Ramblings of a wild strawberry

The days and nights rumbled past in the company of those who hear the Saints or aspire to do so and my Ganga bath gets put on hold in the absence of time.  So it’s with some surprise after dealing with immediate fall out of Nada having her handbag stolen on the train that a have a fall out of my own… The trap door is opened as Ameoba descend upon my intestines and I arrive on the doorstep of Nada and Jesper’s family friends, The Sood’s, a little bedraggled and more than a little worse for wear, falling into a feint like fugue from the passing of too many ‘watery motions’ from my Colitus in 43 degree (113) heat.

Bringing nothing but bad health and a very British desire not to be any bother, I’m loathe to inconvenience this kind family and further, but they turf uncle Neeraj out of his room to the greenhouse room on roof, carry my bags over and deposit me in a room with a bathroom attached and a loo with a seat and a very hard working fan. 

A moment of over confidence with half a chapatti on day three and I’m back on the bog and off to the Dr for some allopathic meds as my lovely friend Nada and her fiance Jesper stop trying to chase their shadows (physical demonstration by one of the wise old souls) depart for Delhi and all sorts of passport/visa replacing rigmarole with embassies.

I build back my strength under the care of Anurag & Tracy, Grandma and the girls Mahima, Asmita and Uma and their patiently prepared Kitchari (Rice and Moong Dal Ayurvedic combo, effectively the Indian version of Heinz Tomato soup.  Interesting poll opportunity actually… what do you eat when you’re sick?).  I’m pleased to see the Universe applying the scales of balance and she taketh awayeth a few of those Indian ‘buffer’ kilos she’d so generously loaned me.

I take my last 5 O’clock meditation and satsang with dear old Bharadwaj, a semi-realised sweet old saint and help him celebrate his 95th birthday by singing him a Bhajan about Shiva and avoiding sweet, sweet chai and sweet, sweet indian sweets & vegetable pakoras that leave a grease track behind on your lips.  My unhappy stomach gives me the strength to resist the chai and all but one square of burfy out of politeness.

Buoyed by the kindness of this family who opened up their home and their hearts to me (and who taught me how to make chapatti!) and by the wisdom of a beautiful old soul, I board a bus to Dharamshala.  The sun beats down on the bus whilst it snakes through the mountains to cooler climes and a delightful shanti shanti atmosphere, nestled in the himalayas with the Tibetan exiles who fled the ‘Cultural revolution’ of Chinese occupation in 1959. 

With a culture entirely unique to that of it’s oppressive and heavy fisted, mighty brother and a totally different religion, Tibetans just want the autonomy to handle their own affairs, to retain their culture in their land and not be swallowed up by China’s greedy gorging on their land and resources as it opens it palms to Capitalism and the power that brings such a populous nation so short on space… 

They want to be able to welcome foreigners to their beautiful country without being denouced and detained for political activism for talking to them.  They want to be able to take their children home to see their ancestral home and spin the prayer wheels of the Potala not just it’s replica. 

Whilst Matt and I undoubtedly disagree as to the validity of China’s claim on this massive land mass, the recent treatment of the monks protest in Lhasa adds some credibility to these claims and cultural and physical genocide the Chinese are so keen to play down in the lead up to commonwealth olympic games.  Building of the Gormo-Lhasa railway saw more than 1.1 m people arrive in the Tibetan autonomous region in the first 6 months of 2007, predicting more than 4 m throughout 2007, more than the overall indigenous population of the entire area!

Not content with taking such good care of me thus far, the universe sends along another of it’s Angels as I almost quite literally, bump into another one of my yoga buddies within 2 mins of setting foot in McCloud Gange.  Miss Switzerland, as I like to call her, even though she has a fabulously double-barrelled French surname ‘Petit-Pierre’, and I, wile away the days talking ayurveda and exploring the much lauded local waterfall/small tap’fall’.

Then my friends, Mother India carefully carries me back to my ancestral home, into the arms of my parents before they leave me behind for the Castro brothers and the sassy salsa of Cuba.  And I take it real shanti, shanti as my hands take a break from handwashing everything I’ve worn these past 4 months and my clothes thirstly lap up a dose of fabric softner; and I practice yoga with the sun streaming in the back doors and making me feel content and happy to be back on British soil for how ever long I manage to stay this time…

See you all soon.

May we love all equally & without hestitation

OM OM OM

Em x

Ahhhhh Rishikesh, Where the Beatles used to come to get away from it all and introspect on the meaning of life and practice their Sitar playing.  Where the bendy come to get even bendier and the masses come to get blessed by Mother Ganga.  The Land of Gods.  Spiritual Disneyland.  Soothing balm for the spirit.  Peace and quiet for the seekers of bliss. 

If Woolworth’s had a spritual pic and mix, it would be Rishikesh, and you’d get to try before you buy, just one pink shrimp candy whilst nobody is looking… Purify your body and mind by any means known and unknown to man.

Orange clad Sadhu’s pepper the pavement & are scattered throughout the town, with their begging bowls rattling to the Rupee beat of “Ram Ram”, ”Hari OM” and “Namaste” to elicit some alms.  Where ashrams, temples and guesthouses stumble up the sides of the himalayas and the Ganga carresses the shores and your sores amidst her celestial waters.

And in between practicing Yoga (Savasana nicely demonstrated by me and my yogi friends here), reading lots of books, hanging out with my TTC yogi buddies, visiting the Sivananda ashram, practicing Reiki and generally strolling around town, I decide to Panch my Karma.  Not content with the self-harming of getting up at 5.30 every day for yoga, I decided to also undergo an ayurvedia cleansing treatment after a consultation with an ayurvedic doctor.

My Pitta Kapha constitution is out of whack, like a Pitta without Humus my body is out of balance and I have a 7 day treatment to address this fire element (pitta) imbalance.  Starting pretty promisingly with a full body oil massage I am yet again reminded of the ingenunity of Mother India’s children when I’m put in a cupboard for the closing steam treatment, which is powered by a pressure cooker.  Remarkably effective feat of lateral thinking.

Whilst it wasn’t as relaxing as the salon/spa massage treatments we’re used to in the land of media and free lunches, it was still pretty nice and certainly beat all but one of the other treatments…. nil points definitely goes to Oleation, the drinking of herbs and Ghee…. 225ml’s over 3 days.  Yes butter is nice spread thickly on fresh bread or snuggled under a nice spread of marmite.  But would you ever drink it?  I kid you not it was all I could do not vomit and I’ll never be able to go into an indian sweet shop again. 

The herbs pull out the toxins out of the tissues within the body and draw them into the stomach area in preparation for purgation… a word that does not need translating and saw me camped out in a guesthouse for 6 hours waiting for the 4.5 litres of water to pass through me.  Incredulously, for once I did not need the toilet and left the guesthouse full to the brim of water and after a crispbread was shuttled off home to await further purgation.

And when I wasn’t feeling physically drained and experiencing lighter brighter sights and bolder louder noises from the herbs (no not those kind), I was having hot oil dripped into various orifices…. nose, ears and to complement the end of the purgation… bottom…

But an experience and whilst I didn’t feel it then I feel pretty good now, I’m not sure if my pitta is with humus or just salad, but I’m hoping it’s with or it’s going to get a whole lot more imblanced when I touch down on British soil for another flying visit in May!

So I’ll skip on up the hill to the Woman in White and listen to her wise words whilst you settle into your tuesday morning breakfast and a barrage of emails. 

Love you all

OM OM OM

Em x

Not possible to upload photos so much here so checkout limited supply on http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=19533&id=505224964

Greetings from Rishikesh, “spiritual disneyland!” as called by my Japanese friend.

 As I take a break from Yoga and Herbal tea; group Reiki healing sessions and ayurvedic massages; I take a moment to question the price of things.  From material things to intangible things, all are determined by putting a price on somebody’s time.  How much is an hour of an Indian worker’s time versus that of a European?  How much for using your hands versus using your brain? 

A sick travel buddy, whilst not entirely conducive to travel, is conducive to almost catching up on 2 month’s worth of email correspondence (still getting there, don’t fear!), resting off 2 months of 4.30 am starts and updating the blog more frequently than of late.

I imagine some of you are a little curious to hear more about Bundi, and those that aren’t need not read on.

Bundi to me is suffering from a weird traveller’a malaise. Not of the kind caught from moping round your room whilst your sick travel buddy sleeps or shuffling around the town to keep yourself occupied. It’s the kind caught when travellers descend on your quiet (for India), self-contained town and leave behind their customs and mannerisms and upset the natural order of things.

The Prime Directive of star fleet is to leave no trace, of non-interference, to observe without changing the indigenous community. Yet day trippers descend on Bundi, in shoulder-less tops, distributing pens & sweets to the children as if they’re bestowing Mother Theresa’s grace, sticking their long lenses into the faces of curiosities without exacting permissions and drinking beer on roof top restaurants. Now instead of Namaste, a respectful greeting, saluting the greatness/divinity of the other person; kids & adults shout hello at you and demand 1 pen, 1 chocolate, 1 rupee… building expectation that all white people will give these things and possibly eventually leading to aggression when people refuse (it’s been witnessed in other areas).

Indian men think it’s appropriate to shout “Hello Baby” at you, shake your hand and in some cases try and hug you, when they wouldn’t dream of even saying hello to an Indian woman who wasn’t related to them.

The beautiful sky blue paint seems to plaster over the cracks of Bundi’s personality disorder. The beautiful paintings celebrating a history it’s keen to leave behind for designer denim and sunglasses. Border towns of the wild west were rough, dusty affairs where only the dangerous minded or desperate would chose to live; whilst Bundi has it’s fair share of dust & desperation, of pigs wallowing in the town shit stream; it’s not a place you feel dangerous, it’s not on the border of civilisation, but on the border of an identity crisis. The men of the town in their abundance stave off their boredom and belittle it’s charms, by hanging out together and staring at the people going by; whilst the women, conspicuous in the inbalance of numbers, are assumedly at home cooking, cleaning & caring for children.

Travellers come here to escape the intensity of the North Indian traveller scene, to rest their senses and from what I can discern, hang out in their room in their guesthouse sleeping, or not doing much at all. To be fair I’m not one to comment, but I do have said sick friend to look after.

Speaking of which, Melanie seems to be getting a little better. Her temperature is stabilising at 97 degrees after 5 days of running fevers in the 99’s. We’ve cancelled her flight to Berlin and bought her a new one and got some AC seats on a sleeper train to get her back to Delhi for it.

Then I give in the call of Rishikesh, after umming and ahhing as to whether I should go and visit I surrender and have scheduled myself into the shatabadi express on the 3rd April after dropping Melanie at the airport for home. For 500 rupees I will be in Haridwar in just 4.5 hours, quite the princely sum for such a journey, but in AC and with a veg meal provided.

I care not, I look forward to seeing my TTC brothers and sisters who are nurturing their souls in “spiritual disneyland”. I’m going to go and focus on my yoga practice, my reiki, my reading and work on dealing with my biscuit addiction, which still seems to hold me in it’s grip when the going gets tough (like the other night’s auto run to the doctor’s where the ego seeking doctor scared the hell out of melanie by saying she had malaria, without first asking where she’d travelled to or performing any tests. He said we had very little time and wanted her to start taking Malarial treatments immediately, but on insistence we took a test at the lab round the corner and in under 5 mins knew him to be very wrong indeed. On this occasion I ate a whole packet of Hide and Seek chocolate chip cookies in about 2 mins). Could you imagine if I went back to a life in media? Sainsbury’s Streatham would have an abundance of lime doritos and not a bourbon cream in sight…

So my sweet family and friends, hope you had a lovely weekend and feel better for your 4 day week. It’s always difficult the first full week back, wishing you a week with no need for biscuits.

lots of love

Em x

Here’s my favourite of the Palace’s paintings to be sure to banish your blues; Lord Krishna dancing with the Gopis in an idyllic setting.

So having spent 2 months interned in an ashram I’m assuming some of you might be just a little bit curious as to what ashram life is like?…..

but before that, whilst admittedly I’ve been a little tardy in updating my blog, I’ve never asked anything of you but the occasional reading. So now, I’m going to ask you to do something for me and subscribe to my blog in google groups so I can use it to send the email out and limit the number of applications i have open for the indian computers in small towns to struggle with.

If you’d like to receive my next posting visit here and submit your email address if you don’t I’ll know you’re far too busy in the big bad world to read the ramblings of a hippy of the ginge variety in india! http://groups.google.co.in/group/wildstrawberryramblings

and welcome to new readers from the TTC, I’m afraid to say I’ve spammed you and sent this without your asking, but only cos I thought you might be interested in what I’m up to and I’m too lazy to type out the same thing to everybody

So, back to explaining ashram life…

It’s a bit like Dirty Dancing…. but without the dancing and where the only thing dirty is your feet (mmmm indian cracked heels anyone?); where Penny doesn’t get knocked up, she gets blissed out; Robbie isn’t working to save up for college, he’s working off some karma; where nobody would dream of putting Baby in a corner; where every now and again if you’re really lucky you get to carry a watermelon… but the the only thing you’ve got hungry eyes for is Su Kumar’s fabulous fabulous cooking (no Ladies and Gentlemen, do not adjust your monitors, it’s not a glitsch with the screen size, India has blessed me with an extra 6kg since I first graced her lands, but remember MUSCLE WEIGHS MORE THAN FAT and I’ve got guns Sarah Connor could fight a terminator with).

If you’ve a complaint about the lack of contact I’m afraid you’ll have to take it up with my supervisor. Ashram life at TTC time leaves very little time, if any, for yourself. From waking up at 4.30 for a cold shower until lights out at 9.30, there’s 4 hours of yoga, 1 hour of meditation, 1 hour of chanting, 1 hour of listening to readings, 3 hours of lectures, at least 1 hour of eating, 1 hour of drinking chai, half an hour of headstand workshop to fit in, as well as washing yourself, cleaning your clothes and dealing with the daily dramas the intensity of the TTC course brings.

Staffing doesn’t bring much relief, one day I spent 13 hours in reception apart from meal times and the hour I did my practice in reception whilst the guests were in class. So if you got a text from me you should think yourself lucky and if you got an email from the 10 bps per second connection then you’re one of the luckiest souls alive.

Being a yoga teacher is not all plain sailing by any stretch of the imagination. Certificate in hand and the fear set in… I survived immense self-doubts about my right to be teaching yoga to the vacationers, having just graduated. I had a least one daily battle with confidence and all sorts of insecurities, but started teaching yoga to a mixed bag of mostly Canadian and Irish souls; from pure beginners and intermediates, to Japanese TTC (teacher’s training course) graduates, who said i delivered a really nice class

And then, after 2 months in the ashram, and being the last person to leave I caught the bus to Madurai, hoped on the train to Chennai, spent the day and night with lovely Kala from TTC and her family, caught a cheap flight to Delhi to meet Melanie. And after a bungled pickpocketing attempt, Melanie and I caught the night train to Bundi, where she caught a fever and I slept pretty well actually, despite the frigidity of the AC.

I’m currently in Bundi feeling like I have the flexibility of a 91 year old, hoping the 3 days travel will ease out of my joints and bones soon, with the help of my good friend Yoga and maybe my new friend Reiki.

Bundi is a cute little town where it’s difficult to distinguish between where the buildings and the sky begin. They’re painted such a lovely shade of sunny sky blue and then adorned with paintings of beautiful, proud, Rajasthani women and Maharaja’s on eleplhants, inspired by the aquamarine, azure and peacock blue 200 year old+ paintings from the hill side Palace.

It’s a seemingly a friendly place but it’s difficult to distinguish between genuine friendliness and the kind of friendliness fostered by the likes of Pamela Anderson and other large breasted, semi-clad white women leaping into bed with anybody within 30 seconds of meeting them in the movies. I also have a sneaking suspicion that some previous ambassadors of our world have not been so sensitive to the culture of India, a quick count of the number of tight tshirts being worn and the number of times the expletive f#*k comes out of some of the tourists’ mouths only serves to enhance that feeling.

So I’ll leave you thinking of Maharajas on Elephants and coy women in peacock blue, as I head back to be Nurse Nirmala and feed Melanie some Cerelac (quite delicious baby food that mixed with water works wonderfully as a milk substitute for cornflakes for breakfast) and try and stretch the travel out of my bones, before returning this evening to try and catch up on some correspondance after a nice potatoe paratha with spinach.

And just to let you know, I’ve been thinking ahead to my 30th…. and in the interest of attempting to keep my pack weight around the 20kg mark, I’m going to be accepting all denominations of rupees, pounds and dollars to buy myself a snazzy camera the next time I pass through the glittering gates of delhi. Even if I’ll be spending it with Sri Lankan Matt and some monks in Ladakh you’ll be able to catch it soon on Emma B’s Indian Channel on facebook

And to all those people who have been IM’d by somebody with limited English skills from my account, sorry for the bother, I’ve changed my password. Please let me know if it happens again.

Big love to you all

OM

Em x

PS I’m too scared to plug my camera in for fear of viruses, so you’ll have to wait for Bundi pics.

Here’s some from TTC of me teaching a class during the course and standing on my head. More TTC pictures can be viewed here and some post TTC pics here

hmmm wouldn’t they look nicer with a better camera?….

if you’re intrigued to see more photos from the ashram, somebody with a bit of a background in the internet might have set up a photoset

The first rule of maintaining and rewarding a loyal audience broken by my lackof updating, I sheepishly present you with the information that I am now a qualified Sivananda Yoga teacher and initiated into Reiki by way of explanation and in a bid for forgiveness.

Two months on from a debaucherous New Year’s Eve and I have appeared in a bollywood movie, hung out with sweet Melanie in the Dhavari slum of Mumbai, cleansed my feet in the Godavari river in Nasik, practiced my french but allors not my german, spent hours and hours on buses, eaten strawberrys and cream whilst getting lost and found in the hills of Mahabaleshwar, visited the magnificient c. 2000 year old cave temples of Ellora and Ajanta, stayed in some really scummy lodges and had midnight callers ratatat-tapping on my door… bumped into some old friends in Goa and had a guy openly masturbating to Internet Porn at the next computer to me, travelled first class on le train (pillows, blankets, sheets and soap in the bathrooms!) and did I mention qualifying as a yoga teacher?!

So I’ve spent the past 6 weeks in the ashram, intending to practice abstention from wicked ingredients of the western world, not even thinking of alcohol for one second, but going crazy for chai and developing a rather unhealthy biscuit addiction, mmmm butter cookies.

I’ve spent about 4 hours standing on my head, about 8 hours on my shoulders, saluted the sun about 400 times and given the cobra a run for his money with my bhujanghasana. I’ve eaten my own body weight in rice, nuts & dried fruit mmmmm and been nicknamed the fruit bat by my lovely aussie room mate Jackie for my fruit snacking affliction. I can sing you a selection of bahjan’s (hare rama hare rama rama rama hare hare, hare krishna hare krishna krishna krisna hare hare anyone?) and chant you something from the bhagavad gita. I know the average lung capacity, blood flow per minute through the heart and the postures to sublimate your sex drive. I’ve endured head lice infestation from the cute kids at the orphanage Melanie was working at in Bangalore and reinfestation 3 times; been given a spiritual name; chanted Om Namah Shivya more than 1000 times in one day from 6 in the morning until 4 the next morning and given 4 Reiki treatments.

And now, now I’m very humbly admitting that whilst I’m a teacher on paper and can give a class, I have an awful lot to learn and am embracing the opportunity here at the ashram to teach the yoga vacationers and learn from every second of every teaching.

I’m getting stuck into my karma yoga editing the transcription of Swami Sivananda’s Upanishad whilst I do my reception and boutique shifts, reading up on anatomy and practicing Reiki on myself (sounds selfish but is actually tres important!)

So until the 22nd of March when I leave for Delhi to meet Melanie and travel to Bundi in Rajasthan, I shall be mostly not using the slow Internet and practicing my teaching, and as such I send you all lots of love and will be in contact soon.

Em x

It’s a little belated, but it seems only fair that I finish the previous journey before exciting you with another…and as a bit part film marketer in a former life I take this moment to try and entice you to future episodes with promise of bollywood glamour and multi-million dollar generating slums.

But before that I had to lug 25kg up the side of a mountain/hill (delete as per your understanding of my levels of exaggeration) and travel on up the coast, back to Goa and yes, my third trip to Anjuna in 3 months! Again with the bit part film marketing; a good sequel needs to recap on the previous movies and yes I know they’re generally a poor comparison, but they generally pay their way.

In 2 months Anjuna has expanded more than my waistline, more than pavarotti’s waistline, with pop-up bars lining the beaches and Anjuna’s tiny ‘end of monsoon, heat seeking traveler population’, annihilated by it’s new brasher, richer, heavy drinking & eating holidaymaker partying crowd. Gone are the gentle chill out tracks pumped out by 3 off-season bars along the coast, pumping Goa trance & happy house take their place.

With erstwhile friends seemingly out of range I spend a night chilling on my own (not enough of those nights for my liking) and stay in a delightful GBP 5 room at the Radhe guesthouse, before popping out onto the strip and realising how expensive Goa is compared to the rest of India and promptly downgrade to a GBP 3 per night room and save my pennies for SALAD and BREAD (lettuce and proper bread are difficult to find). Although not before I tread almost up to my ankle in bull turd as I navigate the now supersized flea market to try and find lucy and matt’s house, and nearly get charged by two bulls.

I meet a yanky acupuncturist/chinese medicine doctor as he nearly gets body violated by a guy who summons you over saying you’ve got something in your ear, before plunging a metal spoke in and pulling it out to show your dirty ear canal and wrapping it in cotton wool before plunging it in again to clean it. He managed to extricate himself before his ear drum was pierced and we chatted about India and hippy experiences over cheap thali and chai. And then, here comes the hippy shit, we meditated together on the beach to the back drop of banging goa trance. hahahaaaaaa gone is the hard drinking party gal, who’s this meditating wierdo?!

There’s just time left to splurge on shopping in the flea market for any missing xmas presents (apart from the ones still somewhere on the indian ocean… apologies still go to Clare, Jo, Aunty Chris, Adam & Shelly) and eat my first Soya burger as a renewed vegetarian when I hook up with the Goa gang and stuff myself silly with nachos, apple pie and muesli hanging out with Theresa, Swaati, Greg and Suzanne.

If my former memory of Goa was cruising around on the back of Greg’s Enfield with “get your motor running, heading for the highway, looking for adventure or whatever comes my way” going through my head, it’s been fully replaced by Theresa driving me to Panji bus station on the back of her scooter avec me wearing my 25kg backpack on the back. I slightly placate my father by wearing a helmet, and whilst I wouldn’t even dream of going 5 mins round the corner in the UK like that, it’s the most fun i’ve had on the back of a bike! Thanks again to lovely Theresa for gradually having to give up her seat when any breaking caused me and the back pack to slide forwards.

I bus to Margao smiling before boarding my overnighter to Bangalore where in a land of 1 billion people I bump into in-lawed relatives of my Indian friend Vijayalakshmi and then chug past cotton fields, coffee in hand to Mysore and the land of silks, sandalwood and palaces fit for a princess. The street boys trying to assure me that marajuna has been legalised and the constant “my father makes perfume, come see incense being made” makes me take a little time to warm up to mysore, but it’s charms are slowly revealed to me and the maharaja’s palace takes my breath away and transports me into a fairy tale.

When I’m not eating Thali at the RRR cafe (all you can eat amazing veg curries for just 50p!) I’m taking exploring quirky little galleries & crazy flower and vegetable markets that fill all your senses, or bouncing around in local buses visiting summer palaces, mosques & temples.

Had an only in India moment at the summer palace where we were unable to take photographs of the murals depicting the Mughals defeating the english (slight squirming sensation as I’m reminded of my heritage) inside, but there was nothing stopping us, walking outside and taking one through the massive open archways all around the building…

With just a day trip to a stunningly beautiful temple in Somnathpur to go before I head back to Bangalore, find a new favourite icecream (fig & honey) with Melanie and give in to my fabindia addiction through depression i find myself on the train to Chennai, Chai in one hand and a metaphorical wave goodbye to this beautiful land that has captured my heart and held a little piece of it hostage to make sure I return soon.

I sail past paddy fields and palm trees and my heart soars as I think fondly of this land of boundless plenty, abundant in smiles, moustaches and sari’s in shades the rainbow couldn’t even begin to imagine:

- where cows are avoided by cars at the expense of people but if you do hit a person, the mob will kill you before a policeman has chance to arrest you; where you don’t give up your seat on the bus for a mother with her baby, but instead take the baby and sit them on your lap;

- where governments sign multi-million dollar arms deals with the UK and US, where the price of one fighter jet with provide 1.5million people with safe drinking water for life; where the shake of a head means more just no – you’re welcome, it was very nice to meet you, my pleasure, after you and of course, no thank you;

- where you board a train with your luggage and disembark with new friends; where the towers of temples litter the horizon and rubbish litter the floor until sacred cows munch their way through it; where bad luck is put down to karma and the world we live in is just an illusion (yes the matrix is based on hindu culture);

- where everything you do is everybody else’s business; where men try and brush themselves against you and old women practically sit on you for your white skin to transfer to them; where the majority of mobile phones have been installed with the Titantic theme tune and cars play cheerful dittys when reversing;

- where homosexuality is illegal but men wear skirts and walk down the street holding hands; if you’re tired, you just lie down in the street and have a sleep; where you don’t use the flyover to cross to another platform but you jump down and cross the tracks;

- where you can fill yourself up on an amazing thali for 25p but 400m people go hungry; where you get by only on human kindness, but where beggars are left to rot in the streets; where the swastika is a symbol of peace, of evolution;

- Brahmin priests get fat on the devotion of 400m people living on less than 25p a day; where in a society where Ahimsa, non-violence, is the pervading rule a societal structure can exist that treats 20% of it’s population as no better than dogs.

So all that’s left for me is to wish you all a Happy New Year if I didn’t manage to see you in person in my fleeting UK holiday, to hope our paths cross in 2008 and to promise to fill your inboxes with as many weird happenings as I can possibly stumble across for you.

There was I thinking that episode wasn’t as adventure packed as previous editions, but you guys seemed to like it. Maybe it was the image of Melanie and I sweetly sleeping off our hyderabadan colds in dusty little jewel of Karnataka, Bijapur.

With all the handsome princes off awaking sleeping beauty and snow white, we settled for general Indian guesthouse hustle and bustle. Dusting ourselves off we braved luke cold showers and (spot the tourist) warmed our bones by eating Thali in the garden of our guesthouse.

Once upon a time a rich Muslim by the name of Mohammed Adil Shah built a mausoleum for himself, his two wives, his mistress and some various other family members. He called it the Golgumbaz and it’s dome is said to be rivaled only by St Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Si, Si, that makes it pretty huge! After climbing up 7 storeys you reach the base of the dome and the ‘whispering gallery’, if you whisper into the wall a person on the opposite side is supposed to hear you, and it’s repeated 10 times. Indian children behaving as they do, instead it has the atmosphere of a swimming pool at the weekend and led to a strange feeling of claustrophobia. So much so, I preferred to risk my vertigo with the 7 storey view of Bijapur from outside.

Having slept through morning and faffed around at the train station before the Golgumbaz we failed to reach Bijapur’s other great sight/site, the Ibrahim Rouza before the chain clanked shut on the gate at exactly 6pm. But hey-ho, it’s pretty nice from a distance and with our bodies and spirits in need of some R&R we decided to clench teeth through another hard day’s traveling and hit the beach.

I’d have to say it was the hardest day yet. Next time if you see everybody filling the seats from the front only, be aware there’s probably a reason why. Melanie and I left our seats and probably averaged at about a foot high, about once every thirty seconds. Backs, necks & jaws jarred, not to mention our poor little bottoms, 4 hours turned into 5.5, yet still we decided to brave the worst roads in Karnataka for a further 5 hours, using the mantra “get me to the beach” to sustain us.

Boy, it was worth it. Finally, I’ve found paradise in India. Screw Goa & Mamallapuram. This is what a tropical beach is supposed to be like

Strange with it’s mix of holiness in such proximity to semi-naked Europeans, Gokarna is a sweet little town with loads of Brahmin priests trotting around and Hindu’s making pilgrammes, tons of little temples and a lush little hippy vibe.

A 10 min trek down the mountain with 20kg’s on your back, and it’s 100 (1.20 GBP) rupees a night for a room 4 metres away from the beach, yum food and a beautiful gentle sea with none of those rip tides warned about in most other Indian beaches.

Obviously Mel and I put in some pretty hard beach work, sunbathing, swimming, having a little sing-song, getting drunk on illicit whisky and some crazy German fire water round the camp fire; and my 5kg’s are firmly, firmly back on (I never knew aubergine moussaka could taste so good) before Mel has to put me to further shame and toodle on off to her next volunteering role.

So I’m left having to cover a 100 rupees a night on my own…. Maybe I’m unintentionally kicking off a vibe saying “room mates please apply here”, but I wasn’t expecting the first person I spoke more than 2 words to, to ask if I’d “like to spend a few days with them”. Now of course this isn’t strange beach behaviour, unless…. You’re a f@#king Swami and then please leave me out of your Sex tourism trips. Outraged I was, outraged. Yes the Hindu religion is a bit f@#ked up, but if you can love orange enough to be a Swami, you can drop sex and not go pervving on Western girls in bikini’s!!!

Grump firmly on and Swami avoidance techniques deployed I was lucky enough to bump into Bindi Girl and exorcise those demons over truly fabulous banofee pie, to feel buoyed and happy enough to almost float up the mountain with my 21kg (yep it went up) the next morning on my way to beach number 2. Anjuna, for the third time.

But here I leave you not huffing, but definitely puffing, up the hill as bagpuss goes to sleep and the Internet café mice stop going round and round.

Just 3 days left for me before I sit on a train to Chennai and board an aeroplane. Maybe you’ll have to find out the end of the story in person, who knows if I’ll get bored enough in my final days to complete it here.

Catch ya later bill and teds.

Em x

One week and counting… are you dusting off your glad rags and getting excited about my imminent touch down at Heathrow, 9 am, 12th December (incase you’re not busy that morning….)

Well don’t get too excited yet, that’s a whole week of adventures in India where anything can happen and I still have a month to fill you in on. A month of beaches, pilgrimages, some social work and more than my fair share of sickness.

So several weeks ago I left you calm in the thought that I was spending my days mourning the departure of old friends, but happily practicing yoga, sitting by the pool and generally taking it easy. That very evening, complacently feeling I was making a recovery, but eating bland food to continue to evict the bacterial stomach infection we all picked up in Pondicherry, I was struck down bad with a case of ‘traveller’s diarrhoea’ that I could never previously begin to contemplate. Dear God, it was not fun.

Foolishly thinking a sachet of rehydration salts would set me on the road to recovery I hit the pool, preferring to language in the shade there than the 4 walls of my room. All well and good until the rehydration salts decided to make their escape and that sealed it for me, off to the hospital, one is seriously not well.

A mounting arsenal of attacks later and Dr Indirah Gandhi (still not sure how she felt about having been named after that not so of the people, declarer of The Emergency and instigator of the steralisation programme, former president of India) pumped me full of antibiotics via a drip as my poor old stomach refused to accept anything orally and I was pretty dehydrated. I slept on a manky hospital bed for most of the 4 hours it took to jack me back up and then weakly shuffled back to my fortunately rather nice room and slept slept slept.

A few days of an inability to do anything other than read 3 pages of my book, sleep, wake up, eat a banana, sleep, read 3 pages of my book etc, you get the picture and are probably as bored as I was, just reading this.

Suffice to say, lesson learned, next time Caty goes to the hospital to get pills for her and JP, don’t say “no I’m going to ride it out”, say “give me the pills! give me the pills!”

A 5kg lighter, weaker but much recovered Em, left Mamallapurum and it’s cries of “come look my shop” every of the 100 times I walked past and headed to Kancheepuram, the famed city of Silk Sari’s, where every prospective bride dreams of receiving her bridal sari’s from.

Now the dark side of these silk sari’s are the 40k children working in the home hand looms of the city, when they should be at school or at the very least, out playing and just being kids. RIDE to the rescue! Rural Institute of Development Education, liberators of the oppressed and experiencers of injustice.

Before I was able to tour the villages and see their work firsthand, I had to help out with arts and crafts day at the local school. EEEKKKKK! So there was I potato in one hand, paint brush in the other, trying to inspire creativity in 15 kids aged from 2.5 to 5, who have probably never sat at home drawing, used paints, pastels or fimo. Bless ‘em, they were a bit bewildered and lacking the imagination of what to do, on the whole just copying what i did up front.

And when the potato printing was done and the teacher abandoned me, there was nothing more languageless to do than a spot of yoga. So some big tall palm trees, swayed in the wind and went to sleep; snakes slithered around the floor and their personal favourite, miaowing cats turned into roaring lions! And they loved it!!!

Totally affirmed my belief that yoga can be used as a therapy and educational tool for kids and firmed my resolve to study and practice it in Indjah 2008!

I took a tour round the villages, met some of the silk loomers, some of the self-help group members and then the next day took a tour of the Quarry. One of 39 illegal quarries in the town, the workers work their fingers to the bone in the quarries, where the men work from 5 am and get 150 rupees a day (not even 2 GBP) and the women do all their house chores and work in the quarry for the afternoon, as hard as any man for 50 rupees (about 60 pence). Then if the kids are really lucky, they get to help out too, doing small work. and if a shard of rock shoots off into somebody’s arm or eye, that’s that. too far from the hospital, no transport, no local health care and no compensation system in place.

But I won’t tie at your heart strings too much all those miles away, whilst you’re eating your lunch. They do obviously accept donations to fund their work, but all I ask from you is awareness that such injustices exist.

Wow, still 3 week’s to go and 70 rupees spent on Internet access already! I’d best hurry things along!

My heart aching from the delight of the little Dalit (you’ve heard of the untouchables, the bottom caste) girl for me simply holding her hand, I board a bus to Tiripathi and meet up with sweet, sweet Melanie from the scam charity in Virudhunagar for road trip v2!

And wowsers what a crazy crazy place! A football ground has nothing on the scale and freneticism of this place. For a incredibly holy place that a minimum of 5000 people make a pilgrammage to EVERY DAY, it sure wasn’t that calm or forgiving. Mel and I spent a couple of hours trying to get up the mountain from Tirimala to Tirupathi and a couple of hours trying to get a ticket just to stand in the next queue for 3 hours….

Pushing and shoving, queue jumpers and shouting; we’re funneled into the Venkateshwara temple, forced through the entrance with our feet hardly touching the ground, clutching each other’s hands; then it’s over in a second, a flash of ostentatious devotion and we’re ejected out of the other side.

After that I could take on any crowd, but feeling a little over invaded of the personal space, Mel and I make our way down the hill and cure our queue fatigue by indulging in a night at the flicks, drooling over Charan, our new favourite moviestar. He can sing, dance, kung-fu kick ass, is a gentleman, a bit of a bad boy and pretty damn hot. Tom Cruise take lessons, this is a leading man

The road beckons again as we stopover in Vijayawada on our way to Hyderabad and visit some pretty average cave temples, a Durga temple where white people are clearly a bit of a rarity, visit the ruins of a sacred buddhist stoupa at Amaravathi and stay in a crazy 1940’s style room.

Next we catch a chill to Hyderabad aboard the night train and spend a few days suffering fevers and snotty noses as the Hyderabadan men leer at us and mutter indecencies pretty much to our faces. I was particularly impressed by the group of lads who walked past and shouted a greeting of “fuck you”. Charmed to be sure.

But parts of Hyderabad ARE charming; the lovely old Islamic buildings; the Golconda Fort; the Birla Mandir temple; Fab India (hee hee shopping frenzy mark 2!) and the modern art gallery we were incredibly pleasantly surprised by.

I got to hang out with my first friend in India, Vijayalakshmi, who was the other student on my Yoga course when I first arrived. Spent a lovely day, walking around the fort and chatting with her and then she looked after us like an angel when we were really sick. cooking us a lovely dinner; sorting out our bus tickets and putting us to bed over a dvd!

Buoyed by her kindness, we somehow find the strength to board a night bus to Bijapur in the grip of cold fever, relatively sleepless, we arrive cold but feverless (YAY!) to Bijapur and have a warming coffee and hot spicy sambar and idly brekkie before hitting our room and sleeping the whole morning away.

and now I leave you with us sleeping off our colds in dusty, charming Bijapur as I heed a call of nature and go find me some lunch.

Part 2 to follow in a fews days as i start working my way back to you guys via mysore.

Love to all, you special, special people

Em x

Good morning, hopefully you had a better sleep than most Indian residents last night? So Diwali, imagine the fireworks evenings of your youth, then take away the restrictions in selling them and let every tom, dick and harry have his own fireworks display on roof top, front step, public path, road, beach, cuortyards…

But money exhausted we should have a good nights sleep tonight

So I left you as we bussed it to Thanjuvur from Trichy, we check into the hotel Valli, holding our breath so as not to faint from the fumes of the pig, goat, cow shit just over the road, before heading out on a walk to the Royal Palace. After paying 50 rupees entrance fee we visit the Durbar Hall, a hall where Raja Serfoji II held his audiences, with lovely murals still visible on the walls and take a look at some of the statues whilst I shameslessly desecrate the statue of a lion by doing what any of you would have done.

We climb the miniscule & steep steps of the bell tower to see views of Thanjuvur just before the rain hits and I hit my head on the stairwell. Realising that 50 rupees doesn’t get you much these days we reluctantly pay another 30 to enter the art gallery, but are rewarded by some amazing statues and chola bronzes, just resentfully wondering what the entry fee actually covered.

Spirited away to the magnificent Big Temple Caty attracts a small fan group who want to take our pictures (yes we have been resorted to the role of circus freaks, despite our attempt to blend in in our indian garb) and get deafened by old men and their rather large horns during a puja involving the (yes probably named Laskshmi) temple elephant.

With our camera’s bursting with images of temples and people with magnificent moustaches we enter a digital camera shop to get them burned onto a disk, for the camera’s lens to be turned on us and the people in the ‘professional’ photography section make us pose for ‘family’ photos with them and then give us photos and our disks for free in return, asking us to send all our funny looking white skinned friends in for similar treatment.

Laughing we get high on chocolate, I call my lovely little nan and the unconventional swiss family robinson goes to sleep.

We fill ourselves on masala dosas in the guesthouse restaurant and get the bus to Chidambaram, a Chola capiral from 907 to 1310 and home to the spectacular Nataraja temple, Shiva’s Lord of Dances. A sprawling labyrinth of small temples, Chidambaram is gold to Meenakshi’s silver and before we are disenfranchised too much in the relentless pursuit of ‘donations’, Ganesh a Brahman priest whisks us away and deposits us at the fire ceremony. Watching a throng of hindu’s queue for Darshan with Lord Nataraj we sit peacefully in meditation, filling the energy of this immense temple throb through the stone. After the ceremony Ganesh takes some time to chew the fat with us and invites us to go up one of the towers in the morning and view the temple complex from above.

Beseiged by beggars and sadhu’s at the complex, Caty gets additional meals wrapped up at the canteen but finds the beggars unwilling to look her in the eye and continue their cries of ‘Amma’ (mother not a spelling mistake) whilst bringing their hand to their mouth and then their belly. In a country of over a billion people and something like 80% below the poverty line, she is unable to give food away!

A hot sweaty night in the room before ascending the gopura and viewing the temple from above whilst Ganesh holds my hand in a bid to read my palm/nature etc… Brahmin priest or no, he was unable to resist the Batch’s charms… well he was almost completely blind. Buoyed by our experience and happy for small kindnesses we take 2 buses & eat tasty Tapioca chips before reaching Pondicherry.

Pondicherry, our escape to civilisation, a break from temples, home of the Sri Aurobindo Ashram and unfortunately delhi belly all round. We drink coffee, use the internet, shop and eat chat that still brings a feeling of nausea to my throat (i believe this is the cause of our upset tummys). Not to be diminshed by our reducing waistlines we pay a visit to Egle and Beth in Auroville one day, the 40 year old community of many nations started by The Mother and seemingly working in principle.

We put put over on our hired mopeds, as JP and Caty brave the Indian roads and I relax in my role of passenger. The centre and ‘heart/soul’ of Auroville is a pure white meditation chamber encased in a 3 storey high ball decorated in gold leaf. Quite a magnificent achivement and incredibly space age, we try to mediate amidst the sudden and intreruptive phantom coughs of the Indian tourists, so fat with wealth they struggle to ascend the sloped walkway or sit still for 15 mins.

We have wood fired pizza at the youth centre and have a small drama trying to get the bike started and find the way out in time for our 10.30 curfew, but we make it victorious and despite surviving some pretty hairty road moments JP and Caty both stub their toe/foot on a 2 foot high post.

With Caty having exhausted Pondicherry’s supply of shops we migrate to Mamallapurum, fit to burst with Kashmiri shop owners asking you to “come look my shop, looking is free”, home to lovely relics of the Pallavan rulers and with a beach and a swimming pool my holiday retreat for the next week or so whilst I wait for Melanies sentence at the charity to finish and I gird myself for some more temples!

I sadly say goodbye to my travel buddies JP and Caty (Bon Voyage my friends!) and fill my days with swimming, reading, writing travel updates, uploading pics online, yoga, chatting to locals and not much else…. NICE!!!

Phew, consider yourself updated, that’s me over and out for a few weeks whilst I build up some more experiences to regale you with and save up my rupees for Internet cafes.

I do obviously expect an update from you in return

Love you all