you were stuck with me for five or six weeks as some poor buggers were, thank you. You all made the trip so much richer.

I'm now enjoying fried bacon sandwiches, baths, being able to leave my window open without an army of scary critters flying or scuttling in, not being stared at/cheated/grabbed, and being healthy for more than a month at a time (I hope..) Basically all the things that put the 'great' into Great Britain, although I also miss McLeod very much. Also busy looking for one of those job things.

Enjoy, stay in touch and maybe I'll see some of you again some day - perhaps on the next big trip - 'The US and A' perhaps?

Thank you so much once again, shanti shanti.

Lots of love,

Soph XXX

Kathmanpoo

sophinda — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 01:41:00 GMT

I returned to the Kathmandu Guest House, where I spent the next four days dodging the leader of the Everest trek, who had rather irritatingly checked into the same hotel.

The Kathmandu Guest House (KGH) is something of an institution in the Nepali capital. Everything in Thamel, the city’s tourist hot spot, is ‘near the KGH’. The original part of the now extremely smart complex was constructed in 1902 and counts the Beatles among its former patrons (I caught a glimpse of Ewan McGregor’s travel partner, the Long Way Round/Down’s Charley Boorman there – although he had to be pointed out to me.) Today the Kathmandu Guest House is very pricey; the rooms are priced in $US, which is never a good sign, and although they do have rooms for as little as $2, bizarrely they never seem to be available…. The KGH does however have its plus points, such as a beautiful outdoor seating area and the best showers I had experienced in several months.

Over the next couple of days I visited Llew, one of my magnificent McLeod crew, who was doing retreat at a monastery in Pharping, close to Kathmandu, where Guru Rinpoche, who brought Buddhism to Tibet, is believed to have meditated in a cave. Llew took me to the butter-lamp blackened cave, which would have been very atmospheric had it not been for the Cabaret style light bulbs strung across the ceiling – so typical of this part of the world, where everything even remotely holy is lit up like a Christmas tree. After my experience in the Himalayas it was wonderful to see a friendly face, and I had a very entertaining bus journey back to Kathmandu. Whilst waiting an hour and a half for the bus to arrive I was entertained by some fellow passengers who kept bringing me tea and cigarettes which they refused to take anything for. When the bus finally arrived it was full so, assisted by my new friends I climbed the ladder to the roof of the vehicle, where I sat, almost comfortably, in the luggage rack, chatting to my fellow passengers and enjoying the views. For me this short journey truly emphasized the difference in the way I was treated by Nepali and Indian people. Not only was I the one white person, but also the only female on the top of that bus, yet I never felt remotely threatened. The men were curious about me, but referred to me as their sister, and when we disembarked one, who was working in Thamel, walked me back to my hotel. In India there’s no way I would have sat on top of a bus with ONE man, never mind 30 odd. But in Nepal it was a thoroughly interesting and enjoyable experience.

I cannot work out the reason for the marked difference in attitude towards westerners between Indian and Nepali people. Both countries have a similar religious make up (India is 82 per cent Hindu whilst Nepal is 85 per cent,) the countries share a border, and Nepal is considerably poorer even than India. Yet the Nepali people are like a breath of fresh air when you’ve been traveling in India. When I thanked the Nepali girl for her kindness when I was ill on the bus into Nepal, she replied that I was a guest in her country and that it was her pleasure. In India, you get the distinct feeling that the people believe you owe them a living and they never stop asking you for money – even for a second. Everyone who approaches you is after one thing (to be fair, many Indian men are after TWO things) and it can become extremely exasperating – especially in the crippling heat of the Indian plains. I can only assume it may be the influence of Buddhism in Nepal that makes the difference. Whilst Nepal is predominantly Hindu, Hinduism and Buddhism seem almost to have fused over the centuries, resulting in a distinctly Nepali philosophy. And, as in the high Himalayas, evidence of the importance of faith in people’s lives is everywhere in the smoky backstreets of Kathmandu’s Old Town. Age blackened Buddhas cluster around magnificent temples honouring Hindu deities and, despite the age of some temples, statues and monuments, their relevance in the lives of the city’s current inhabitants is clear to see. Every main temple has a queue of pilgrims who come to make offerings and seek blessings from the Gods. In one market square a tiny 1500-year-old Buddha stands beneath a modern dentist’s shop, red around the mouth, into which devotees have attempted to cram offerings of sindur and rice.

I experienced some of the good stuff myself when I checked into Kopan Monastery, to the north of Kathmandu, for a 10 day Introduction to Buddhist Philosophy and Meditation course. Having surrounded myself with both Tibetan and western believers in McLeod, lived with the monks and nuns on The March to Tibet, and been enchanted by the stupas and prayer flags scattered throughout the Khumbu region, I was keen to learn more about this happy philosophy. I went to Kathmandu’s Himalayan Buddhist Meditation Centre, where the Lonely Planet stipulates 3 – 5 day introductory courses are run, but when I spoke to the resident monk he told me they no longer ran them, but that a 10 day course was beginning at Kopan Monastery the following day. So I decided to give it a try.

It was certainly a great experience. Whilst modern, the monastery is situated on a hill overlooking northern Kathmandu and is a haven of peace and tranquility. A wonderful place in which to just take stock of your life and think – especially as the first half of each day was spent in silence (as well as one full day towards the end of the course.) It was wonderful to simply sit in the monastery’s beautiful and immaculate gardens and gaze out over the city. Sadly, it’s impossible to stay well for long in this part of the world and I probably missed a third of the course due to a nasty fluey chest infection which laid me up completely for a couple of days, and from which I only truly recovered on the last day, but many of the lessons I did attend were very interesting indeed. As with all religions (and political parties come to that) there is enough of it that I don’t believe, or find very far fetched, to prevent me from becoming Buddhist. The concept of the Hungry Ghost Realm for example – hungry ghosts being one of the less attractive options for reincarnation, caused particular hilarity – sparking that age old and fundamental debate which divides scholars and theologians to this day: who would win a fight between a Hungry Ghost and a Hungry Hungry Hippo?

Hungry Goats aside however, I certainly believe the Buddhist way to be a very nice one in which to live, and I hope to be able to incorporate a little of it into my life.

The monastery food left a little to be desired – all vegetarian and extremely healthy, sometimes to the detriment of taste – although being sick half the time probably didn’t help. Being sick also meant that I didn’t find it particularly easy to make friends with what seemed at the time to be a rather serious group of people. On the penultimate day however, I was delighted and relieved to discover that some of them were actually rather silly, and on our first night of ‘freedom’ we hit the reggae bars of Thamel and danced like idiots until 2am.

Far too much of the next 12 days was spent hanging out with my new friends at the Himalayan Buddhist Meditation Centre and other places, although I did eventually explore quite a bit of old Kathmandu, as well as nearby Patan and Bhaktapur, both medieval and boasting Durbar Squares possibly even more magnificent than that in Kathmandu. The backstreets of Kathmandu, Bhaktapur and Patan are an explorer’s dream – except for the motorbikes which can get a bit annoying. Everything from the intricately carved wooden architecture, twisted and buckled by the frosts and suns of seasons (and one hell of an earthquake in 1934) to the sights, sounds and smells of the colourful markets – many of which have operated from the same spot for many centuries, evokes the exotic east. Religious temples and monuments range from the magnificent, such as the traditional multi-roofed pagodas, some vast and all exquisitely carved, to the downright bizarre, such as a twisted piece of wood in the shape of a molar, to which hundreds of silver coins have been nailed, offerings to the God of toothache! One market place, Asan Tole, which marked the beginning of the old caravan route to Tibet, is still a hub of activity today, and it’s not hard to imagine the merchants of old setting off laden with spices and other prized artifacts, particularly in the early evening when the setting sun casts an ethereal glow through the smoky streets and the shadows begin to lengthen. In short; I fucking loved it!

But not all traditions observed in the beautiful Durbar squares sit comfortably in the western mind. The appointment of the Kumari Devi, a living Goddess, originated in the 18^th century, and now all three cities have their own pre-pubescent Kumari Devi. Selected from a specific Newari cast of gold and silversmiths, candidates, usually around just four years of age, must meet 32 strict physical requirements before undergoing an horrific selection process, duiring which they are seated in a darkened room whilst men dance by wearing terrifying masks and making frightening noises (?) whilst 108 gruesome buffalo heads are displayed. The child who shows the least fear is then assumed to be the real Kumari Devi. Once selected the child and her family move to their assigned palace from which the tiny Goddess makes just six ceremonial visits to the outside world each year. Once they hit puberty the girls become mere mortals again – although it’s deemed unlucky to marry them. My friend Martin and I actually glimpsed Kathmandu’s Kumari Devi, just for a second, as dead on cue at 4pm, she peered from a window of her magnificently carved courtyard in Durbar Square.

I also became friends with a group of lads who run one of Thamel’s many trekking agencies. Hira – a wonderful 24 year old bloke who often made very rude remarks about western women, but was actually besotted with his Aussie girlfriend and maintained strict boundaries regarding what male and female friends can do (a kiss on the cheek was way out of order – whilst a slap on the arse seemed fine) asked if I would teach the group English. This was not the first time I had been asked on this trip. My posh English accent may sometimes prove a hindrance in my own country, but foreigners love it, and as soon as they hear me speak, assume I am the authority on the English language. The reality however, is that I have absolutely no experience in teaching it and would not have the confidence to take a regular class. However, these guys seemed to speak pretty reasonable English anyway and it would only be for an hour a day whilst I was in Kathmandu, so I agreed.

I’m really not sure how much good I did them – if any at all, as it took a while to establish exactly what they wanted to learn, and then others joined the group, all of whom had varying levels of English, which made things a bit tricky. Two days before my last lesson a lady named Samila attended, whose husband had pushed off leaving her with two children. Samila worked in a shop but wanted to learn English to improve her prospects and I really wanted to help her as she was so sweet, but there’s very little you can achieve in two days so, as she had very little English, the last couple of lessons were geared towards her so probably weren’t too beneficial for the others. Nevertheless my students were so grateful for the little help I gave them and became true friends. Nothing was too much trouble, they were always bringing me tea and anything else I wanted and, on what I thought would be my last night in Kathmandu, I arrived for the lesson only to be told, as Hira placed a beer in my hand, that my last night was 'party night!' They took me to a place on the edge of Thamel frequented only by locals which was great. I didn’t understand a word of the loud love songs forming the focal point of the live show, but I got quite drunk, danced like a maniac and the food was out of this world.

My departure from lovely Kathmandu was delayed by two days – firstly due to strikes, as the new Maoist government had recently put up fuel prices by 35 per cent, infuriating Nepalis who put up blockades on all major routes, and the second day because I left my debit card in an ATM – although the strikes might well have prevented my departure anyway. Nepal’s new government, the 13th in 16 years (I think), was met with mixed feelings by the Nepalis I spoke to. Many seemed delighted with the election of the Maoists (who have been waging a people’s war against the Nepali state since 1996, resulting in the deaths of at least 12,000 people) not least members of the YCL (Young Communist League) who took to the streets of Kathmandu in their thousands waving red flags and banners. Others are worried. A man I met on the bus to Kathmandu from India told me that in the run up to the April election, Maoists had entered villages and threatened members of the country’s rural community (which comprises 85 per cent of the population) with their lives if they didn’t vote for them. This alone is enough to make me sceptical. The Nepalis are lovely people and I would love to see them enjoy a bit of stability, but I guess only time will tell. Nepal’s troubled monarch King Gyanendra, was also ousted whilst I was there, and although I encountered no ceremony, I unwittingly witnessed the dawn of a new republic.

Let’s hope it works out for them.

Speak soon XXX

By Balls; Everest!

sophinda — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 23:04:00 GMT

Well I recovered from Lloyd’s purges and, after a couple of lovely days spent buying last minute souvenirs and hanging out with my lovely friends in McLeod, I left this wonderful town in which I had been based for almost four months, and embarked the two and a half day bus journey to Kathmandu, via Delhi.

In McLeod I had hooked up with a couple who were planning to trek to Everest Base Camp with a group of friends from New Jersey, at the same time as me. At around the same time another American friend from the March to Tibet also arrived in McLeod with another Brit in tow, who also planned to be on the Everest trail around the same time, so we all agreed to meet in Kathmandu, from where we planned to fly to Lukla to begin the two week trek, on March 13. So with my plans set I bid a sad farewell to my friends in McLeod, and set off for Delhi. On board I was pleased to find a friend I had met previously in Delhi so had someone to talk to. I arrived in Majnu Ka Tilla (Delhi’s Tibetan settlement) early and exhausted, and slept a while before taking the onward bus to Kathmandu. The bus had seats only, but I was fortunate enough to get two to myself near the front - good job as they were tiny. I hardly slept a wink the first night as, even when I did manage to drift off, one abrupt halt would roll me straight off the seats onto the floor, and the unbelievably loud Hindi music they insist on playing day and night rendered sleep quite impossible. The following morning we stopped at a lonely Dhaba about six hours from the Nepali border, where I ate the staple Indian breakfast of parantha (stuffed flat bread) and curd. At around 1pm, still trying to grab some sleep scrunched up on my two seats, I started to feel a little nauseous. Putting this down to the fact that I’d spent the best part of two days on a bus, I sat upright and tried to think of other things. The situation did not improve however and by the time we reached the border where I, as the only westerner on board, was required to jump down and get my visa, I was feeling really quite rough. The kind Nepali administrators helped me find water and bananas, before I found the coach and it was announced to my horror, that we were stopping for lunch. That was it. I began projectile vomiting all overt the border. My condition didn’t improve and, under the direction of a firm but kindly Tibetan girl, who I had chatted to briefly the previous evening, I ate a small amount of rice, only to bring it straight back up. We resumed our journey but my condition was going rapidly downhill. I was puking out of my open window and the bus kept having to stop for me. After a while the bus stopped so that the Tibetan girl, helped by a lovely Nepali lady, could take me to an emergency doctor. I was laid on a hard couch in a dimly lit room where the doctor took my pulse and temperature etc. I have never been so violently ill and as I lay there retching uncontrollably I could feel the life draining out of me. Then the electricity conked out and the doctor lit a candle. Sitting writing this in my cosy English bedroom, it sounds over dramatic now, but I was really beginning to worry and I remember thinking that it must not all end like this – surrounded by strangers in a dingy doctor’s surgery by candlelight. I announced that I needed to go to hospital, but the nearest one was two hours away and by all accounts pretty terrible. I was advised to travel by ambulance to Kathmandu 12 hours away at a cost of 5000 NR which I agreed to, only to then be told that no ambulances were available and, as the doc experienced night blindness, he was not prepared to drive me to the crappy hospital two hours away. By this time I could only shuffle a few paces before collapsing in a heap, but I had no choice but to get back on the bus and hope for the best. I must pay tribute to the Nepali and Tibetan people who took care of me – particularly the two girls who never left me, and helped me every step of the way, no matter how uncompromising my situation… As it was a two and half day journey, the bus had two drivers and a (very narrow) bed at the front for the second driver, which was immediately given over to me. The two girls came and sat up front to keep an eye on me, and thank heaven as the hours went by my condition began to improve. I was already noticing a marked difference in my treatment by the Indian and Tibetan/Nepali people. These people were strangers, yet they did everything they could for me and all the time I was so grateful for their help and company. Perhaps it was the result of karma accumulated during the March to Tibet, that Tibetan people were there for me when I needed them most, but I remember feeling relieved that it wasn’t an Indian bus!

By the time I reached Kathmandu I had stopped vomiting and checked into the Kathmandu Guest House (into a room that had sadly been vacated by my friend Anne just an hour before) and slept. Later that day I visited the CIWEC Clinic, beside though not affiliated to the British Embassy, which unbeknown to me at the time, is a world renowned travel clinic. The place has a very reassuring air and the moment you walk through the door you know you’re going to be ok. They did some tests and I was soon seen (at a discounted rate) by a lovely American doctor who said it had just been food poisoning and that I was going to be fine. He even gave me the all clear to go trekking four days later!

I recovered quickly and met up with the friends with whom I was to trek to Everest Base Camp. However, this experience of a lifetime didn’t go entirely to plan. Firstly, after three of us had booked our flight to Lukla for May 13, my friend from New Jersey announced that he and his friends had changed their flights to the following day. The two I had booked my flights with said they were still happy to go when planned so we arranged to meet outside the Kathmandu Guest House shortly after 4am to catch our 6.10am flight. But they didn’t show. I had arrived 10 minutes late, so after half an hour, thinking they had gone on without me, I took a taxi to the airport, where there was still no sign of them. I kept expecting them to appear any minute, slightly disheveled with huge grins on their faces, but as the time drew closer to 6.10am, my mindless optimism gave way to unromantic realism, and I boarded the flight alone. With the help of a friendly guide (who hoped I’d take him on for 20USD a day) I found somewhere to stay and tried to find out where my friends were. I received an email from Chris saying that their alarm had failed to go off, but I still didn’t know where they were, so I remained in Lukla awaiting the arrival of the others the following morning.

I met them at the airport with some relief and they allowed me to trek with them, despite the fact that their guides were not happy with the extra cargo (I paid one 10USD per day to carry my stuff.) My friends had paid almost 1000 USD for a complete package which included their flights, food, accommodation, guides and permits and I was not part of the official party. But I trekked with them for the next week though the wonderful landscape of the Khumbu region.

What a place this is! I have long had an interest in the Khumbu valley - kick started by a chance encounter with Sir Edmund Hillary whilst waitressing in New Zealand. My curiosity was nurtured when running the editorial for a small local newspaper in Thame, Oxon, I discovered the existence of another Thame (pronounced Tamay) in the Khumbu, just a few days trek from Mt Everest. I persuaded my editor to let me run a feature on our Nepali namesake and following three months of research, I completed my masterpiece. To experience the Khumbu for myself was to fulfill one of my greatest ambitions – and I was not disappointed.

Home to the world’s highest peaks, this inaccessible area lay largely undiscovered by the outside world until Hillary and Tenzing Norgay conquered the 29,035ft mountain in 1953, bringing international interest and tourism in their wake. The Sherpa people, world renowned for their climbing prowess, began migrating to the area from Tibet around 600 years ago, bringing Tibetan Buddhism to the valley. Ancient Buddhist texts tell how Guru Rinpoche, who brought the religion to Tibet in the 7^thCentury AD, hid the Khumbu and other Himalayan valleys for the people of Tibet who, he foresaw, would need to take sanctuary during future troubled times. How prophetic he was. Evidence of the Sherpa’s deep but gentle faith is everywhere to be seen; from the monasteries forming the focal point of every village, to snow white stupas adorned with colourful prayer flags carried to the summits of mountains, and mani stones, intricately carved with the mantra Om Mani Padme Hum (hail to the jewel in the lotus) which litter the paths. Never more did I lament the fact that my camera is buggered as when trekking through such scenery. The Himalayas are a photographer’s paradise in their own right, but mounting a peak to see white stupas emerging from the swirling clouds, covered in a tangle of coloured prayer flags and surrounded by clusters of carved mani stones, is indeed a religious experience and something I’ll never forget. I must say that, in spite of having spent almost four months in His Holiness the Dalai Lama’s hometown, I found Nepal’s Buddhist monuments even more enchanting than those I left behind. Perhaps it was their age which added to their allure (His Holy Lamaness only arrived in McLeod in 1959 – meaning all monasteries, temples and stupas are modern.) Perhaps it was the majestic surroundings. But the stones, flags and monuments littering this enchanted landscape speak volumes about the unswerving faith that kept these sturdy yet extremely kind hearted mountain people going through far tougher times.

The allure of Everest, long called Jomolangma by Tibetans and Sherpas after the goddess they believe inhabits the mountain – has transformed the lives of Khumbu people over the past five decades. And I can honestly say I don’t believe I have ever visited a place in which tourism has made such a positive impact on a society, without also robbing that society of often irreplaceable attributes. Lodges and hotels have sprung up to cater for the ever increasing number of trekkers who flock to the region in their thousands each month, yet, constructed using traditional methods and materials (everything has to be flown in and then carried – there are no roads in the Khumbu) these buildings blend in perfectly with the towering landscape. Many of the villages we trekked though are almost entirely devoted to tourism, now the region’s economic backbone, but not once did I see a building or development which looked out of place. Also, keen to repay the region for the fame and fortune it had brought him, Sir Edmund Hillary left a lasting legacy through his organisation The Himalayan Trust, building schools, clinics, and infrastructure including the Lukla airstrip, which enables a constant supply of food, equipment and trekkers, to be flown to the villages.

The villagers themselves do more than their bit to make visiting the region a pleasure. Extremely hard working, warm hearted and accepting of all, these people are in complete contrast to their cold, harsh surroundings. Sturdy and strong (the loads these people, many of whom are shorter than me, carry in baskets on their backs up the steep mountain paths never ceased to amaze) the Khumbu people lived the rawest form of existence until the arrival of tourism. Now most lodges, usually family run, cater for western tastes and wood-fired pizza – followed of course by a Snikers Roll (spelling is clearly of secondary importance to the Nepalis) seems easier to find than the traditional Tibetan fare of momos and Thukpa, or Nepali daal bhaat.

My friends and I stayed at several such lodges where fellow trekkers provided great entertainment. We walked almost in parallel with an extremely enthusiastic American group, in reverence of which we dubbed ourselves ‘Team Extreme.’ A bunch of Rotarians raising funds for a local village, they were better men than us Gunga Din. But the almost nauseating enthusiasm with which they regarded ‘The Team,’ combined with their valiant lack of humour and the women’s insistence on wearing Heidi style plaits, shorts and spotless knee high socks like oversized girl scouts as they strode through the mountains like Family Von Trapp, made them a constant source of amusement to us naughty people. We met the same people again and again as we climbed higher, making our way up the steep paths at the rate suggested to avoid altitude sickness. Acute Mountain Sickness can affect anybody at anytime once they climb higher than around 10,000ft. There is no real rule or logic as to who will be struck down. Often it is the person you least expect and I saw a few big blokes who suffered quite badly with tell tale symptoms including headaches, dizziness and nausea. At heights of over 15,000ft, no one is unaffected, but I was lucky enough to be among those who suffered least. At 17,600ft, the oxygen level at Everest Base Camp is just half that at sea level, but other than one morning on which I became a little breathless climbing a peak, a slight headache and the general feeling of being a bit retarded (nothing new there then) I was fine.

From Namche Bazaar, the economic hub of the Khumbu region, filled with hotels and souvenir stalls nestled high in the mountains, I made the first of two day treks to Thame, and that evening we were reunited with Dwight and Chris - my friends who missed their flight to Lukla, who were sweetly apologetic. The next morning we continued up to Tengboche Monastery, a surreal paradise of peace and tranquility (and chill) far above the clouds. But the addition of three trekkers to the organised tour was beginning to take its toll. As I had accompanied the five official trekkers for three days awaiting the arrival of the others I had unwittingly fallen into the group, and whilst I paid my way regarding food, accommodation, and porterage, there is no doubt that I was using some of the guide’s services and this was seriously pissing off the organiser, who had been my friend in McLeod. True to my absent minded nature, I accidentally lost a walking pole which had been lent to me, infuriating the organiser, and Dwight and Chris’s arrival just exacerbated a worsening situation – for instance, the guide was not at all happy when asked to help try to find Dwight who we lost momentarily in a snow storm. Things came to a head at a place called Lobuje, just a few hours trek from Base Camp, where the group’s organiser took me outside and launched into a 10 minute verbal attack – after which I had no desire to remain with the group and resolved to strike out on my own. This is not recommended, but I was failing to live within the group’s means and was running out of money fast, meaning I would have had to have detached myself to some degree anyway in order to make my money last (there are no ATM’s beyond Namche Bazaar and even that is temperamental.) It was a shame though as I had really liked him in McLeod and all his friends (including his girlfriend who is the sister of one of my original McLeod crew) were lovely. I think this was for me the lowest point of my trip so far – despite being at the highest altitude.

The next morning, aided by the extremely obliging family that ran my lodge at Gorak Shep, the last stop before Base Camp, I hired a porter for two days and trekked through biting wind and hail to Everest Base Camp, which I have to say was a bit of a let down. The freezing conditions and cloud cover didn’t help, and the camp itself consisted of a large number of tents clustered close to the mighty mountain’s base. On arrival my porter went to visit friends and I spent an hour in an exhibition/bakery tent awaiting his return where the lovely Sherpa bakers, on seeing I couldn’t afford a slice of the fabulous smelling chocolate cake they had just produced from an oven, gave me a slice of tea cake.

From there I returned to Gorak Shep, collected my baggage and began the two day fast track trek down to Namche Bazaar. Whilst it is very important to acclimatize en route to Base Camp, there is no limit to how quickly you can trek downhill (even if it knackers your knees) and by nightfall I, and a nice American guy Jon, who I met on the way, were ensconced in a warm cozy lodge in Pheriche, run by the mother of the lady who helped me sort myself out at Gorak Shep.

I spent three days in Namche Bazaar making day treks, once again to Thame, and another to Khumjung – both stunning places which benefited greatly from Sir Edmund Hillary’s work. Hillary built schools for both villages and I wandered around that at Khumjung, a thriving place enveloped by swirling cloud which boasted a well kept statue to its benefactor. Khumjung Monastery (closed when I got there) is also said to contain a yeti scalp - although American analyzers concluded the artifact belonged to a Tibetan Blue Bear - a fact the locals are either unaware of, or choose to ignore.

On May 27, two weeks after arriving in the Khumbu, I took my return flight to Kathmandu. XXX

Goodbye to McLeodganj

sophinda — Mon, 5 May 2008 19:53:00 GMT

The last couple of weeks have been fairly uneventful so I’m afraid this entry is rather less exciting than previous ones, though mercifully shorter…

Perhaps the most interesting news is that after we left the march for McLeod, our fellow marchers remained in Delhi to await the arrival of the official Olympic Torch on April 17. However, at least 16,000 police (mostly Indian but some Chinese) were mobilized for the event, and my friends were arrested as a precautionary measure and detained for 27 hours. I asked the marchers to email me updates and quotes for the mag, and one American guy, Lex Pelger, sent me an hilarious account. Apparently the westerners were among 58 being held at the jail, where they were permitted to play badminton and get chai from the jail canteen, whilst the policemen even brought them milk, chocolate and ciggies from nearby shops. However that evening a head count was taken – only to discover that 11 had escaped during the day! At that point, in Lex’s words: “they went from being lovable old uncles to ‘I’m going to shoot you and take away your bathroom rights.’” One escapee even had the nerve to return and visit her friends the next day!! The poor Tibetans were given 14 day sentences, but most were released within three days.

Some rather sad news is that all westerners have been kicked off the march. They have been permitted to march to Nainital in Uttar Pradesh, which they should reach within the next couple of days, then it’s bye bye. I must say I don’t think the organising committee has treated them entirely fairly. During the build up there was a desperate recruitment drive for both Tibetan and western supporters, and whilst for marchers such as myself, who joined a bit at a time, it’s not the end of the world, some had planned to march all the way to the Tibetan border. One guy flew from Canada to take part and film a documentary on the march, with which he hoped to raise funds to sponsor a Tibetan student in Canada. The problem, I think, is that the committee is comprised of five NGOs, all with conflicting objectives, which was obviously a recipe for disaster and the thing has been halted, chopped and changed so many times – you never know what’s going to happen from hour to hour - never mind day to day.

Spent my first few days back in McLeod recovering from the march and then got struck down with an intestinal parasite right on deadline for Contact, which wasn’t good. My little friend’s official name is Giardia, although on my room mate Jenna’s advice I generally refer to him as Lloyd. It hasn’t been much fun having him around; in fact he has laid me really quite low which made getting the magazine out a real struggle. Had to literally do it an hour at a time, whenever I was able, but had to get on with it as I’ve been writing most of the thing as well as editing it, and there was nobody else to take over. Add to that the frequent internet and computer problems you expect in India and you have a challenging situation. Thankfully I finally finished it yesterday, so can relax a bit and enjoy my last couple of days in McLeod. I’m rather proud that my parasite is listed in the Lonely Planet, and that I can now start ticking off unpleasant diseases as well as hotels and restaurants. I’ve also just bumped into an English guy who has lived in India for 20 years, and is consequently a walking encyclopedia of all things nasty, who reassured me that I probably also have a form of dysentery. India: 'making Brits puke since 1612.'

On a brighter note our friend count, which hit an all time low a couple of weeks ago, has increased with some really cool people passing through over the last week or so, some of whom I hope to catch up with in Kathmandu.

So the time has almost come for me to leave this beautiful town. In fact, were it not for Lloyd I would have taken off to Amritsar yesterday where a 2.5 mile walk for Tibet, organised by the local Sikh community, took place, culminating in a candle light vigil at the Golden Temple which would have been amazing. Was disappointed I couldn’t go, as I’d planned to visit the Punjab during these few days anyway so it would have worked out perfectly, but if I have to be sick I’d rather be somewhere familiar where I have lovely friends to look after me if necessary. But Lloyd being well I plan to embark on the three day trip to Kathmandu (probably via Delhi) in a couple of days time.

I’m certainly going to miss this place. It is so stunning. Every day I’m woken by warm sunlight streaming through my window to the sight of McLeod tumbling down the mountainside, snowy peaks, colourful prayer flags illuminated by sunshine – and Jenna’s sacred hammock on our balcony. There is always so much going on here and everyone you meet is lovely (I mean travelers and some Tibetans. The Indian guys are quite frankly a pain in the arse) and the weather is just perfect. It’s slightly cooler and far fresher than Delhi, but still well into the 80s (around 30C) most days. Tomorrow I hope to take lots of photos (which I will upload I promise) many of which are likely to feature Carpe Diem, a house of ill repute which has been my home for the last four months.

Well think that’s about it. Told you it was a boring one. Speak soon, Love Soph XXX

Destination Dusty Delhi

sophinda — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 17:34:00 GMT

Well hello again from a beautiful sunny McLeodganj, to which I returned from an amazing two weeks on the march on Monday.

I must say that this little microcosm of Tibet with a hint of the west, buried in the Himalayan foothills, really feels like home now. It’s amazing how your standards change whilst traveling in India. When I first arrived in McLeod (when granted it was freezing) I was really quite perturbed by the frequent power cuts, likelihood of illness and the idea of moving into a flat with a squat toilet in which hardly anything worked. But after three months, between trips to Chamba, Shimla, Rishikesh and two stints on the march, McLeod seems to possess every comfort you could ask for, and returning from a hot dusty Delhi in an horrendous sleeper bus three hours late to the mountains of McLeod, I really felt I was coming home. I’m going to miss this place when I move on in a couple of weeks – possibly to Nepal.

To make things even better, I yesterday left my dark, grubby, electricity-forsaken flat and moved in with my partner in crime, Jenna from Northfield, Minnesota. My elderly crazed Tibetan landlady chased me out of the complex yelling some bollocks, but even with luggage I was able to outrun her, ha ha!

The weather in mid April is gorgeously warm MOST days, although yesterday’s rain, wind, hail, thunder and lightning was a clear exception. As I stood hanging out my washing on my balcony at around 11am, the whole town was suddenly engulfed in dense cloud which covered the surrounding peaks in a rapid white whirl before encompassing McLeod at such a rate, that at times it almost seemed as though we were in the midst of a forest fire rather than a storm. When you’ve become so used to a place it’s easy to forget you are over 5000ft up and yesterday’s phenomena, which plunged the town into a surreal dusky darkness, was quite unlike anything I have ever seen.

Perhaps the biggest downside of being here in April is the influx of western tourists which ironically makes it far harder to meet people. The hardier tourists that make it here during winter tend to stick together creating a real sense of camaraderie, but now following yet another mass exodus, my friend count has been reduced to two! However I anticipate being so busy over the next couple of weeks that I hopefully won’t be too bothered. Tomorrow I start work on the May edition of Contact and there should be quite a bit to do, although all being well it won’t be quite as frantic as last month. Activities following the Lhasa uprising meant that news in the run up to deadline changed sometimes hourly. Every time I thought I’d got on top of things, another huge story would break, and I would say that pretty much every story that made it into the 16 page mag’s six editorial pages would have made front page during practically any other month. Nancy Pelosi’s visit for example was relegated to one third of page seven. Add to that frequent power cuts, internet failure, and daily protests during which the whole town shuts up shop, and you have quite a challenge. But I’m relieved to say the edition, which finally hit the streets two days late, only contained one minor spelling mistake and was by all accounts accurate and well received.

The morning after the final proof reading I was on a bus to Chandigarh (India’s answer to Milton Keynes only quadruple the size) eager to rejoin the March to Tibet, which all the original marchers have happily rejoined following their release from jail. At Chandigarh I caught a bus to Kurukshetra – a very sacred place for Hindus as it was here that Brahma is believed to have created man and the universe. Wedged between six Indian guys on the only available seat however, whilst one insisted on stroking my hair and asking for my number repeatedly, it was hard to truly appreciate the area’s cosmic kudos. Finally, after 12 hours traveling and increasing confusion about my whereabouts, I was delighted and relieved to spot from my auto rickshaw three Tibetan monks sporting tell tale orange March to Tibet baseball caps. I had arrived. I eventually found my friends getting ready for bed on the stony roof of a monastery, where the march had set up camp. It was pretty damned uncomfortable and I doubt I got more than 10 mins sleep that night, but it was good to be back.

Three weeks on from its dramatic beginnings on March 10, the march fell into a steady rhythm as it pushed on through the Punjab into neighbouring Haryana, where I rejoined. Gone was the almost ecstatic enthusiasm which characterized its beginnings, replaced with a quieter more stoic and generally good humoured approach, mingled with a few moans from Tibetans and Ingies (Tibetan word for westerners!) We generally walked between 12 – 15 miles a day, getting up at cripplingly early hours (generally a 5am breakkie before marching an hour later) to beat the heat of the north Indian plains, which even in Spring sees maximum temperatures in the late 80s/early 90s (about 30 – 33C.) Jenna’s performance was sadly undermined by sickness and I think she only managed about three days marching, taking the truck on other days, but I marched every possible day - admittedly taking more long chai and breakkie breaks before catching up via rickshaw or hitchhiking than should have been allowed. During the 10 days of marching we slept in one Buddhist monastery, two fields, one Hindu temple, one Jain temple, two Sikh temples, an incense (dust) factory, and the shell of one almost complete house. It was at times tough, rough and unsavoury, but almost always fun.

The organisers were unfortunately quite anal at times and we were called to two meetings – the gist of which was basically no smoking, drinking or absconding from camp. During the second meeting the sentence ‘no singing and no having fun’ was actually used, setting in stone my plans not to march beyond Delhi. Most of us broke these rules of course – as marching at 6am meant we tended to reach our destination anytime between midday and 3pm, and who wants to hang around a scorching tent in a parched field for nine hours? Whilst the motorway between Chandigarh and Delhi, which we followed for the full 10 days, must be one of India’s busiest roads, Haryana is certainly the route less traveled by foreign tourists. The whole of Haryana, the bread basket of northern India with a population of over 21 million, takes up just one of my Lonely Planet India’s 1200 plus pages; such is the scale of this country. Local police even visited march organisers at the incense factory, where paranoia about rain kept us for two nights, warning that the local people were ‘not very nice,’ and to be careful when venturing out. We genuinely appreciated the safety advice dispensed by organisers, but we are all independent adults and experienced no trouble going out in pairs or groups – bar the usual attempts at small scale swindling and constant stares from over curious Indian men.

In all honesty I have been a little disappointed with the attitude of many Indian people towards westerners – at least in the areas I have visited. I have to admit that class seems to play a huge role in attitude; with the well-dressed middle class Indians generally expressing a friendly, pleasant curiosity. The vast majority however seem to regard us as something between walking ATMs and prostitutes. Constant staring (and occasional grabbing) from Indian men can become irritating and really got to a couple of the girls on the march. Even more exasperating for me were the constant attempts to cheat us which, whilst often by only a few rupees at a time (although some rickshaw drivers really take the piss) adds up. Fortunately many goods have the price printed on them, helping us argue our case when a vendor attempts to charge 20 rupees for something which should cost 12 or 15, but sometimes - especially whilst marching, you just can’t be bothered to argue. The assumption very much seems to be that if you have white skin you are rich, and they fail to understand that some of us have saved very hard for a number of years to come and volunteer here. More frustrating still, particularly in the tourist hubs of central Delhi and McLeodganj, are the hoards of beggars constantly vying for your hard earned cash. In Delhi’s

Connaught Place

you cannot sit down for one minute without being approached by someone with their hand out (we tried it) and the beggars we encountered ranged from the mildly irritating to the downright grotesque. Perhaps one of the most shocking sights I have ever seen is Delhi’s child street performers. Jenna and I were taking a rickshaw along one of the city’s main highways when a boy who looked no more than eight or nine approached our rickshaw, smiled at us and proceeded to play a drum whilst a girl of about five who was ingrained with dirt (which to be fair, doesn’t take long in Delhi) performed a series of summersaults – amid six lanes of traffic!! Were they orphans or the victims of some hideous form of child exploitation? This was sadly not the last time we would witness such desperate antics, but whilst I think both of us would have liked nothing better than to take those children away to a safe place where they could receive good food and an education, we didn’t want to encourage such practice by giving them anything.

There were happily some far more positive experiences along the road. Stopping off at a Jain temple about 25 miles from Delhi, a lovely French photographer who recently joined the march, and I were keen to learn a little about Jainism, and my friend suggested looking in on a Jain school for girls a short walk from the temple. It is however difficult to keep track of time on the march as you are so far removed from everything (think I went virtually a whole day at the incense factory without knowing what the time was, which was strangely fabulous) and we had completely forgotten it was Sunday. But we got chatting to a Jain family who were at the school visiting a traveling guru. Jainism is a very peaceful deviation from Hinduism, with all believers following a vegetarian diet which often excludes root vegetables such as onions and potatoes – as harvesting these crops is likely to harm insects. Strict followers carry a broom to sweep the path before they tread it, and face masks to prevent the accidental inhalation of insects. Gurus are always naked and follow strict rules including the allowance of just one meal and intake of water a day – even during the scorching Indian summers. Anyway, after chai and nibbles we were invited to meet the guru who, sure enough, sat cross legged on a platform completely starkers, with his feet strategically placed! After we were invited to share a meal laid on for devotees which, as I had hoped, was truly delicious. I was so excited, I love anything spontaneous and in the space of an hour or two I had learned loads, eaten a fabulous meal and seen a naked man. What more can a girl ask?? But the Indian family who made it all possible were patient and friendly and seemed genuinely pleased to meet us, especially the very pleasant 15-year-old daughter who hopes to train as an engineer – quite refreshing in a country in which customs and culture render so many women virtually housebound. For me, a moment in another Delhi rickshaw, during which two middle class women, one Hindu and one Muslim, cheerfully chatted to us from a neighbouring rickshaw, whilst a gaunt rag clad beggar lady clung to the other side of our vehicle and harassed us, epitomized the two faces of India.

All said, the march was a great experience. It was not easy to grab as much sleep as I would have liked, due to a combination of hard ground, monks playing tinny Hindi radio at 5am, an enthusiastic (but very good) American flautist and marauding mosquitoes, but the food, simple but plentiful, was almost always exceedingly good. Perhaps the one exception was tsampa, a Tibetan staple, consisting of sweet tea, barley flour, sugar and butter which you are required to mix and roll into a ball. Mine however, generally took on the consistency of wall paper paste and at first I was most unenthusiastic, but after a few attempts learned, if not to enjoy it, certainly to tolerate it. Another downer was the dusty filth of Delhi which clings to you – no matter how hard you try to keep clean. Last May I spent eight days in rural Romania where I got really quite grubby, but at least that was good honest agricultural dirt, as opposed to the disgusting grime which hangs in the air and fills the gutters of this vast polluted city, like dirty grey sand. The biggest challenge of the march for me however, had to be the mosquitoes which plagued me throughout. Everyone got bitten, but they seemed to particularly love me and I had literally hundreds of bites of my arms and face - making me look as though I had some foul tropical disease. The absence of mirrors for much of the time spared me a lot, but whenever I did find one I had a shock, and I couldn’t go anywhere without attracting sympathetic tuts and comments from Tibetans, Indians and Ingies alike.

After marching through Karnal, Gharaunda, and Panipat (all large towns totally untouched by tourism – which was both confronting and absolutely fascinating) we arrived in Delhi’s Tibetan settlement, where Jen and I (along with half the other Ingies) booked into an hotel, and it was amazing how quickly the bites cleared up after just a night of isolation from the mozzies. After 10 days of roughing it to the extreme, the hotel with running water, a western toilet, TV and room service felt like sheer heaven. The excitement we expressed upon discovering our room even had toilet paper was actually quite sad.

In the days that followed we participated in a three day protest rally in central Delhi (between numerous tea and brownie breaks of course.) Interspersed with many long speeches in Tibetan during which we often absconded, were graphic demonstrations staged by Tibetan solidarity groups. One particularly hard hitting piece of street theatre staged by Gu Chu Sum – an NGO formed by former Tibetan political prisoners, demonstrated the capture, imprisonment and torture of Tibetans under Chinese occupation – made all the more brutal by the knowledge that many performers had first hand experience of the horrors they portrayed. There was also an extremely vocal march in which we all participated, and a daily candle light vigil in which Jen and I took part on the second day. For me this quiet form of protest was somehow more poignant than many of the louder demonstrations.

Perhaps the greatest thing about everything we have participated in however, is that it does not seem to have all been in vain. Outside of the ultimate goal – a dialogue between the Chinese government and the Dalai Lama, the thing the Tibetans really want from this dramatic period of protest is international support triggered by world media attention – and they’ve certainly been getting plenty of that. We have been quite overwhelmed by the way the world has seized upon it, leading to the complete sabotage of the Olympic Torch relay in London and Paris, and the boycotting of the Olympics’ opening ceremony by Gordon Brown and Canadian PM Stephen Harper – among other notables. We jumped up and down in our hotel room as we watched our friends on CNN (almost as exciting as the toilet paper) and it’s all so great as it makes us feel we are part of something really worthwhile. We are all making history in our own small way and the important thing now is to keep the impetuous up. Even as I write, the torch is in Delhi where, in spite of the fact that it’s being shielded from all but WORLD media (we local journos don’t get a look in) numerous demonstrations are being staged. A Facebook friend of mine has already been arrested and I fear for other friends still in the capital. Another concern is that the march is not allowed to continue beyond Delhi. I don’t know how they plan to smuggle 150 maroon clad nuns and monks plus supporters out of Delhi, but they’re a tenacious lot and I imagine they’ll manage it somehow.

As for me, I’ll continue to gather updates from ‘the front’ until the mag’s deadline and will follow its progress closely, with a possible view to rejoining just for a few days in the future, although with just a couple of months traveling time after publication before the monsoon kicks in, I can no longer afford to make it my priority. The next couple of weeks will be dedicated to getting the mag out and just enjoying McLeod (on the cheap as finances are beginning to pinch) before I take off – probably around May 1.

Oh well, think that’s most of the news, hope I haven’t bored you all too much. Keep in touch, Lots of love, Soph XXX

Cops and Yogis

sophinda — Mon, 24 Mar 2008 19:22:00 GMT

Yesterday I attended a press conference with Nancy Pelosi, third in line for the American presidency, who was visiting the Dalai Lama here in sunny McLeodganj.

As is always the way here, I only found out about it over dinner the previous night, far too late to try to procure a press pass. The following morning I got up too late and more in hope than expectancy, grabbed the defunked one day press pass I obtained for the Dalai Lama's teachings, which was clearly marked February 23. Pausing only to grab a quick Snickers for breakfast, I arrived at the Dalai Lama’s temple and eventually found the press area. Don’t ask me how, but after much pleading I blagged my way in with the ancient pass and got a good view of Mrs Pelosi and her congressional crew, accompanied by a jovial Dalai Lama who at one point just burst out giggling. That’s the thing I really like about the Dalai Lama. I might not agree with every word he says (although most of it is lovely) but he is always smiling. Following her public address I got into the official press conference and after standing in the hot sun for well over an hour in an excellent spot on a wall which I refused to relinquish no matter how many bulshy film crews yelled at me, got an even better view of the party, and some good quotes.

I must say that after writing about poxy village fetes and charity events for almost four years, taking quotes from two of the world’s most influential figures as they stood side by side just a few feet away from me felt seriously cool.

Whilst a co-incidence (the main purpose of the trip being negotiations with the Indian government over climate change) Nancy’s visit, and the press coverage it received could not have been timelier for the exiled Tibetans. As many of you can probably imagine, these last few days have been eventful to say the least.

On Monday, March 10, I joined several thousand people who, after a poignant ceremony at the Dalai Lama’s temple, walked the first six miles of the March to Tibet, down to lower Dharamsala. The huge party was led by 100 Tibetan‘Core Marchers,’mostly monks and nuns, distinguishable by their bright orange baseball caps, followed by Tibetan families, westerners and vocal campaigners carrying huge banners, and chanting a variety of slogans – some peaceful, some less so. At Dharamsala we said goodbye to the majority of the marchers, before around 300 of us continued as far as a local Tibetan university where we were to spend the first night on the floor of a temple. We spent a pleasant afternoon, and then the problems began. At around 7 or 8pm, a group of Himachal Pradesh police arrived to close down the march which, organisers had omitted to tell us, was illegal. Perhaps I was particularly naive about this, but it seems I wasn’t the only one who had not given this aspect much thought, and as everyone, Tibetan and western, was encouraged to join the march, the possibility of it being illegal simply never crossed my mind. Even at this stage, things didn’t look good and some of us were beginning to think this was going to be it, but after a couple of hours, it was agreed that the march could continue, only within the boundaries of the Kangra district – one of several making up the northern hill state of Himachal Pradesh.

In the meantime our main luggage, which was being transported by truck, failed to arrive until the early hours, so I was able to get very little sleep in the well lit temple surrounded by snoring monks and nuns, until my stuff finally arrived. Honestly it was like a snorer’s symphony - there were even some rather clever harmonies going on…

The next day was so much fun. Loads of walking of course, but there was a great group of people on board and we spent much of the day singing, swimming in rivers, telling jokes and basically talking crap. This is also such a wonderful way to see India, or at least Himachal Pradesh, with its gorges, mountains, green fields and curious Indian families who watched us pass as they gossiped in their gardens. In the late afternoon a large group of Tibetan marchers, students at the university we stayed at the previous night, lined up around a bend in the road and bid us goodbye, each one of us shaking hands with each one of them as they expressed their heartfelt gratitude for our part in the demonstration. Many were in tears, and this was really quite a humbling experience. Their departure cut our number by more than half so that we were reduced to the 100 core marchers, 20 or so westerners and a small number of camera crew. We spent the night at a steep campsite by a main road, close to chai shops.

The following day involved lots of walking and I started to feel quite knackered. The police remained a constant shadow and we received a couple of warnings that this could be the day they try to stop the march. But we plunged on regardless and by late afternoon had reached our campsite where we hung out having fun before getting an early night, as we were told we had to be up at 4.30am the following morning, our aim to foil the police by crossing the Kangra border early.

The next morning was more fun than anticipated and by 5.40am we were on our way, being as silly as ever. Shortly after dawn we entered a town called Dehra and were about to cross Dehra Bridge, when all hell broke lose. We were instructed to sit down in a long line in the middle of the road before the Tibetans reminded us once again that this was a peaceful demonstration and that we were not to cause any trouble. The Himachal Police had arrived. 125 of them. I must admit that at this stage I was not terribly concerned. We had been stopped so often over the last few days that it now seemed almost a matter of course. Then as we saw monks and nuns at the front of the line being dragged away and arrested, it dawned on us that this time was going to be a little different.

As the police made their way down the long line, pulling people off the ground as they prayed and on occasion, ripping backpacks off marcher’s backs and snapping Tibetan flags in two, before herding them onto waiting buses, we at the back could only hold hands and wait. I had already made up my mind not to resist if they tried to arrest me. India has been very good to the Tibetans overall, providing a safe haven for over 80,000 exiled Tibetans for almost 50 years, and the Tibetans are always very eager to express their gratitude to the Indian government whenever they get the chance - so I didn’t see what good antagonising the Indians would do anyone. The American guy next to me however became quite emotional and scared, so I held onto him, keeping hold of his hand as three policeman dragged him towards the buses. They ordered me to come too so I followed them to the bus,trembling slightly, and waited to be loaded on. However another American friend, a former wrestler, was proving very hard to subdue. He didn’t fight, but by way of holding on to things and refusing to budge, made it so difficult for the police that it took 10 big officers to arrest him. My friend and I saw our chance, slowly backed away, and escaped.

Taking a step back, I was shocked to see how many of my friends were on the buses – at least half our number, which was really rather worrying as we knew the authorities had the power to detain and deport them if they wished. But it was the looks on the faces of the Tibetan monks and nuns as they were driven away that will always stay with me. For the westerners this was an adventure. A chance to stand up for something we believe in, and also in my case, to do some ‘on the ground’ reporting, which got a little bit scary. But for these people, most of whom made a perilous month long journey on foot through the high Himalayas to escape the fear and oppression in Tibet, this march was everything. A last chance perhaps to achieve justice for friends and family still languishing in Tibet. Many wailed and screamed, most were crying, tears rolling down the faces of those who, minutes earlier, had been praying for the happiness of all beings in the cosmos. An orange March to Tibet hat lay dirty and crumpled, redundant, beneath the wheel of a bus. These scenes I will never forget.

All core marchers had undergone a three day training programme in non-violent resistance, and it took an hour to arrest them. After they were driven away, I was one of just nine out of the 130 plus Tibetans, westerners and camera crew who marched into Dehra that morning who remained. We jumped into the back of a truck and returned to the campsite, and shortly after received the happy news that our western friends had been released. I think they were only really taken because the police didn’t know what else to do with us. There was no real sense of animosity towards the Himachal police. They were after all just doing their job and I really got them impression that the Indians had no real interest in stopping the march – more that they felt they had to tow the line with China. After his release, a Tibetan marcher told me he even witnessed four policemen crying because they had to forcibly remove and arrest people as they prayed. We traveled to Jwalaji Police Station, where we were united with our friends who were sitting outside on the ground. We held an all day vigil outside the police station with music and protests,urging them to release the Tibetans, whilst the majority joined the detained marchers in a hunger strike. I have to admit that I didn’t go along with this. I’d make a rotten hunger striker, and I wanted to try and freelance something on the day’s events to newspapers. Whilst I fully appreciate the peaceful stand that was made, I don’t see how weakening yourself helps anyone, especially in a country like India where travelers can become so ill so quickly. However I still felt like one hell of a bailer sneaking away from the line to indulge in chai and paranthas at a nearby restaurant.

In the meantime I was phoning the British nationals trying to freelance the story and eventually persuaded someone on The Guardian to take it on spec (they never used it – damn them!) I then caught a taxi to Kangra, an hour away, to use the nearest internet café, returning to Jwalaji at around 8.30pm to find my friends gone. I then asked the poor taxi driver to run me round to all the places I thought they could be. At each destination (including another Police HQ with marijuana growing all around the front gate) I was told they were at the next and after five attempts, was starting to worry as I could not glean from anyone whether they were still in the area or had returned to Dharamsala – now two hours away. But after desperately seeking them on foot, by taxi, jeep and motorbike, I was delighted to be reunited with my extremely hungry friends at the campsite at around 10pm, and even more delighted to learn that they had ended their hunger strike.

The next day, with no march to follow, we hung around the site for a few hours before returning to Dharamsala by bus, which with 12 of us, was really rather fun. Having marched around 35 miles over the last few days, with only around 5 hours sleep at best each night on the hard ground, I was extremely fatigued and greatly in need of a shower and hair wash, so if I’m honest had mixed feelings about returning to relative civilization. Although I had intended to do seven days of the march, I always said that if for any reason that didn’t happen, I would go to Rishikesh, so after just a few hours back in McLeod in which to eat, wash and sleep, my friend Trip and I boarded the night bus to Rishi.

After a cramped 16 hour journey we arrived at our destination, and after finding no room at the inn, struck fourth time lucky at the Lucky Hotel, on the banks of the turquoise Ganges. According to my calculations, I had managed to grab 18 hours sleep over the past six nights so my main priority was relaxation.

Rishikesh is certainly an intriguing place. Standing at the point where the Ganges gushes from the Himalayas into the plains, and priding itself as the yoga capital of the world, this ancient Hindu pilgrimage site found international fame and notoriety when The Beatles rocked up in search of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi in 1968. A stopping point for yogis and holy men for centuries, the town retains an air of mysticism.

On our first full day, Trip went white water rafting whilst I explored two enormous 13 storey temples overlooking the Ganges. Built only in 1987, the temples have yet to develop any real soul, but are still very interesting, containing numerous colourful shrines to various Hindu deities and commanding fantastic views of the mighty river. Whilst there is much I love about McLeodganj, standing on the 13th storey of the Shri Trayanbakshwar Temple, sporting a bindi and necklace, and clutching flowers bestowed on me on a lower floor (for a donation of course) in the hot sun with the sacred Ganges rolling beneath my feet, I felt that I had finally found the essence of India. Later my day was made when on the bridge below I stroked and was photographed with a beautiful silver monkey called Dave (pic to come!) In the afternoon the Tripster and I went on a wonderful tour of the overgrown remains of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi Ashram, frequented by the fab four between 1968 – 71, and where much of The White Album was conceived. The ashram itself was closed in 1997 due to the expiry of a 99 year lease from the Indian government, but the crumbling shells of many of its bizarre buildings remain. Leading us around the gates our fabulous guide Kaustubh Joshi, told us ‘they would have passed through these gates into another world.’ And what a world it was. With a capacity of 4000 people, the ashram used a specific form of meditation based around sound. In its heyday, a complex water system gurgled through the complex which contained 84 mediation cells designed to represent Ying and Yang. I don’t pretend to be up on either the science or spirituality of the place, about which our gentle guide was extremely passionate, but it certainly retained an atmosphere, enhanced by tales of its extraordinary residents. One Yogi Tat Wala Baba, is alleged to have mastered the art of agelessness, looking in his 30s when he was actually 87, and sporting 22ft dreadlocks which two faithful disciples carried behind him like a train! Whilst we stood beneath one of the finest sunsets I have ever seen, which cast an ethereal glow over the forest, a man in white robes with long dreadlocks (not quite 22ft) walked past carrying a pale of water. We were told that he is the disciple of a holy man who has mastered the art of levitation and that this disciple has faithfully made the six mile journey to collect water from the site of a 5000 year old shrine, every day for I think four years.

We were also taken to the guesthouse in which The Beatles stayed and the roof on which much of The White Album was penned, which was extremely cool. The White Album has always been one of my favourites, and now whenever I listen to it I think I’ll always be reminded of this remarkable place.

On our second full day I bid a sad farewell to Trippy, and took my first ever yoga class which confirmed my long held belief that I’m absolutely shit at it! After the class however I stepped out of the ashram onto the banks of the Ganges at sunset. Rishi has a gorgeously warm climate and at this time of day was absolutely perfect. I sat down just to absorb everything for a few minutes before turning around to find a gang of about 10 Indian guys photographing me. I returned, slightly indignantly, to the busy streets above. That evening I met up with a couple of friends from McLeodganj in a gorgeous riverside café and, after learning the full extent of recent events in McLeodganj, and of the worldwide attention the crisis in Tibet was receiving, reluctantly decided to make the grueling journey back a day early.

It’s probably a good job I did as it’s all been kicking off here. When I first arrived back three days ago there were constant marches and demonstrations in the town, some very graphic, with the Tibetans clutching images of the bodies of those killed in their country, alongside Tibetan flags and hard hitting slogans. In my absence the Dalai Lama held a press conference stating he might resign as the Tibetan people’s leader if the violence does not end, and the situation changes daily. What a time to take over as editor of McLeodganj’s monthly magazine! I will be writing and compiling copy over the next few days, which is a rather daunting prospect – especially as no-one can be certain of the current situation in Tibet, and it’s not as though I can balance stories by getting statements from the Chinese government! Add to that the likelihood that we will get kicked out of our office and lose our computer any day now – and you have an interesting situation – and for the first time in my journalistic career, I have no-one to turn to for guidance. I am, in effect, THE BOSS!!

Oh well, a very Happy Easter to everyone. It’s Saturday night and I’m off to party with the small but stoic group of friends I have remaining XXX

Shimla and Other Places

sophinda — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 20:48:00 GMT

Hi everyone,

Firstly – apologies for the strange format of the last installment. I’ve no idea why it did that, bloody computers have a mind of their own, so here’s hoping this one behaves!

Thought I should get another installment in as tomorrow I set off on the first week of the March to Tibet, a 2,500 mile march from Dharamsala to Tibet via Delhi. The march, which is expected to take five and a half months, is the focal point of a campaign called the Tibetan People’s Uprising Movement, which aims to highlight the plight of the Tibetans and the human rights violations taking place in their country under Chinese occupation in the run up to the Beijing Olympics. It is expected to take 20 days to reach Delhi and I would like to march for seven days, as I need to be back here by the 19^th at the latest as I’m now EDITOR IN CHIEF for local magazine Contact, and need to get that wrapped up by the 25^th. Contact is only a 16 page freebie, and the title, created by my friend and predecessor, Ian Kent, makes it sound rather more hard hitting than it is – but I like it :-)

The only problem with the march seems to be that no-one, least of all the organisers, seems to have a clue what’s going on. It’s being organised by five Tibetan NGOs, all of which seem to have conflicting objectives ranging from gaining international recognition of their plight with a view to negotiations, to an all out cancellation of the games. Some also say they haven’t got their act together regarding food supplies and luggage transportation, and there are mutterings that the western support contingency may not even be able to march at the same time as the Tibetans. I have also heard that there have been two previous attempts to complete the march which has always fallen apart due to lack of organisation and infrastructure – but rumours abound and as for this attempt – let’s just see. It would be great if they could pull it off. We have been told we’ll be marching between 13 – 15 miles a day, and I must admit I have never had such a strong sense of wandering into the unknown, but at least I’ll have friends with me.

All’s still well here in McLeodganj. The weather is now absolutely gorgeous, just like summer and, with a combination of sheer bloody mindedness and some serious sticky tape, have temporarily got my camera working so I hope there will be some pictures before long. My time at Tibet Today is proving as fruitless as ever, waited over an hour and a half for my editor to turn up for an appointment today, before finally giving up, so whilst I’ll still submit articles to them, have decided to make Contact my main focus. It’s smaller and far less glossy than Tibet Today, but it’s monthly, well read, and the staff seem to have their act together. I’m also desperately trying to pitch a piece on the march to the nationals, but so far no joy. My stalwart papers, the good old Bucks Herald and North Devon Journal have both said they might run something, but so far none of the bigger players are responding. Shame, as the march doesn’t seem to be getting much media coverage, so if any of you know of any publications which might appreciate a cool, hard hitting feature on the March to Tibet…..

With many of my friends having recently moved on, things are a bit lonely here in McLeod, but hopefully it’s just a blip, and there will be a fresh arrival of cool fun-loving internationals waiting to greet me on my return.

Things have got much busier following the beginning of the Dalai Lama's annual spring teachings, which ran between February 22 - March 2, and on which I reported. I managed to blag a press pass for the second day, which entitled me to take a camera and line up for a glimpse of His Holy Lamaness. True to form, after having spent 10 minutes learning how to use my editor’s sophisticated piece of machinery which he agreed to lend me, I arrived at the office to find he had taken it on a job without telling me, and would not get it back in time for when I needed it, so I had to run round my mates at the last minute asking to borrow a camera. Fortunately I was lent one and squeezed past the other photographers (all of whom were 6ft plus with pieces of equipment more akin to space shuttles than cameras) to get a few pics. Due to rotten weather, and a less powerful camera than I really needed for the job (still a very nice one Trippy) they’re a bit dark and grainy, but it’s still the Dalai Lama!

Last weekend I decided on the spur of the moment to visit Shimla, as McLeodganj, beautiful as it is, has such a strong Tibetan and international flavour that it’s sometimes easy to forget you’re in India. As the Indian summer capital between 1864 – 1939, home of the British Raj, and now capital of Himachal Pradesh, I have always considered Shimla an important stop on my trip, but nothing quite prepared me for the Shimla experience. What a stunning place it is, stretching for eight miles along a ridge and bathed in glorious sunshine from all angles. After a nine hour bus journey I was deposited by the side of a main road, shortly before sunset, and as far as I can recall this was the first time I had ever arrived in a place alone and with no accommodation sorted. However it was impossible to feel apprehensive in this magical place which must now rank among my top five places ever visited. Also, bizarre as it sounds, in spite of the fact that this is my first trip to India, the town had a strangely familiar feel. Not spookily so, for example I didn’t recognise any specific buildings or landmarks, but I almost felt as though I had seen it in a dream. I don’t really buy into the theory of reincarnation, but rightly or wrongly I believe some of my ancestors were in India in the 19^th Century and so it is extremely likely that they would have spent time in Shimla. Was it ancestral voices calling, some profound scientific phenomena yet to be discovered, or simply my imagination running away with me? Who knows? All I know is that I’ve never had such a feeling about a place before.

After a bit of a climb I found The Ridge, an open space bordered at one end by Christchurch, completed in 1857 by the British in an attempt to create a little piece of England in the wilderness. They got the shape right, but for me it didn’t quite work, perhaps due to the fact that it was painted primrose yellow and sported a neon green cross which lit up at night like something out of Father Ted. Mock Tudor English buildings, now housing such institutions as The State Bank of India and the Himachal Pradesh Library, also gave a hint of home, although aspects such as faded facades and corrugated iron roofs were enough to dispel the illusion.

Home to almost 150,000 people, the town which tumbles down the mountainside in a maze of teeming alleyways, is now a major Indian tourist destination and is especially popular with honeymooners. I was warned against the Kalka Railway which, completed in 1903, climbs the mountainside through 103 tunnels, as it is apparently crawling with smug married couples. Walking along The Ridge at sunset with my backpack, it was easy to see why this town, a mere glade until Scottish civil servant Charles Kennedy built his summer residence there in 1822, is so popular. At over 6000ft in elevation it is possible to gaze for miles across the Himalayan foothills which at sunset are shrouded in a bluey, pinky purple haze. However, as much as I just wanted to stop and take everything in, I reminded myself that this beautiful scene meant only one thing. The sun was setting and I had to find somewhere to sleep. After a bit of haggling I got myself a beautiful sunfilled room with a TV and bathroom for 300R a night – my exact budget.

That night I hooked up with a very nice doctor from Toronto and the next day she and I set off to The Viceroy’s Lodge. Completed in 1888, the lodge was built in the style of a Scottish baronial castle by the tenacious Brits who had each of its many thousand austere grey stones carried up the mountainside by mule. Now home to the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies, the lodge was the site of the 1945 Simla Conference, attended by Mahatma Gandhi, and the signing of the official partition of India and Pakistan, the effects of which are still felt today in the bitter dispute between the two nations over Kashmir. A brief tour of the few rooms visitors are allowed to enter included the room in which the controversial treaty was signed in 1947, sparking a conflict in which over one million people were killed and a further ten million displaced. Now a humble conference room, still decorated with paper imported from England when the house was built, it was quite awe inspiring to share the space in which the history of nations was forged. After a lap of the building in glorious 75F sunshine, we nosed into The Oberoi Cecil Hotel. One of Shimla’s finest; the Victorian hotel breathes Raj era opulence, with prices that wouldn’t be out of place in

Park Lane

. My generous companion insisted with share tea, scones and the most sublime chocolate brownie I have ever tasted, claiming it was her contribution to Tibetan human rights! We sat drinking Earl Grey with our fingers in the air like queens of the Raj, before nosing into some of the glorious bedrooms under the pretence we were planning to hold a conference there – just for fun!

The following day I climbed to the Jakhu (monkey) Temple above Shimla, and was delighted to complete the steep climb in well under 30 mins meaning, according to the sign, that I’m ‘absolutely fit’ (well I could have told you that ;-) As I approached the actual temple however, I felt a sharp tug as my bag was snatched clean off my shoulder. A kind Indian man retrieved my belongings from my disgruntled assailant, who chirped indignantly, before disappearing up the nearest tree before you could say ‘cheeky monkey.’ Irresponsible feeding has made Shimla's simians extremely bold, and they’ll snatch anything from unsuspecting travelers, but you can’t help loving them even if they are naughty. The temple complex and walk is teeming with them, but then it is their temple! On my final morning I was eating breakfast on the terrace outside my hotel when I turned to see a large monkey running straight at me. I asked him sternly to leave, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was not having my breakfast, and he turned and fled. I was rather dismayed therefore when a member of the hotel staff came out clutching a bloody great rifle. I told him I was fine and that he mustn’t shoot the monkeys, but I’m not sure he understood, so I finished my breakfast under armed guard – willing the monkeys to stay away.

The only unfortunate outcome from my fabulous trip to Shimla was that my three night excursion seriously pissed off the coordinator of Volunteer Tibet through which I got my placement, who spent two days looking for me and now blanks me when he sees me in the street!

Anyway, think that’s all the news. Had better go and pack for the march, and then round off the week with one of my favourite occasions of all time, open mike night at Carpe Diem.

Speak soon XXX

Dramas and Lamas

sophinda — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 22:05:00 GMT

Hello Punks!

Hope you’re all well and looking forward to the next exciting installment of The Blog.

Well, I’m still having a nice time here in sunny McLeodganj, and in spite of being India’s second wettest town, it HAS been sunny here for quite sometime, and temperatures have improved dramatically. Over the last couple of weeks we have gone from The Big Freeze to something closer to a warm English spring with colourful Buddhist prayer flags fluttering overhead instead of blossom. The sunshine also emphasises what a truly stunning place this is. McLeodganj, itself over 5000ft above sea level, is surrounded on one side by towering snow covered peaks which I am told reach around 15,000ft! The sunshine turns them a myriad of colours as the day progresses, before the full moon illuminates them from behind. Last weekend, three of us attempted a two day hike to Triund, a small settlement about six miles from and about 4000ft above McLeodganj. Sadly seven feet of snow blocking the footpath eventually forced us to take the walk of shame back to McLeodganj, but it was still a beautiful day which really put into perspective how small McLeodganj, which has been my life for the past six weeks, really is. Stretched along the top of a pine clad mountain, dwarfed by its gigantic brothers and sisters in the background, the town looks really quite vulnerable and insignificant – though very pretty.

This is perhaps for me the best time to be here, with kinder temperatures but before the big spiders come out to play – although I had a terrifying appetiser to the impending situation the night before last. On Monday night I was happily listening to my Ipod at around midnight, contemplating going to bed, when I saw a creature, about two or three inches long, walk across my floor and under my bed. Without my contact lens in I was unable to make out exactly what it was, but knew it could only be something scary, and after making a feeble attempt to whack whatever it was with my boot, resolved to go to bed. The next day I couldn’t really relax in there and, just after I returned from dinner that evening, there it was, on the underside of the shelf about a foot above my bed, its eight legs stretched to full span as if to say ‘come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough.’ I wasn’t hard enough. I ran, whimpering, to fetch my devout Buddhist neighbour who humanely dispatched the horror, before leaving with the comforting words: ‘don’t worry – it wasn’t big for round here.’

As is always the way when traveling there is a constant changing of the guards among fellow travelers and I once again have a nice group of mates – if rather more sedate and abstemious than the last bunch of lunatics who I still really miss. Whilst things are finally beginning to take off on the work front, much time is still spent eating, drinking and putting the world to rights in the town’s many restaurants and cafes, and Carpe Diem’s open mike night is still the stuff of legends.

But what I truly love about this lifestyle is the richness of experience that I have never found in any other sphere of life. From assisting dodgy masseuse ‘Holy Hands’ Manu with ideas to advertise his trade whilst trying not to crack up laughing, to listening to a New York poet recite his raw musings to a musical backdrop of ‘Ruby Tuesday.’ From watching convoys of burgundy clad monks stream up the road leading from the Dalai Lama’s temple at sunset, to wrestling small boys out the way in order to write these words in an incense filled internet café. The sights, smells and sounds of India take some getting used to, as does the unpredictable pace of life, but there is something magical about these mountains and their inhabitants.

Every now and then however comes a stark reminder that this country has more than its share of problems. I have a friend here, from Bristol actually, who is volunteering for a children’s charity and over the past week he has been coordinating a substantial group of Korean volunteers. One girl had her 59-year-old father with her and last week he disappeared without a trace. Last night, after four days of frantic searching and campaigning led by my friend, who posted appeals for information and pictures throughout the area, we learned that he had been found wandering in some nearby woods. It turns out that he had been kidnapped and SOLD by a local beggar for – it is rumoured, the sum of 250 Rupees. Three pounds twenty. Barely enough to buy tea and cake in a café at home, yet here it can be the price of a human life. You only have to look at national papers such as The Times of India (which contains some pretty intriguing journalism) to see how cheap life comes here. People regularly die in stampedes, on railways etc, and the other day a story about a man being sentenced to death for murder made no more than a couple of colomn inches. But then I suppose they only have so much space in which to cover the affairs of over one billion people – a population that grows by 50,000 a day.

We think that in the light of my friend’s campaign, the kidnappers got scared and released their captive close to McLeodganj, but sadly the man is now unconscious in hospital. We’re all hoping for his recovery.

Work is finally taking off which is a huge relief. Wrote my first proper article in two months today, which felt great – now I’m truly a cool international hack. I’m finally adapting to the Indian pace of life ‘slowly slowly.’ There have been some both exasperating and hilarious times though. Two days ago I visited the office of the Tibetan Youth Congress, the president of which I have been attempting to interview for several weeks. Arriving for an interview I had scheduled on the 11th, I found their office padlocked, and so earlier in the week returned for the third time since then to rearrange it. I asked a very pleasant girl on reception if it was possible to interview the president today. ‘Oh yes,’ she replied. ‘Great, can I do it now,’ I asked with relief. ‘Oh no, he is in Delhi.’ ‘Ah, Ok, do you have a deputy that I could speak to instead as it really would be great to get this done?’ ‘A Deputy?’ ‘Yes, second in command?’ pause. ‘Oh a deputy, yes of course.’ ‘Brilliant. Where is he?’ ‘He is in Delhi.’ ‘Bugger. Ok is there ANYONE I can speak to just for 10 minutes about the Beijing Olympic 2008 campaign?’ ‘Oh yes, we have our cultural secretary here.’ ‘Superb! Is he here now?’ ‘Oh no he is in Delhi.’ That’s international volunteering baby. It sucks. I love it.

The next few days are going to be busy as tomorrow morning the Dalai Lama begins his spring teachings, and the town, relatively quiet when I arrived, is now teaming with monks, Dharma heads and devotees from across the globe. Going to interview some of them Saturday for a piece on what it is about his Holy Lamaness that draws travelers from far and wide to hear his stuff. Who knows what dramas that will bring in its wake.
BRING IT ON!!

Take care everyone, and keep in touch. I’m off to dinner,

Love Soph XXX

Parties, Politics and Pestilence

sophinda — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 22:38:00 GMT

Well hello from a pleasantly sunny McLeodganj!

What a time I've been having. Have been blighted by cold and pestilence since I last wrote, but have also hooked up with a bunch of fabulous likeminded internationals (most of whom are leaving over the next couple of days - bastards) and can honestly say I've had more fun over the last few days than I've had in years.
A couple of weeks ago I caught a cold, and as I'm not immune to the lovely lurgies of northern India it took me a while to shake it off, still have a pain in the chest where I think I strained a muscle coughing, but other than that it has gone. Then came the inevitable Delhi Belly, which, having compared notes, I didn't get anything like as badly as I could have done, but it still lays you very low and as I'm not staying in an hotel I still had to venture out and be sociable in order to get something to eat which was at times quite painful. Again all better now and I'm eating like a pig.
The people I've met here are so cool, a lively mixture of yanks, Canadians, Irish, Kiwis etc, and we've had so much fun. A lot of them are quite musical and so there's been lots of singing, dancing and drinking. The local haunt, a restaurant/bar called Carpe Diem, run by a couple of Nepalese blokes, has practically become the living room and each Thursday they hold an open mike night which is fantastic. Have got up to sing each week, drunk or sober (have also done more drinking recently than I've done in a long time...) Am considering flying to Goa for a week in a few days as one of my friends is going down there and I may well have a window between some interviews I've set up this week and the Dalai Lama's teachings, beginning on Feb 25, on which I shall be reporting. This is also supposed to be the best time of year to go, but as yet I'm undecided.
Work is a very mixed bag. The town has been closed over the last few days due to Losar, Tibetan New Year, which is the biggest event in the Tibetan calendar - and they love it. On Thursday, actual Tibetan New Year, I went for lunch as usual at my office, which we share with the Tibetan Volunteers for Animals, a lovely group of vegetarian advocates who, for 800 Rupees (a tenner) a month, serve me up a simple and wholesome, but tasty veggie meal. But on this occasion there was beer, whisky, cigarettes, and Tibetan music and dancing in addition to the usual feed. Well it would have been rude not to have joined them, so I sang, danced and got shitfaced with them, before staggering down to Carpe Diem to get even more shitfaced. How I love these cultural experiences. Needless to say, have got no work done for days, but even before Losar the computer situation was not good, probably only get to use it on one day in four due to power cuts, other people using it, dodgy internet connections etc which at times is very frustrating. However, I interviewed the president of the National Democratic Party of Tibet on Monday, and have some more interviews lined up over the next few days regarding a feature I'm hoping to write on the Tibetan Olympic Campaign, so hopefully things will begin to look up soon.
One big worry which has reared its ugly head again however, is the spider problem. The last month has been mercifully spider free, but have recently been assured that it is only the winter keeping them at bay, and that within a couple of weeks they will start to appear. When I say spiders I don't just mean your regular Boris, which keeps itself to itself in the cupboard under the stairs. I'm talking big bastards the size of a man's hand, which are extremely prevalent and very quick. An American friend of mine told me that in July, he spent 10 nights in a nice hotel room in McLeodganj and on four out of 10 occasions woke to find spiders 'the size of CDs' in his room. This I know I could not cope with, so unless I can find a way of minimalising my encounters with them, or can get to a higher altitude where they are less prevalent, you may be seeing me back in a couple of weeks. I would be absolutely gutted to have to cut my trip short as a result of this, and will do everything in my power to avoid doing so, but that is a situation I know I could not tolerate. The cold is at times quite oppressive and people are resorting to desparate measures to keep warm. One little German friend almost got killed a week or so ago when she fell asleep with her heater on and her bedclothes caught alight, and we had to help put out another friend's trousers which caught alight as a result of getting too close to a hot coal bucket a couple of days ago, but I must say that if the cold is the only thing keeping the monster arachnids at bay - bring it on!!
One slight bugger is that my camera has chosen this time to conk out, so I've been able to take no photos whatsoever, which is a real shame as I've had some great times which I would have loved to have captured on camera. Hopefully some friends are going to email me some pics so I'll have something to post up here, and I'm going to try to get my camera fixed, but failing that I sadly can't afford a new one. I blame JP, as it got knackered when I was running around Thame taking pics for the paper. They owe me one flash dig cam!!
I really want to post some pics of McLeodganj so you can see it in all its mountainous glory. Being India's second wettest town, we have experienced our share of crappy weather - and snow during a power cut which was fun, had to spend the day huddling in Carpe Diem for warmth.But when the sun shines, turning the snow capped mountains white, pink, orange and gold, it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful pace. A couple of weeks ago, minutes after watching the Dalai Lama glide by in his golder beemer (had to get that in again ;-) I was sitting drinking Earl Grey in Moonpeak, another favourite cafe, when the sun peered out from behind a cloud, completely illuminating the small cafe, and for a moment, I felt as though I'd found the place where heaven meets Nirvana.
Anyway, think that's all the news. Hope I haven't bored you all senseless, and keep the emails coming, always good to hear from you all.

Lots of love, Soph xxx

Hi From McLeodganj!

sophinda — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 21:40:00 GMT

Well hello all,

I hope all is well back home

Well I have been in India for two weeks now and am more or less acclimatized. I’m delighted and surprised to report that as yet I have not succumbed to Delhi Belly, and have not seen any large spiders – although I have a horrible feeling I will come spring. When I first arrived in McLeodganj on Jan 13, the weather was really very pleasant, but now more typical winter temperatures have kicked in and coping with the cold is perhaps the biggest challenge. Whilst temperatures are really not much lower than they generally are at home at this time of year, the lack of central heating can make things uncomfortable. With a heater, heavy duty sleeping bag, thick duvet and thermals I am just about coping, but you only need a power cut, which occur far more frequently in this part of the world, and it gets very chilly indeed.

Buried in beautiful, snow covered mountains, McLeoganj is quite a place. The home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan Government in Exile, it really feels like a country within a country. The town has a predominantly Tibetan flavour, and most Indians you find here tend to be Kashmiris trying to sell you stuff. Buddhist monks make up a very considerable percentage of the population and are always to be seen – often gabbling away into their mobile phones! The overwhelming majority of Tibetans are refugees who have undergone a perilous walk of a month or more through the high Himalayas, fleeing the oppression of their homeland via Nepal to the safety and sanctuary of India. These are hardened mountain people – the Tibetan Plateau being the highest on earth, and many of those I have spoken to come from a Nomadic background, but none the less, some have told me they thought they might die on the journey, and many succumb to frostbite. All who arrive in McLeodganj are guaranteed an audience with the Dalai Lama (whom I saw glide by in his golden Beemer three days ago as he returned to his temple complex from a visit to Gujarat – got really close.) Two days ago I happened to be sitting drinking tea in front of the temple complex, which is very close to where I work, when the latest batch came pouring out of the temple gates, each clutching a yellow envelope, containing Buddhist teachings I THINK, and a white scarf (khata) bestowed upon them by their spiritual leader. I have always found it quite hard to get my head around what all these people have been through, but seeing this group, some looking exulted, some very weary, so fresh from their journey was really quite sobering.

The oppression that these poor people are fleeing, currently at a rate of about 2,500 a year, is quite beyond belief. Tibet, described by its people as ‘the land of snow’ is over 10 times the size of Britain, with a tenth our population. Many of its traditions date back thousands of years, and the people have been devout Buddhists since I think around the seventh or eighth centuries. But in 1949 Mao Zedong's Communist China invaded Tibet, and in the years that followed, during a period described by the Chinese as The Cultural Revolution laid waste its temples, destroyed 6000 monasteries, desecrated its holy Buddhist scriptures, some of which were sold and have thankfully been preserved, but many were just destroyed by the invaders, some of whom expressed their contempt by using them as insoles in their shoes. Tibetans who were brave enough to resist the brutality were killed, imprisoned and tortured, and an estimated 1.2 million of Tibet’s 6 million inhabitants were killed in the years that followed the invasion. Sadly things are not looking up for the Tibetans. The Chinese claim to have made great investments in Tibet, building schools and hospitals. However the cost of attending these facilities is far beyond the reach of most Tibetans and those who are able to attend school must adhere to a strict Chinese curriculum which suppresses Tibetan history, culture and language. Anyone found to be in possession of an image of the Dalai Lama, whom the Chinese government acknowledges to be a dangerous political separatist in the guise of a spiritual leader, faces arrest, as does anyone who refuses to denounce him.

Whilst I help out each evening at a conversation class, helping Tibetans who have come to India to receive an education, to practice the English they learn during the day, my main work here is for Tibet Today – an English Language magazine, set up a year ago. The latest edition (which doesn’t contain any of my work as I’m just getting started) came out two days ago and I was delighted to see how much the Tibetans love it and look forward to it coming out. A couple of people brought it to the conversation class and were avidly reading it, and when I told them I was going to be writing for it they were really quite humbling.

The one thing that frustrates me big time is the intense lack of organisation here. As most of you well know, I am far from anal about time keeping, but here it is pretty much an unknown concept. If you arrange to meet someone at 2.00pm you are lucky if they have arrived by 3, and the most usual scenario seems to be that it doesn’t happen at all. Today for example, I planned my day around the fact that the coordinator of Volunteer Tibet, through which I arranged my post, had asked me to go to his office to help him with some English emails at 2pm. When I arrived however, it turned out that he no longer requires my help today (‘perhaps over the weekend or on Monday') and as there is just one computer for editorial staff at Tibet Today, I can only get onto it now and then which is very frustrating as there is so much I want and need to do if I am to make my time here worthwhile. Oh well, at least it gives me the opportunity to sit in an internet café and email you fine people

Am also having lots of fun as there is a great group of international volunteers – almost all of whom are sadly leaving within the next week, but here’s hoping they will be replaced with some equally nice internationals! Am living next door to a lovely Dutch girl called Marjon, and whilst like most Dutch people, she makes me feel somewhat vertically inadequate, she is great company and last weekend we took off to Chamba – another town in Himachal Pradesh which looks very close on the map but is actually an eight hour bone shaking bus ride through the Himalayan foothills. It is home to some fascinating 10^th Century Hindu temples, as well as other more recent ones built on the top of a mountain overlooking the town, which have a very spiritual feel. I must also mention that it was in Chamba that I experienced the best curry I have ever had! The hotel we stayed in was actually a bit ropey and our food on the first night was really rather crap – my friend actually found shards of glass in her curry, but on the second night we dined in a superior hotel where I had vegetable Jalfrezi with garlic and ginger fried rice. The ingredients had without a doubt come from the colourful fresh fruit and veg stalls which abound in Chamba, and had it been any hotter it would probably have been a bit much for me, but as it was it was nothing short of perfection. Most food I have tried in India has been rather good, but this meal deserves a special mention.

I attended an open mike night yesterday and, in spite of the fact that I have had a sore throat for three days, drank, smoked and sang loudly. Have been suffering the consequences today but it was so much fun I don’t care.

Oh well, if you’ve reached this far I congratulate you on your staying power, but had better sign off. Keep the emails coming, it’s always great to hear from you all – or at the very least give me a poke (on Facebook obviously…)

Take care,

Love Soph XXX