Shudders & Shits

Seems we have both

seen better days

It has not happened often, but on this occasion neither of us have much else to write about, except to unravel the last few days' events, which mainly concern Amiee's bodily functions. Sorry.

Arriving in Kolkata early morn, we bumped into a fellow traveller, Tim, who we had shared breakfast with in Yuksom a week or so previous. Happy to see a friendly face and to share the taxi ride, we headed to the main tourist hub of 'Kal'. This was a strange and bewildering thing for us, having spent the last few months feeling almost completely unaware of tourists. Anyhow arriving we said goodbye to Tim and almost instantly set eyes upon Stuart lane, we headed down and found 'Modern Lodge'. Thanks Rob for the recommendation, full of a rustic urban character, the guest house offers small colourful rooms (ours was a newly bright gloss pink - actually fairly intoxicating) which we heard are often packed full of overseas volunteers. Feeling bad for having woke up the staff, we sneaked out to seek breakfast. We turned onto Sudder street, known to any tourist or backpacker who sets foot in the city. The place has character, some charm, a lot of Indian spirit and we did find a fantastic little place to eat Muesli and real Coffee (bonus of backpacker hot spot) however much of it was pretty grim. There are many families living, washing, breathing, eating and shitting on the streets, most of whom believe that any non-Indian has 'The State Bank of India' tattooed on their forehead, wandering around as a mobile ATM. I think Shudder Street is the more appropriate name (again Rob, credit where its due).

Setting forth, with an aim to see as much of Kolkata as is humanly possible in a single day, we took advice from the guy who made us the coffee and headed straight to the Kalighat temple. After being swindled by a priest, Amiee having a anti-religious rant and learning that they sacrificed two goats a-day, we headed to our next destination.... Ummmm... Uhhh.... To the....

Unsure of what to do next, we did what we always do in time of need; wander towards the biggest grandest building in view. Refusing to pay a trivial amount of ruppees to go into Queen Vicky's Memorial, we decided to head to another bastion of colonialism- Fort William. Hidden from view and apparently now occupied by the India Army, we were turned away and left at a loss. Checking our faithful guidebook, we discovered an arty-farty (perfect for both parties) area of Kolkata- so off we trundled again.

Unsucessful once more, we ended up lost in a myriad of Islamic Bazaars during a religious/politic/health-awareness/education rally. Blow up palm trees and loud speakers blaring out Arabic distracted us for some time, but eventually we were gravitationally pulled toward yet more hints of our nation's past-presence, the 18th century Park Street Cemetery. This was a place of peace among the hectic noise, chaos and confusion of the streets surrounding it, an island of green in the tarmac, concrete seas of the city. We settled ourselves by the grand tombs, aptly audio-ed by the cities crows and decided our next plan of action. Luncheon, a visit to New Market, then an evening at Kolkata's fine Planetarium.

This time round, everything went according to our scheme. New Market was a hustling, multi-layered labyrinth of backpacker bullshit clothing (Amiee's terminology), dodgy jewllery, pestering hustlers and more sari shops than I think is really necessary.

After a bewildering few hours lost within the multitudes of merchants, the moon began to rise and it was time for us to become lost within the limitlessness of the stars. For just under 50pence a pop, I believe Kolkata's Planetarium to be the finest, best-valued and most worthwhile experience in the whole city. It was a jolly good affair, led by an exceptionally fierce elderly female astronomer who appeared in the pitch-dark auditorium and demanded that everyone turn off their mobile phones (the most blessed moment in modern Indian academia)! The following hour within the huge domed hall was informative, inspiring and refreshingly retro (with the talk being accompanied by exceptionally grainy images from a slide projector). Two-thirds through the presentation some fool from the audience made the mistake of turning on his phone (as if to test her initial warning)- we were pretty sure he was close to following the same fate as a temple goat.

After this, feeling in a pleasant wonder of our universe, we strolled hotel-wards and spent the remaining part of the evening traversing the alleys, backalleys, lanes and little roads around Shudder Street followed by a splendid meal in a nearby restaurant, owned by an exceptionally charming and well turbaned Sikh gentleman. We then descended on the hotel and crashed out, content with our visit to this metropolitan mayhem of modern India.

An almost entire good nights sleep flew by until Amiee ran out, battling with the stiff door and returned some 30 minutes later exhausted and distraught. Sometime big cities do no good at all for the body, though it turns out we did have a fair bit to say in the end beyond the fate of poor Lawn's bottom.

I'll take over here thanks Cox:

My night, dawn and early morn continued with regular and unpleasant visits to the loo. Whilst in a hotel I can just about manage this, just let it pass. However we had a train to catch, bugga! Thankfully I happened to have the right man on board. Marc packed the bags, went and fetched loo roll, baby wipes and got me dressed and dragged me out into the hot streets where we fell into a taxi. Kalcutta, Hoara station was probably the last place on earth I would have wanted anyone to be whilst feeling what I felt at present. My head was spinning, sight was bleering and stomach cramping. Of course our train was on platform 21, the furthest away any train could possibly be from me at that point! Marc pulled me through crowds and assuringly marched us up the long train until we reached our carridge. We boarded, I flopped and though I had some pretty sorry experiences whilst on board, I was also relieved. Everyone who shared our section of the train was great, they noted my sickness and even made me bottles of Saline, which I do believe saved me.

Now, after 29 hours and 2,175km we are sat in NIAS, Bangalore, where yes, we first began this whole Indian venture. I am feeling much recovered, surprisingly and we are both fed and watered. Only now we wait for Smriti & Subo to arrive from Chennai before we go and crash at theirs for a day or so. Then heading yet further south/west to Managlore where we hope to meet our dearest of friends, Genevieve.  

http://g.co/maps/3c3u5 - On board the Duronto Express
 

Chang & Cheese

We drove (uneventfully) through the clouds, ever upward to the urban sprawl, clinging 2000m above sea level to the mountainside. After some disorientation we located a pleasant (and blooming cheap - 24 hours of hot water!) hotel in the centre of the action, dumped our bags and went for an explore. Gangtok is not India. It is clean and organised, there are whole pedestrian areas, litter bins that are used, foot bridges over busy roads and tons of benches for people to just sit down. Trivial as these things may seem from a western perspective, in India it is a lung full of peaceful fresh air.

The next couple of days were spent lost in the bustling bazaars and tidy streets, munching marvelous momos and rummaging through the shops for warm woolly things in preparation for the week ahead. We experienced Gangtok's technological wonder, the rope-way and its cultural heart, the Institute of Tibetology. Mainly though, we were happy chomping delicious cuisine (including Dachi - yak cheese stew! wahhh!) and gazing at the plethora of prayer flags fluttering in the gentle winter breeze. We also had the incredibly amusing activity of sterilising Amiee's Mooncup in the communal hotel kitchen! The puzzled males faces will never leave us! one even asking "is it a nipple?".

With tickets in hand we hopped aboard a shared jeep to Pelling, the centre of West Sikkim. Our company on the road included a lovely couple (Juan-Chilean and Fanny-French) whom we had bumped into previously. Upon reaching our destination (no mountains in view yet! blooming clouds!) the four of us teamed up and piled into the nearest hotel. Ditching our baggage we strolled away the afternoon by visiting the peaceful Pemayangtse monastery and the highly uninspiring 'archaeological ruins' (though the woodland walk was pleasant enough). As darkness descended, we crowded round the open-fire, chatted and gobbled fried cheese momos (a crackin' discovery!) to our hearts' content. Cheesed up, we hit the town in search of the legendary Chang. We bounced around, until we stumbled into a sweet little guesthouse and led to the lower-levelled kitchen. Here, a spunky Sikkimese lady set four large metal tumblers full of the magical fermented millet-grain upon the low table. She filled our cups with hot water and jabbed straws into the concoctions. We supped the night away, until we felt sufficiently chang-ged.

Map in hand, the four of us headed north to the holy Buddhist, Kechopari Lake/ Pond (which is apparently shaped like His Holliness' foot). It was mildly interesting, but the show was stolen by the incredible mountainous surroundings and the gorgeous wooden guest house we discovered- the tall white prayer flags merely added to the majesty and tranquility of the place. Settled for the next few days, we explored the deep river valleys and learnt Chillean cards. Trekking on up (4hrs), we moved base to Yuksom. This frontier town is the final stopping point for budding mountaineers before heading into the wilds and the true heights of the Himalayas. We spent one night here, eager to carry on walking, though sadly due to the harshes of winter, walking north up to the trekking trails wasn't an option. Our splendid company parted ways, and the following morning we explored Dubdi monastery and later set off for Tsong, in the new company of Rob (a lone travelling Englishman).
He joined us to the village, but set off back to Yuksom, leaving us for our first night in Tara's Homestay. The said Tara, is a warm, spirited Nepali with a fiery inner strength. We shared her home, food and family for a total of four days. She taught us the art of momo manufacture and the joys of rural life, perched upon the side of a mountain. During the time here, the clouds lifted to unveil the glorious fresh winter sun and snow covered mountain peaks of the Kanchenjunga Range some forty kilometers to the north (Kachenjunga itself measures up at 8,586m- the worlds third highest). Keen to stay, but aware of more sights to see, we wandered onwards to Tashiding, the last stop on our West Sikkim jolly. The walk was wonderful, but knackering. We stopped halfway at Hongri Monastery (the most dilapidated, but most beautiful yet) to catch our breath, reaching Tashiding at lunchtime. A peaceful small town, with astonishing panoramic views.

We are now back in Gangtok, enjoying the newly revealed mountain views and glorious blue skies. Our time is being spent exploring the surrounding area, including Rumtek Monastery to the west. Our journey down the winding steep road from the monastery was wonderfully joyous. We shared a taxi with 3 monks, a family of three and an elderly lady. Marc squashed somewhere below me and a monk on top. We laughed as Shaggy's greatest hits boomed out of the sound system of the tiny Suzuki Maruti. For anyone familiar with Shaggys lyrics, you may imagine how amusing they are when one is in the compact company of group of Buddhist monks. Visiting Enchy Monastery offered a more peaceful experience and at a walkable distance, laying to the north of the city.

Our last night in Gangtok offered us another cup of Chang hidden in the back alleys of Lal Bazaar with Buddha our hotel manager and Mike, a unforgettable character from Oregon, Us.  

Now we prepare for our epic 3 day descent back into Southern India.

Our next Journey to come - http://g.co/maps/7wepk

http://g.co/maps/rz9y4 - Our journey in Sikkim
    

Terracotta & Genuine Terror!

More of the magic of Manju (Wild Grass) leads us into the hands of Deepak. Kind, friendly and full of information, Deepak made our short time in Guwahati much more relaxing than the previous. We stayed in the 'transit flat' Manju uses for his Wild Grass clients and luckily caught his son Man just as he was leaving fo the airport for the grueling journey to Oxford (where we promised to meet up in the coming May). What a jolly splendid chap he is.
The next day, with the help of our Guwahati-ian guide, we set off early to visit our last destination in Assam and the Seven Sister States of the North East; a village of potters near the town of Dhubri on the Assamese-West Bengal border.
After a long bus ride (but with a smashing puri and sabji breakfast stop) we were collected at a stop just before Dhubri, by Krishna; a potter who had previously worked with Manju at Kaziranga. We dived into an auto and headed across a dubious bridge towards the village. Krishna dutifully showed us his ID card, as he didn't speak much English, it was kind of him to reassure us we were taken off the bus by the right bloke. Asharikandi, the Terracotta Village, came quickly into view. We were welcomed into Mr Krishna's home for some chai and snacks (including a whole pack of butter for Marc- what a champ!), then whisked off for a tour of the village. Mr Paul, his son and uncle were awaiting our arrival at one of the government funded show rooms / stock rooms. Having not embarked on one of our research ventures for a while, we had forgotten how generous and accommodating people are when you wish to learn about their culture, craft and way of life. This hamlet was a hub of terracotta activity, with somewhere in the region of one hundred and thirty seven families and well over five hundred artisans. Our enthusiastic entourage took us for a spontaneous tour of the place, which is where we really grasped the scale of the industry. Every other house had a vast array of pots drying in the Assamese sun; some made flower pots, huge rice containers (Amiee's favourite), mold-cast/hand built statues and others made huge ceramic rings used for either wells or bogs. The kilns were beyond our expectations, almost every family had erected a tall structure sheltering a hollow-centred construction. In design, these were not unlike the kilns on Majuli island some 600km to the east (confirming some previous hypothesis concerning trade along the mighty Brahmaputra).
We saw a multitude of kilns in various phases of their firing. Including big piles of pots covered in straw and mud, ready for the main pyrotechnical event. We finished our wander as dusk was falling on the dusty streets of Ashrikandi.
We were set to catch the 10pm bus (overnight) towards Sikkim, however, the bus was full and the next day turned out to be a government bund (strike). We felt this was in our favour. We stayed with the Paul family, were given our own room and fed some wonderful home-cooked cuisine (You star Mrs Paul!). Of course, we slept deeply on our full tummies and awoke about 5am the next morning to the sound of small children and families starting their day. We had a slow, but peaceful morning with breakfast at a neighbour's home and the 'expected' tour around the village school. In the afternoon we whizzed off on the back of a pair of motorbikes to local temples (where we had a mixture of experiences).
The first temple was spread out over the top of a hill, looking over the gentle, forested valleys below. The main deity was Kali- to Marc's horror the sacrifice of goats occurred every Thursday and Saturday, without fail, upon a wooden sacrificial altar whilst an enormous goat-skin drum was beaten to honor the occasion. Luckily it was a Tuesday. We received puja from a couple of the priests and walked down the path leading out of the complex, laden with temple-tack. We turned our heads in amusements as some young boys threw fruits into the trees for the monkeys to catch.
Zooming off again, Marc on the back of Krishna's brother's bike and Amiee with Debdas we arrived at our next temple; a theme park for Hindus. Each shrine was a molded cement creature, some reaching 30m high. These modern, yet colourful monstrosities housed a delightful surprise to visiting worshipers. Temples, tunnels and incense-filled caverns lay within the internal voids of this maze. Cement monkeys, doves and a menagerie of beasts stood sentinel beside their living counterparts trying to steal their next meal. It was all a bit surreal.
On our return to the terracotta town, Debdas had one more local sight for us to behold. The en-caged 20m statue of Kali stood watchfully over the main road in the company of a herd of red collared temple goats (blissfully unaware of the fate to come- ignorance is bliss!). The statue itself had several swarms of wild honey-bees colonising the dark shadows, lending a splendid buzzing beard, breast and bicep.
On our return, we took a final walk through the village and observed the busy pot makers hard at work, even as darkness fell. We sat quietly around the fire within the courtyard and enjoyed our last evening in Assam.

If we had known the journey that lay ahead of us the following day, we may of just stayed tucked up in bed. As any early start, it began with good intent. We waited around the village for an auto-rickshaw, which seemed unnecessarily confusing. One, conveniently, appeared and took us to the bus stop out on the main road. After lots more confusing discussions between groups of men (all with alarmingly strange features) we were finally told there was another bund (strike) that day. Bugger. Our only option was to persuade the auto driver that brought us from the village, to take us and a few other stragglers to the border of West Bengal where we could carry on our journey. The next 35km in a doorless rickshaw was painfully cold, numbing and cramped. An hour later, agitated and stiff, we got in a shared jeep with a record breaking 24 people and 2 vomiting children. Another less than satisfying journey. We were both thrilled to reach the town where we could catch the bus to Siliguri, boarding it with ease we sat back and relaxed for the last leg. How wrong we were. Seven more hours of bus-terror unfolded. The driver certainly seemed like he wanted us all dead, as he pursued to overtake everything on the road regardless of the oncoming vehicles. The absolute gem of the journey (after Marc nearly being left behind while taking a whizz) occurred whilst stuck in traffic, due to a lorry blocking a small bridge- undeterred, the driver swung off the road and plummeted into the river and chugged up the bank on the other side. Hurrah for his initiative, but never should a bus be at that angle.
Our white-knuckle ride finally ended in Siliguri, were we struck luck. We quickly found a cheap, suitable hotel and hot food to fill our empty tumtums. We got our permits for Sikkim and set off for Gangtok at 0730 the next day.

http://g.co/maps/6mh4f
             

Jungle Japes & Mountain Musings

Having just arrived in Guwahati, I have to say my thoughts are currently set on our last few days in the jungle valleys of southern Meghalaya. I should however momentarily resist and talk about our more lively experiences of  the states capital, Shillong. With expectations of a beautiful clean and quiet town, surrounded by tea estates and gentle hills, Shillong certainly came at us from a different angle.

The city surprised us, but even with a 20hour bus ride and a petty theft behind us that morning, we embraced the life of the streets that filled our lungs with excitement. For the first time in yonks we were able to have a hot shower, relax and change into clean clothes in the peace and quiet of a hotel room. We feasted on breakfast in our room, but quickly withheld all temptations to sleep, preferring to head out to explore the bustling markets and hidden back alleys.

Over a period of two days we walked and talked ourselves through the city until it felt like home. We reclined with real coffee, gorged on tasty street foods (momos, puri, stews, curries...), got lost amongst Burmese exports, took a early morning wander through the frosty golf course, gambled on the archery stakes (a mad event where a large group of Khasi men fire thousands of arrows at a tiny bamboo target), drank beer in the darkest tavern (where Amiee caught the eye of the local mute), perused the fascinating butterfly museum (which filled the basement of a local lady's home) and plotted the week ahead with gallons of tea and iced buns.

We followed our guide book's instructions and tentatively booked ourselves on the Government of Meghalaya Tourism Department's organised bus tour. A first for us both. The next morning, we rose early, grabbed some puri, sabji and tea, then clambered aboard the little bus out of the city. From dawn till dusk this  journey took us to some of the prettiest and amusing sights of the area, but for a mere 2 quid we both felt we had got ourselves a bargain. It gave us a taste of the Khasi hills, urging us to get out and explore on our own.
Sights included:
Numerous 'seasonal' (dry) waterfalls.
The World's 4th highest (foggiest) waterfall.
Ecopark (an enclosed portion of the beautiful plateau-edge, strewn with 'eco' concrete paths, bridges and pagodas...)
A cave (great for Indian Health & Safety and for watching women in sarees crawling through dark holes).
A picnic spot (with awesome onsite party-bus, more concrete and not much else).
A gurt breast shaped rock.
A tiny, cold anthropological museum (in a vast Hindu Mission centre).
An intimate experience of Shillong's congestion problems.

With no sarcasm what-so-ever, we thoroughly enjoyed this little excursion!

The following day, eager for adventure, we jumped in a shared Sumo Jeep to Cherrapunjee (or Sohra, if you're local), then onto Laitkkensew and rented ourselves a bed-filled tent in Cherra Resort. That afternoon we strolled down the few thousand steps to gaze upon our first, fabled Meghalayan root bridge. These bioengineering wonders spew out of the foliage, with one rubber tree on either side of the expanse; their roots trained over generations to form extremely strong, stable and uniquely beautiful bridges, allowing the locals to cross the monsoon-induced torrents. It was definitely worth the trek (especially after discovering a slag heap right next door too!).
As we sat basking in the jungle atmosphere we heard a 'wahhhoooop' come from the bushes somewhere close by. Thinking it was a monkey, Amiee replied. Moments later a small, friendly faced man appeared, and explained these were the calls of the local people, so they can communicate through the thicket of the jungle.  Happy however that we were on the other end of his call, he sat with us by the bridge and we chatted for a while. He then pointed us in the direction of a natural geological phenomena, intrigued, we followed the path and the clever stilted bamboo irrigation systems and found it. A neatly formed arch way that came conveniently out of the hillside. Rewarding our find with a piece of dark chocolate, we decided to call it a day.
Well almost, we did have the few thousand steps to retrace first! At the top we bumped into a tall friendly Dutchman named Rick, who became our jolly companion for the next day's adventure.

The three of us headed out the next morn and descended into the humid depths of the forested valley, aided by a convenient and exhilarating ride atop a passing taxi, which kindly took us the first 5km to the start of the path (a pretty interesting video was made of this event...i'm sure it will find its way here someday...).
The path meandered past a packed church (the last vestige of 'civilisation' for the day) then down, down, down. Beautiful butterflies, gorgeous greenery and all manner of scrumptious sights, smells and sounds cascaded into our senses as we traversed dodgy wire-rope bridges, scrambled over behemoth-boulders and became entranced by the stunning root bridges nestled in the lush valleys.
It was almost too Peter Pan-esque to believe.

The climax to the day was the unique 'double-decker', situated adjacent to the forest-village of Nongriat. An incredible testament to these people's natural-mechanics.
We left Rick at this point (after gulping down some tasty noodles), he had to return to the resort before sunset- poor bugger!! I hope you made it!!
We trundled off to the 'swimming pools'- which on reflection turned out to be the real gem of the day. It involved tackling some incredibly sketchy wire bridges, a couple of the rooty variety and even bigger rocks!
We settled by the side of a pool, the colour of which easily rivaled a bounty advert, and naturally, stripped off and dived in. It was bloody cold. But unbelievable.
We spent the night in the local rest house and dined on yummy local cuisine (including banana flowers!). Unable to drag ourselves away- we stayed an extra day. This time, we followed some local advice and found some new pools to swim in. These were even more mind blowing.
The day was spent adventuring amongst the rocks- in caves and waterfalls, wallowing in the water, bathing in the sun and reading Roald Dahl's sinister short stories to one another. One more night was spent by the fire before we packed up and faced the four hour vertical ascent back to Cherrapunjee, the perfect time to reminisce on our past wanderings back in Europe (and a reminder to our bodies how fecking difficult it is!). As we neared the top, we were rewarded with a magnificent view of that alleged fourth highest waterfall (denied previously). We grabbed a shared taxi back to the bright lights.
One more night in Shillong was spent, before cracking on to our old haunt: Assam.

 

Explorin' the Eastern Edge

A birds eye view

We jumped on board the train back across the border at the beginning of the new year and re-entered Nagaland. We landed in Dimapur our first port of call, being met on the station by Amir and his fine lady- our guardians whilst here in town. A quick police check and we left in Amir's car to his home in downtown Dimapur.
The residential compound was inhabited by three sisters and their extended families (particularly now, so close to Christmas)- our host was the middle one, Oreno (Amir's Auntie). We got in contact with her through a friend we met at Kaziranga some weeks earlier, her husband John Edwards. She was a small, feisty and utterly delightful lady. We instantly fell in love with her humour and honesty.

The atmosphere in the house was bustling with family festive fun and we were integrated warmly- the evenings were spent, en-masse, round the bonfire in the garden munchin' veggie burgers (well, only us), chips and guzzlin' fosters beer. Amir showed us the town, particularly the dingy nightclubs and second world war relics.
It was a strange, but welcomed experience being surrounded by Western dressed young-adults, speaking fluent English with an international array of workplaces and homes (ranging from Malaysia, Singapore, Delhi...)... oh and the presence of a whole block of English Cheddar.

Whilst residing in the commerce hub of Nagaland, we attempted to arrange an excursion to a town some 60km away called Wokha. Earlier in the trip (in Guwahati) we stumbled across some interesting turned wooden bowls made by a self-help group based in the said town and we were invited by the chair-woman to visit her artisans. This turned out to be a mighty red herring- days of waiting resulted in nothing but a free Naga-style tie and some naff mock Naga jewelery. The NGO we were trying to 'infiltrate' were actually heavily involved in local politics and were far to busy raking in 'donations' to deal with us scruffy young uns.

We said our sad goodbyes to the Lotha clan, promising to keep in touch then jumped in a little van to Kohima- the capital.

The ride took us back into the familiar Naga hills, winding roads and lush green slopes. The air began to chill and we snuggled into our new woolies that we had gratefully picked up the day before. Kohima, didn't exactly feel like the capital of the state, but it instantly charmed us. The views were magical, and it had just the right amount of hustle and bustle a town should. We arrived around 3pm, found a room in a small dingy hotel with good views over the valley. We took a walk to explore our surroundings but before dusk had fallen the entire city had gone to sleep. Looks like the cities life has short opening hours~! We managed to find a small rice hotel for some incredibly grimey food and headed back for a night reading stories by torch light. The next morning greeted us with more promise and we took a fantastic long walk through the city. Our first stop was the state museum, initially dubious we were pleasantly surprised by what we found inside. The curator welcomed us and even walked with us through some of the exhibits. Each tribe in Nagaland was represented through their traditional artifacts, clothing and jewelery. Some wooden bowls caught our eyes and the failed trip to Wokha no longer mattered. These bowls were incredible, hand carved, on tall stands, made all from one piece of wood, a great example of the fine skills of the hill people. Happy with a morning well spent, but a whole day yet ahead of us, the cities winding streets beckoned us to explore. The original settlement area named Kohima Village offered us a vast area of attractive, colourful houses and magical terraced gardens nestled in between. We walked until our bellies rumbled.

Though we liked this city, we decided to avoid trying to travel on a Sunday and managed to wing ourselves free tea and some tickets on the Saturday morning packed bus to Imphal, Manipur. Through rumours and research, we heard tales of a magical pottery made only in the northern mountains of Manipur- a unique black pottery infused with serpentine stone and polished to a mirror finish. This we had to see.

Our luck struck true whilst travelling the mountain route, he came in the form of Asong. Whilst our bus was being jacked up and a tyre replaced, this fine chap, his lovely wife and tiny freedom fighting toddler (always off adventuring on his new pegs!) invited us into their home within the Manipurian capital and miraculously had a work colleague directly involved with the fabled black pottery.
The weekend was spent touring Asia's largest women's market (incredible) and museums (best avoided!) of this dirty, dusty, rainy city. Thank you Asong and Family for the warm welcome, terrific company and delicious food! Monday, we hit the road with Kingson (the village king's son...obviously) and meandered into the clouds. Enthused by our guide, we spent the four hour drive learning about the ceramics, discussing Manipur's drug problems and hearing all about the AIDS epidemic in the region. He spewed his humble wisdom with humility and truth- all spoken through the mouth of one with genuine care. This wasn't just a job to him.

Longpi (or Nungbi if you're a British cartographer), is the only place where this combination of geology and clay coincides, thus the only place where this black pottery is traditionally manufactured. We'll go into specifics at a later date... another one of our annoying cliff hangers.

After our ten hour drive on Monday (cheers Kingson!), Tuesday morning rolled round for our 10am bus to Guwahati! On the bloody road again... 18 hours.
After getting my wallet pinched at 4am in the Assamese capital, we sleepily journeyed south to Shillong and the abode of clouds, Meghalaya.

http://g.co/maps/57ubg        

           

Mapping it out

Our adventures continue
but with the company of a powerful little cat

Whilst acting out the famous 5 (which of course includes Mieko the cat) here in Jorhat for the last week. We have enjoyed a relaxed festive season, and managed to do things that sometimes traveling makes it hard to allow time for. For instance catching up with our blog entries, diaries and notes, making sure we get down everything we’ve seen and also writing Marc’s MA funding application, for without this wonderful setting this would have proved to be much more of a challenge to complete. We took a trip to Sonipur for a couple of days to stay again at DASK in the small village Dharikathi, on the north bank. I collected the Gal (pronounced Galay) I had ordered on our last trip, which one of the ladies in the village wove on her waist loom. This is the traditional tribal skirt here, hand woven with a complex pattern all the way down the back, a real treasure to take home. Now we are back at our home from home in Jorhat and preparing for our next adventure. On the 1^st January 2012 (already?????), we leave for Dimapur, to explore the other end of Nagaland. From here we are sure there will be many more adventures to tell. Until then we hope that you can bring yourselves to read all of the blogs we have just posted. A jolly good lesson to us both to try and keep it up to date. Here is a map of our travels over the last month or so. Enjoy.

http://g.co/maps/etw9p

Bible Bashers & Head Hunters

Praise the Lord

After a slightly more comfortable (and cheaper) ride back to Jorhat from the ghats, this time by bus, we set about exploring the city. It was, and still is, a major centre for exporting chai around India and beyond with the land surrounding the urban sprawl consisting entirely of flat expanses of paddy and immaculately manicured tea gardens.

With the finding of an STD (an abbreviation of ‘standard calls’ I’ll have you know) we manage to get hold of our acquaintances we met at Wild Grass, Puja and Dhruv. We emailed them the week before and told them we would love to take them up on their offer of a base in Jorhat to stay and relax, but were completely unsure what to expect. We were pleasantly surprised. In fact, we were more than that… We had hit the jackpot.

Dhruv came and grabbed us in his big old 4x4 and drove us to their pad on the outskirts of town- a beautiful little house. We were welcomed by a beaming Puja who showed us to our en-suite (we had a water heater and shower!!!) room (we had a double bed!!) and then shepherded us to the table for lunch.

We discussed our plans about going to Nagaland and were told theirs. Puja and Dhruv described their work with human-elephant conflict and told us they had a meeting with some affected tribal weavers near Nimiri National Park on the north bank of the Brahmaputra, would we like to come? We couldn’t say no.

After leaving relatively early, with various stops en-route (including a hilarious blagged cup of tea at a safari resort gagging for white tourists), we crossed the vast river around lunchtime and hurtled through Tezpur. The military presence grew steadily the closer we got to Arunachal Pradesh, an independently minded Indian trophy-state with a lot of international borders, which lay only 20 or so kilometers from our destination. Arriving later than anticipated, we headed straight to the meeting. In keeping with most of northeastern India the new faces we met were a real blend of Indian, South-East Asian, oriental and Mongloid. They represented a number of tribal communities living on the periphery of the National Park, including Mising, Assamese, Bodo and Gura. 

Our friends’ work here revolved around supporting traditional skills and marketing it to a modern audience in order to encourage alternative income aside from agriculture. This all boiled down to the people and their hungry neighbours- Nelly.

Our residence for the next few days was at a low-key, family run community centre called Dask (I never quite found out what it stood for), our room was in a modernised-take on a traditional Mising home. Bliss.

Over an extremely late lunch we discussed the elephant issue in more depth and learnt about Dhruv’s career as a tracker and elephant conservationist; specializing in this human conflict. The stories we heard were shocking and the negative impact on these poor, rural communities were multi-faceted. The elephants would come out of the park and gorge on the highly evolved, highly nutritious food source they found all around them- rice. Anything or anyone unfortunate to spook one of these goliaths during their nightly raids would feel their wrath. People were regularly killed.

As their forest home decreased, the elephants’ natural food also decreased- increasing the tendency for these giants to cross the small river to venture out and feed on the paddy fields surrounding the village. Where we were staying was right on the front lines. As night fell Dhruv said we may be (un)lucky to experience a raid, the paddy fields were metres away; we laughed nervously, half hoping, half terrified.

A gunshot echoed through the darkness. Some shouting. Then another. It all sounded uncomfortably close. Dhruv jumped up and ran to the car- we were told to stay where we were. He started the engine and began rapidly reversing out of the drive. We held our breath, peering into the empty blackness.

Some raised voices broke the silence and a figure came shambling towards us.

The ‘elephant’ didn’t look sober. The drunk bloke stumbled towards us and slurred an introduction. We all breathed out and relaxed. This was going to be an interesting night.

An hour or so passed before a new disturbance caught our attention. There was a light 100m away… and some singing! Me and Amiee jumped at the chance to experience an impromptu Mising musical session. We arrived at the edge of the small farmstead where the large group of men, women and children were gathered and a pang of recognition hit us. This tune definitely sounded familiar. They finished and started a new song. The men were playing drums and a guitar, the women singing and the children dancing- all in distinct Mising tradition. But the words betrayed their real purpose “We wish you a mewwee ch-wismas, we wish you a mewwee ch-wismas, we wish you a mewwee ch-wismas and a happy noooow yar!”

After a group prayer, the pastor introduced himself and explained they were going between the 18 christian families in the village… caroling. They excitedly offered to come to Dask and we accepted, slightly bemused.

They played a few carols translated into the local language and a few good ol’ traditional numbers. It all culminated in another group prayer and then a handshake and personal message of festive greetings by each of the thirty strong group. They disappeared into the night, their sounds drifting through the air long after we had disappeared to our rooms and collapsed. Exhausted.   

The next morning we awoke early and headed into the park for our ‘on-foot safari’, we met our guard/guide and headed down a peaceful tree lined track just as the sun was rising. We crossed the small river by canoe and headed into the park-proper. The guard instantly became alert once we entered the dense forest, his ancient bolt action rifle always at the ready. At every vegetational rustle he would swing it off his shoulder and assume position. We spooked a group of deer, watched a small group of Asian short-clawed otters playfully bounce around a stream and then bimbled back out.

We spent the evening sat around a fire listening to an elderly villager teach us the ways of building a Mising house. His voice was a subtle mix between gravel and satin, his wrinkles etched his face like glacial crevasses, in the glow of the fire, under the painted night sky- his stories were mesmerizing.

We left the north bank, relaxed for a day in Jorhat, then took our bus to Nagaland.

After two local buses and another change on the border, we started bumping, bouncing and climbing into the Naga Hills. Some four hours later, as night was descending, we arrived in the hilltop town of Mon; the capital of this district of Nagaland.

We scurried around and eventually found a guesthouse through the assistance of some friendly local teens. We settled into our room, had some dinner then stood on our balcony and drank in the scene. This was like no town we had ever experienced before. The best description would not give justice to the precariously perched collection of traditional thatched, bamboo Naga long-houses, set beside the occasional concrete church, hospital or school. The roads wound up and down the hill slopes in a dizzying maze, many leading to the ‘Mother’ church on the central, highest peak.

We woke early the following morning and met the DC (district commissioner); a fiery middle aged woman who we instantly liked. She plied us with gifts, whilst simultaneously dressing Amiee in the traditional metkla (skirt) and shawl. She informed us it was Sunday, so we should accompany her to church. We obliged.

The cold, draughty concrete building stood like a monument to Westernization. We joined them for their service, followed by tea then headed to Miss Angua’s administrator’s house, who would apparently serve as our guide.

Sinwang is the son of one of the founders of Mon- the man who put an end to head hunting in the district. A likeable guy, with a calm manner. We told him our plans and he made the arrangements.

The following day, we headed to Lungwa, a village made infamous by it’s opium addicted king and its position right on the Burmese border. The drive was incredible, through timeless villages and along precariously positioned roads.

We were summoned to the top of the hill and registered our presence, then made our way next door to visit the Angh’s residence. The gloomy halls were lined with mithen (feral buffalo) skulls and unfathomable wood carvings. We entered a small room (situated across the border in Myanmar apparently) and met the king. He greeted us, in his leopard-print hat and waistcoat, and offered us a seat. We watched as his aid got out his spoon and started preparing the opium.

After twenty uncomfortable minutes watching this collection of old bloke get wasted, we slipped the king the obligatory 200rps (for his next fix) and left, a bit bewildered. We shuffled past the lines of traders flogging their Naga ancestry, knickknacks and tourist tack situated outside the longhall and made our way down into the village. The pastor showed us around, but he wasn’t that keen to go into much depth.

As our spirits dropped we noticed a commotion up ahead and went to investigate. It was Sinwang’s cousin, an artist from London, setting up quite a strange scene. He was positioning an ancient tattooed Naga man into a chair with a head clamp. Timsu greeted us and explained his project. He was making an exhibition where he would film a bunch of Naga elders telling stories, singing or saying poetry, then make plaster moulds of their torso and heads to project the image of them speaking onto the bust.

We watched, spellbound as this frail gentleman started his tale. The passion and conviction in his voice snared us completely. It was an incredible sight.

We left Lungwa as the sun was setting over the Naga Hills, spewing pinks, purples and oranges across the endless forests.

We traveled with Timsu the following day to another village and helped him repeat the procedure. This time, his subject was the last tattooed Angh of Mon district- our host for the next couple of days.

He completed his filming and casting, to much amusement of the gathered crowds and left. We were alone.

Well that’s, not quite true, we were the only foreigners for miles, but we were surrounded by amazingly kind, hospitable people. We all sat round the fire and drank rum with the collection of elderly chaps long into the night, breaking the flimsy barrier of language easily. After a late night visit to the local blacksmith, we hit the hay.

The following day, we visited the blacksmith again. After seeing the objects he makes (including the famed muzzle loaded rifles), we asked him to make us a knife. He skillfully obliged. 

We left Hangpoi, then left Nagaland for Christmas- returning to Jorhat to reflect on our short but enticing taste of the wild eastern edge of India.

Sore Bums & Satras

Majestic Majuli Monk
 

We haggled our way onto a rickshaw and headed to the ghats (docks), where we boarded one of the overcrowded wooded boats that chug the hour-trip downstream to Majuli. Next to the loading boat stood a great big board with prices for travelling on the boat. Not only were there the normal passenger and bicycle tickets, but to our great amusement it was only a few hundred rupees to take a tiger on board and if you really feel like 'pushing the boat out' you can spend just over 10 pounds to take an elephant all the way over to the island. Brilliant.

The boat bobbed inches above the water with about one hundred passengers, 3 cars and dozens of motorcycles vying for space on the deck, as we headed to the island (sadly no wild animals joined us this time). The river was empty, the dusty silver sand shores crumbled and reflected their neutral colours into the water, which made the whole trip feel as if the landscape around hardly changed. Stark and yet magically stunning, this boat trip was a very peaceful hour of thought.
We arrived and caught a car along the dusty tracks that are raised above ground level for protection against floods and erosion. This gives a spectacular viewing point for travelling around and seeing this beautiful new haven. Streets were lined with bamboo huts, children ran around, lush green trees, paddy's and big fishing pools filled our eager eyes. This wasn't much different to describe as the landscape we had just come from, however a feeling of tranquillity filled us as we watched this new place.

We arrived at the pad of our 'contact' and met his family. Dulal is a former monk and now runs a small shop. He is also the goto guy on the island, being the point of contact for Michael Palin when he did his Himalaya series 8 years ago (as Dulal was all to keen to show us). We dumped our stuff in the nearby guesthouse (possibly the most basic yet) and went about exploring the island. We were lead into the associated satra (Dulal's old monastery) and watched the rehearsal for that evenings dance performance. Which turned out to be an amusing affair including incredible flexibility, skill and femininity of the young monks dances and a power cut, that led to the performance being finished under the romantic glow of a battery strip light.

Our first day, Moon, the monk in charge of the guesthouse lent us 2 sturdy Indian bicycles, a tad on the small side for our long pegs but we managed to navigate our way safely across the old bamboo bridge and out onto the island’s winding networks of small mud paths. Along we went for almost 15km, stopping for a banana and coconut biscuit fix before reaching our first place of interest. We had been recommended to head to the famous Majuli mask makers, as this family have become renowned for their exotic and complex masks. As we arrived bumbling along on our new wheels we were presented with a humble old Satra, a few men chopping down some rather large bamboos and a man who beckoned us in. We settled into his simple show room, he slung a visitors book at us instantly and the thousands of international names written inside the visitor book made us wonder whether we were in fact just more pesky tourists. However once we realised this was just a pleasure and a pride to have us write about his masks, we settled back and let the masks speak for themselves. The masks are made with a bamboo woven frame before being covered in a layer of fabric and mud. Most of the masks are finished with bright oils with thick black outlines around each of their eyes. Some of the masks were over 30 years old, and retained a dusty yet dominant presence amongst the newer models. His father was the famous maker, and from this his sons have continued his passion. They run yearlong courses to teach this art form and occasionally receive commissions for making huge sculptural masks for big festivals. After drinking tea and being shown the basics we left him to continue his days work. Wobbling off on our little cycles we talked about the masks, and though we valued this type of fine and sacred art form we realised that our real interests lie within more domestic arts, skills, crafts and ways of life.

So as our luck would have it, we bumped into Gilly. A young lady from Israel, working for a local NGO, Impact NE. As one of her many projects, she is beginning to implement a subtler approach to tourism where tourists can go and eat lunch in the local peoples homes, a simple way to experience the life of the tribal Misings, a way to understand their lives in more depth and to ensure the families have some kind of independent financial backing when more floods and erosion of the island destroys more of their land. We let her be assured she could rely on us to be her guinea pigs for this project. She embraced our offer gladly. We seem to becoming good at this.

That evening we ate in the Satra with the young monk of 19, Devandra.

All fashioning thick long black hair (as they believe themselves to be the wives of God) and various elegant white robes strewn across their dark bodies, the monks can have more of an effect than they realise. DevandraMajuli facts, of which I shall share. Majuli now has 22 remaining Satras/Monasteries from the original 64. This gradual loss of Satras is nothing in compared to the exponential  erosion of the island that is rapidly taking place, at current it is 650km². These conversations when on Majuli were not infrequent, the topic of their homeland and its troubles was openly and greatly discussed. Reflecting on this particular evening, we went off barefooted through the Satra, back to our room.

We ate with Devendra every night after this. A magical and unique addition to our time in Maujli.

Never before had my bottom hurt so much. I may have been romantic about the winding mud tracks, but in truth, when one cycles 40km on bumpy roads and rock hard saddles, the result is quite painful. Marc suffered less, and so took great pleasure in telling the monks of my painful rear, but he did sympathise with me enough not to suggest another days bike ride. Instead we walked about 20km to the islands biggest Satra, home to 450 monks and it was only then that I was persuaded to jump back on the saddle and go for a little pootle. My god, we went all round the houses, determined to reach the north coast. Though it was just a few miles away we just kept being taken on detours. The journey along the way however was stunning, peaceful and full of things for the eyes to see. Exhausted but buzzing we returned to Komolabari and ate some fantastic veggie momos and watched a black smith making a special knife for harvesting rice.

Early the next morning we dressed and shot off on our wheels towards the pot maker’s village. Slightly disconcerted that it was actually only a bit further along than the mask makers Satra, which we hadn’t realised at the time, but both happy to be embarking on a new adventure. We stopped en route at a tiny roadside café with one table and 4 chairs. We sat and ate puri and sabji with 2 other men indulging in this roadside delicacy and paid a satisfying 40pence for it. Peddling onwards and onwards, embracing the bumps and turns, feeling much more accustomed to the roads, we swung a right and begun to see we had reached our destination. Children in their blue uniforms popped out from behind the great piles of round bottomed, red clay pots. Two of the cheekier looking specimens took us further into the village, where we found ourselves right on the banks of the river, covered in small clay pits and boats stuffed to the brim with pots pots pots. A group of people were stood on a huge mound of earth removing the finished ash covered vessels from what turned out to be one of my favourite wood-fired kilns yet.

Annoyingly, I will abandon writing any more detail about this experience. It’s purely so we can write it up later in more depth Believe me you will all be glad of it.

Speeding off again, we decided to take some more interesting routes home. We followed the river bank eastward, further past more of the pottery villages, every space filled with more and more vessels piled high and the huge kilns dotting the landscape. Heading inland only when our path way fell into the crumbling river bank. We cycled for the rest of the day, following the occasional path that led nowhere and the occasional path that led to new adventures. One track headed straight over a tiny bamboo bridge, with an elderly lady carrying newborn goats over the narrow crossing. We stopped and Marc helped some men and boys fish amongst the thicket of water hyacinths. It was an amusing event, resulting in a handful of tiny alien fish with each haul from the murky depths.

Majuli days were really all about the cycling, we saw so much of the Mising villages because of this freedom, we learnt so much from being able to take our time. I felt this was a similar pace to when we were walking. I missed the slowness and the independence of this way of travel. So on the last day we relied on the wheels again and went off for a bike ride with Devenadra, he took us to a bamboo tourist complex, peaceful but strange to turn up just to look, but there was a magical river near by and multiple ganja plants lining the pathways. Amusing. We sang all the way along the roads, I think poor Devenadra thought we were mad, but he smiled all the way too. As we whizzed back into the town, we realised we had to go with Gilly for our Mising lunch, so off straight away with her, charging through more muddy tracks. Amazed, we entered one of the most beautiful bamboo houses we had seen yet! Welcomed by two lovely smiling people, it was comforting that Gilly had spent time here and so the atmosphere was very relaxed. We sat on the floor and chatted, helped them prepare lunch, though they really didn’t like their guests doing work. They fed us with Apong, the home made rice beer and the Vodka too. The food was cooked in the middle of the room on a fire raised on a mud bed. Me and Marc’s fascination with the architecture grew and grew from just the few hours of being in the house. The breeze and sunlight pours in gently and creates a very peaceful space to be in. We ate the rice and fish and veg masala, our bowls regularly being topped up and enjoyed a contented afternoon. A brilliant end to our stay in Majuli. The next day we caught the early ferry, enjoying the company of all the men on board, playing cards in the morning sunlight.    

The Serenity & The Shooting In The Seven Sisters

Proud to be British?

Struggling to gather my thoughts on this sleepy Christmas morning after the vast consumption of rum and whiskey around the fire last evening, the many many songs and fireworks that filled our Christmas eve and now clouds my brain from thinking of a way to write about the last month. But with a big bowl of brinjal paneer and hot sugary tea, I can just hope that as I begin to talk, the memories will fill these pages.

Assam - from the start

Stepping off the train in India can sometimes be a real task, it can even make one wish you could stay on the train. We were however lucky enough to avoid the crowds and ever persistant rickshaw drivers this time we were greeted by the lovely Sanjay who was to become our number man over the next few days. So being whisked straight into Guwahati centre, we asked for a detour to the Post Office. We spent a frustrating hour watching an old man wrap our parcel in cloth, hand sow it, seal with red wax, puzzled and confused that this was the only way to send a parcel. But as so many other events in India have demonstrated, to try and make sence isn't always wise. So during this time, we bit our tounges and used our time wisely to find out who indeed Sanjay was. He is Phd student in entomology, with a great knowledge of all local wildlife and importantly a local to the small town Sathebari, just where we were headed. We parted ways at our hotel that evening, where Marc and I strolled the manic streets in search of sim cards and momo's. We fell asleep nostalgically watching James Bond and met Sanjay again early the next morning to travel the bumpy and thrilling sumo ride, 80km west of Guwahati to Sathebari.

The small town is known for its mass production of bell metal products. You may imagine some kind of huge rural factory, but this small town and the surrounding villages are home to hundreds of tiny cottage industries.
Hidden in the beautiful winding jungle tracks of the bamboo sheltered villages are small and humble workshops which would only be known from a distance by the rhythmic banging of the hammers on the red hot metal.

I shall not describe all the details of the industry in this part of the blog, as we discovered so much information over 3 days we have enough to write a small book, as well as not to be a bore to anyone not interested in reading this small book on bell metals. I hope I can summarise our experience and still retain it's value. For this bit is definitely worth while. Firstly we were openly welcomed in Sanjay's home and family. Nothing can start a journey better than to welcomed into somebodies home. He had built a new house for his family and it was almost finished. We were the privileged first guests. His ever smiling and laughing family brought such life at every moment we spent there. They were warm and friendly towards us and gladly fed us like kings and queens. As our first experience of Assamese people, we were overwhelmed with the naturally generous and humble nature of them all. In between our time in this lovely homely setting, and delicious meals, we walked around the villages together discovering the many hidden pockets of bell metal smiths. Each family/group of workers concentrate on a different bell metal product. As well as the bells/symbols where this industry receives its name, (which are used all over India, China, Nepal and Tibet for religious rituals and praying) to plates, bowls, goblets and raised platters like grand cake stands with pointed lids like a temples pointed dome. During each walk we tried to discover as many of the different makers as possible, and for Marc I think the bowl makers stood out on top. Not because their skill was better, as all the makers worked in an incredible rhythm together. Each with their own skill, they all dependent on the others accuracy and craftsmanship to carry on with the next stage of the process. The difference made by the bowl makers however was that they had a bow lathe. Yes oh the sparkles of joy that came to Marc's eyes whenwe saw the bowls being mounted onto a pole and the sight of a chisel came into sight. The bowls were almost complete when the turning process was carried out, it was purely used to get an even finish on the inside and rim of the bowls and to add pattern. We stayed at this place for hours. Bless Sanjay for not only his patience but his expert translating. Though I think as a local he enjoyed learning so much about the fascinating skills being practised by people in his own village. Sanjay also introduced us to Assamese wildlife. He knew so many birds and insects we were never short of something to ask him in between visits to different workshops. He even took us briefly into the forest to show us the great Indian bat, hanging like giant swaying fruits in the towering trees.

I have really rushed this experience and have not described half of the things we found out, for this a apologise  but I feel it will be really important to give the topic the time and detail it deserves at a later point. However I hope a have conveyed that as our first topic of research to look at in the north east, this was a truly special time. Honest and passionate people surrounded us, and we felt safe and well looked after. Not always easy to find in a foreign place.

So leaving Sathebari filled with knowledge and positive feelings about this new area to adventure in we headed towards Kaziranga National Park where we found more than just Wild Grass.

A long stretch of busy and dangerous road runs through the area of Kaziranga, arriving late and weary eyed, we were happy to embrace the ambiance and calm of Wild Grass. Home to Manju, a great man with an envious beard, understood our desires to find true traditional skills and ways of life and let us gather our plans and relax at his resort. Whilst here we went cycling for the first time, and ended up on one of Marc's famous short cuts. Down through a village and onto the narrow earth paths parting the paddy fields, we wheeled our bikes along, and searched our eyes towards the enticing and frightening jungles. We waded through muddy streams and walked past the poo of the famous Kaziranga one horned Rhino. Gladly finding our way back to the main road, laughing how insane these clumsy foreigners must have looked to the locals, we made our way to a delicious road side restaurant and had our faithful friend - 'the veg meal'. At this point we both realised we felt a cold coming on and really appreciated our days rest here. We took time to read lots of books, drink tea and chat to all the tourists passing through about their times in the North East. We did one day decide to venture out on our first safari. After 10 minutes we were informed that a tiger was spotted with her cubs only a few metres from our where our small bungalow stood at wild grass. An exciting yet terrifying time begins for the villagers to discover the presence of a beautiful but fiercely dangerous animal taking rest by the homes, their families. As we exited the park, we didn't expect that our safari, on an exciting trail to watch in awe of the huge and incredible wild animals would we see the tiger passing us by, lying still and lifeless in the back of an open truck. One of the police/locals/park rangers, the stories kept growing and changing, shot the tiger. Her cubs whereabouts not known. Such a great sadness came over us for the rest of that day. Not just for the death of that great and rare animal, but a sadness that her death was decided to be the only option for her that day. I feel this experience began our introduction not only to traditional life, crafts and skills of these people but also their life living with the animals of the wild.

After a relaxing and yet endlessly eventful time in Kaziranga, we moved up the river, eastwards to Maujli Island. Majuli is a large river island nestled in the centre of the great Bhramaputra river.

 Also a little Thank you to Richard Blurton for sharing his knowledge and contacts with us. Without this I am sure we would not of have the same wonderful introduction into the Seven Sisters - states of the north east and all the incredible people who we have consequently met and been looked after by. We have named this series of events 'The Blurton Effect'.

At last - some photographs

Having been away from the internet for a while, we are finally, (yes on Christmas eve) writing up the last month of our travels. So please wait, our words will be appearing soon, as a special festive treat for you all. I can tell you, there is some cracking stories to tell. We have however managed to get some films developed and up on the blog. Go to 'The Simplicity of Film' page to see all. Splendidly there is also another 6 films yet to be developed. Happy festivities to you all.

All aboard the Vivek Express!!

After the short journey from Telangana to the coast, and then a short (eight hour!!!) wait in Vijaywada- we boarded our new home for the next two and a half days. We battled through the throngs of milling people and vendors (chanting the mantra anyone who has travelled with Indian Railways will surely know and love 'Chaaaaai, chaaaaaai, chaaaaaai!') and found our two berths. We were in three tier sleeper class, the most interesting, most indian and most inexpensive way to travel. 520rps each for two and a half thousand kilometers- thats roughly eight quid each.

What followed was definitely the most incredibly journey i have ever taken and easily the most stunning, intimate and intense way to experience large parts of India.

Our fellow travellers were always really kind, helpful and friendly- particularly a lovely, but extremely strict, elderly muslim bloke who decided i was his new son-in-law and Amiee his daughter (mainly for religious reasons; as he explained he could not look upon Amiee as anything other than family, due to it being extremely sinful to look and therefore desire a woman). Ah well, he commented on my beard as being particulalry good (his beard was awesome), but insisted i should wear a little cap or turban to cover my head (so i wouldnt have a stroke and die...). He eventually insisted we come visit him in eastern Assam, at his home is Sibsaggar (unfortunately, with his heavy accent, i kept giggling when he mentioned this place as it sounded alot like an insult used to describe the Welsh). Brian, my brother and Prof. Dawkins would be proud of our religious banter that lasted for hours (much to Amiee's amusement...or was it annoyance...?!)- culminating in a hearty laugh, a slap on the thigh and an announcement that he likes me because im so different.

Anyway, the train trundelled on. Over vast bridges spanning enormous river basins (a splendid past time involved standing at the open doorway and leaning over the side whilst on one of these....exhilerating!...sorry mum!), through forests, beautiful countryside and vibrant, noisy, smelly towns.

Food was either from the onboard staff or from a vendor, and was always crackin'! Toilets were clean. The beds were comfy. The peace, on board, was to die for.

We crossed through Andhra Pradesh, Orissa, West Bengal and Assam. We reached Guwahati on the Tuesday- feeling ready to embrace all Assam had to offer.  
 

'The Inglish, the Inglish, the Inglish are here!'

Bengaluru

Hyderabad

 Dharmapuri, Andhra Pradesh 

One bus One Car

800km & 18 hours later 

Happy to be leaving the bustling city life and getting submerged into rural India, Marc and I teamed up with Brian and headed off North. A bold reminder of Indian bus stations hit us head on as 4 hours past before leaving the bus station.

love . hate . love . hate

love . hate & more love.

India and Marmite correlations begin to come back to me. Do we love the constant honking of horns whilst watching infuriatingly as all the buses bottle necked out of this tiny gap given as the main exit to the station, or the soiled toilets filled with mosquitoes, the most hideous human deformations you can imagine being presented to you and watching people sleep amongst rubbish and grime. Adverts for face whitening cream and cement. . The young Bengaluruiets swagger by in their tight jeans and fashion tops heaped with shopping and talking on their mobiles mingled within them the tiny under nourished lady sweeps the rubbish around the other rubbish, achieving nothing.

Or do we love the colours of all the clothes, the wide variety of people, modern to traditional wearing part of the nation with pride. Do the sounds only blend to create a joyful and wonderfully hectic symphony of Indian life. Did I fail to notice the trails and tangles of sari's in the toilets, creating a palace of rich fabric and a unique insight into how these woman arrange their attire. Whilst I frowned upon their rubbish did I forget that Forty-seven percent of the total plastics waste generated is currently recycled in India; this is much higher than the share of recycling in most of the other countries (the recycling sector alone employs as many people as the plastics processing sector, which employs about eight times more people than the plastics manufacturing sector). And whilst I made these observations and judgments did I notice all the people sitting gawking at me, thinking who is this strange pale creature, wearing those strange clothes, looking at us?

Arriving in Dharmapuri gave no relief to these questions, but it was quite a relief to stop traveling and enjoy the wonderful home comforts of Dr. Jai's home. His house sits down a small alley, and comprises of about 5 rooms, one kitchen, 2 bedrooms, an office and a living room. Despite its modest size, he welcomes a large percentage of his male students to come and live with him, as most of them come from poor agricultural villages up to 20km away from Dharmapuri. This results in the house being full of laughter, sounds, songs

and a whole team of great cooks, who prepare all the meals. Ramesh is a particularly keen cook and takes hold of the kitchen most days. People sleep everywhere possible, except the allocated space for Jai's ancient finds. A whole wall covered in Iron bits, slag, ore, crucibles, tuyeres, swords and blades, canon balls and bits of pottery, not to mentioned the stacks of books and further shelves of slag. After I explored this new home for a week (as Marc and Brian already know it well from previous trips) Brian, myself and Marc enjoy our first home cooked meal in India before heading out on the streets!

Of course in rural India no white man or woman can walk the streets unseen. People are surprised, happy, overwhelmed, shocked, frightened and indifferent. Responses are never the same, we were greeted by many typed of people, mostly wide smiling grins and 'The Inglish, the Inglish, the Inglish are here!'

We took a trip into the temple and received puja, all of which was great and really confusing, but I felt at home to have a multitude of coloured dots on my forehead again. I was surprised at how openly the temples were charging money for everything and selling things outside, but as Brian said to me, well at least their upfront and open about it. I laughed, of course I'm sure this had no reference to the church of England.
Jai took us to the Godarvi river, even a few months after the monsoon, this vast river is already running low. I cant imagine just how dry the summer is here. The river is beautiful and of course there are children swimming, women washing and sari's dotted all over the large boulders on the rivers banks. Briefly we saw the college where Jai is principle, its size is also modest and impressive they can fit 250 students in all at once. Jai has a very liberal approach to teaching and isn't afraid of telling people either. Its nice to see that someone, so rural is giving young people such an open minded education, backed with a lot of support and passion. Also thankfully Jai hates the beating, gender inequalities and many other injustices I saw happening in lots of schools. He really treats his students as family.

Anyhow, after our walk, we crashed and recovered with a snooze. As Brian only had one more day with us, note: not happy about this, we got up early the next day and went around some of the sights from the project 2 years ago. Never did I think I would enjoy seeing so many heaps and piles and more heaps of slag, but I really did. Mainly because it meant we drove right out into the fields, just away from villages, where I got a chance to see the agriculture, and learn some plants. Most of the crops seem to be rice, cotton, pulses, turmeric, chillies and maize. Ox and cart rule the dirt tracks between paddy fields. The pulses are planted as hedges to protect the fields of turmeric. all blossoming yellow, the pulses sway in the wind. everything is green, lush and hot. I get a chance to sink my teeth into raw turmeric for the first time, its sour but refreshing like lime. The people are very busy harvesting rice, their bodies show the years and strength they have earned and endured for this essential crop. Cotton is also being harvested, the white gold for these rural people, the trucks steam down the roads like giant pillows packed so full of cotton they are fit to burst. 

Brian left, I think on the way to being a bit poorly, we wish you a safe journey home Brian - thank you for your wonderful company and exciting talks about our time in Georgia to come. Marc and I stay on in Dharmapuri for 9 days in total. Jai really put his self out to make sure we saw what we were interested in and of course balanced this with us doing what he wanted! We chatted to his students a number of times, once in his college (lots of incredibly shy giggling girls, hard to think they are only a few years younger than ourselves). There was also a big picnic in the hills one day underneath shade of the trees next to a small pretty temple. they cooked and feed over 100 people. Indian fellows certainly know how to quickly organise a huge feast. We sat on big rugs and ate in shifts of 30ish people. Being served food by those yet to eat. Highlight was eating battered deep fried green chillies which I sat with the girls and deseeded before cooking. Sadly I saw these delights later on, face to face in the bottom of a bucket. Maybe my body doesn't do complete Indian food just yet!

A real highlight of our stay was spending time with Satya's family who were pot makers. We walked the streets and back alleys and came to a pretty little labyrinth of houses where there were 3 families making pots. There is so much to tell and so much detail that I will write about it in the places and people section of our blog to do the experience justice. But to give an idea we tried, watched and made poor attempts comparatively to make some wheel thrown pots. We then watched them beat the bottoms and surface of the harder sun dried pots. A couple of days later we helped them load their kiln and saw the whole process through to Saturdays market where they sell their weekly wares. For a weeks work we were astonish at the price of the pots, only 20/30 Rs. for a big one or 10rs for a small bowl - roughly translated as 25p. Amazingly skilled people and lovely lovely warm smiles. We really appreciated this opportunity to be so close and involved with local craftspeople. Though not to forget the blacksmiths, hidden in the shade of the tent by the side of the busy road, a small family make axe head and small curved knives (like a bill hook but more crescent moon like) in the small hearth. The bellows powered by an old man turned the peddle of a bicycle which turn the handle of the bellow, pointing into the ground and heating up the charcoal. When a pieces of iron is fully red hot the father and son (10yrs old) beat the metal with big hammers in a alternate pattern, very fast and for fear of the wife whose holding the steaming thing in place on the anvil. PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG,PANG, - throw into the filthy gutter water to cool and start over, whilst they small boy returns to his other job which is roasting goat heads and feet over the charcoals. brilliant.

So we left this area of India with a huge amount of knowledge and happiness. Also thirsty for more. We jumped upon a train at 3am which took us to coastal Andhra Pradesh (or AP). From here, Vijayawada, we traveled on the maiden voyage of the longest train in India, though we only went half its full distance -  Vijayawada to Guwahati - just over 2500km and 45 hours. The full journey is 4286km and almost 5 days journey 82.3 hours. Here we kindle a surely much shared love Indian trains. Next destination. Guwahati, Assam and onward to the far eastern frontier.

http://g.co/maps/44t8g

Metals and Ministers

Piacenza to Milan. Milan to Heathrow. Heathrow to Bangalore...
Two months on the road, total distance covered 800km. Two days travelling by train and plane, total distance covered 12415km. Mildly heart breaking.
http://g.co/maps/se7tj

Never mind, India doesn't give you the chance to dwell. Bammn!
As soon as we touched down in Bengaluru International we were met by our 'man' from NIAS (National Institute of Advanced Studies) who happily led us through the flocks of taximen to our car. As we charged through the traffic to the heart of the city, the sun rose and we were allowed a short early morning glimpse of the big city waking up. We entered through the iron gates of the institute and collapsed into our room.
We braved the jet lag and stayed awake, spending the day meeting and greeting old faces and some new ones, before heading out to buy some new frocks for our week of dignitaries, MPs and V.(self-)I.Ps.
After our first taste of proper Indian cuisine, we hit the hay at 4pm and awoke the next morning at 9am. Refreshed and ready to roll.

Dosa's for breakfast and a day spent with Smriti (the general go-to-girl for the conference and our very good friend) organising exhibitions, designing posters and panicking about the yet-to-be-written presentation followed. A trend that seemed to last the next couple of days.

We were the first to arrive, a good few days before everyone else, so we had (some) time to explore the city. Although as the conference attendees began to filter in, the food shifted from dingy restaurants around the back alleys of Bangalore to top notch catering provided by NIAS. The jury is out on which we preferred...

Those in attendance included a mob from Exeter Uni (consisting of a contingent of archaeologists, a huge gang of administrators and, of course, our supreme leader the Vice Chancellor Sir Steve Smith), a pair from Oxford Uni (our mate Brian Gilmour and prof. Mark Pollard), a rabble of senior international profs. and a load from the sub-continent itself.

Three days of backslapping, flag waving and arse kissing was equally matched by high class lectures at the forefront of international Archaeometallurgy. Amiee, who before was completely new to the subject ('It's a rock innit?') could probably discuss the industrial trade relations between East Africa and India in the Early Historic period, with the best of them.

Originally we were quite intimidated by the list of names coming to the conference (I was the only 'Mr.' on the list!), but we very quickly realised how down to earth  and absolutely lovely these guys and gals were. Which was very lucky, particularly on the Wednesday evening when we had to scrub up and head on over to Leela's Palace for a Dinner Reception with the Rt. Hon. David Willits, MP (and crew).

Not quite up to the standard we are used to...

 
So a jolly good conference, a few to many niceties and a strange introduction to our time in India. But, many new friendships forged (check out the pun!) and a grand stepping stone to our next port of call, Andhra Pradesh!

Goats in the mist

We must today talk of the goat, little tiny beautiful smelly goat, that was born unexpectedly in the early and misty hours of this morning. All of us held the mother and the tiny kidd, wrestling around trying to get it to suckle. Alas only a small amount of feeding was accomplished before the mother tried to sit on his little head. Whilst I held the goat in my arms, in awe of its innocence and fragility, he began to nibble at my nip. Oh the joy I felt! If I could bear him some latte I would!

Could we have been blessed with a better leaving present. As today we flee to more exotic lands.
In fact along with this day being a pleasant rhythm of packing and cleaning, paying visits to the goats, it has also been a day full of animal dramatics. Poor one eyed, deaf Brunio the ancient dog had a fit on the floor whilst the gnocchi making was underway and shortly after two of the wild big grey cats had a fight in the kitchen, casting the empty 95% alcohol bottles and marinaded aubergines to the floor. Smash! So after our peaceful two weeks here we leave on a certain tune! The day draws in here already and shortly we will drive to Piancenza to catch a train to Milano for our flight.

To Italy, Elena and Jonnie: A warm bed, delicious food and bounty of recipes jotted down for future feasts, daily walks with the horses, saffron hunting, cheese making, tilling the field before the frost, the goat bonding and wonderful experiences playing shepherds in the mountains, a beautiful autumn filled with colours that light the darkening skies, evenings filled with a feline chorus and the plentiful supply of wine. All of this was exactly what our bodies, feet, mind and soul needed at this time, thank you.

Our journey has taken us further than before. take a look.
                   http://g.co/maps/cnfy4

Mountains and Monaco .... Our first border

Autumn. The time of harvesting goodies, golden trees and fresh grey skies. We spend the week hunched amongst the chestnut trees rummaging around for our prize, picking through the crunching leaves for the prickly packages of starchy joy. The days bimble by with the lazy sun loitering lowly in the Autumnal skies. We swam by the river, warmed our naked bodies on the last of the days heat and picked wild grapes that grew and wound themselves high into the trees. The apples also lay on the ground, collected by a fortress of wooden crates propped on the hillside, we collect the good ones and make a huge vat of compot with nutmeg and a local man takes the sack of rotten ones to the goats. Franzeska will be moving into her yurt soon at Augustine's farm. We went there and sorted out piles of wood for the winter and after drank homemade wine in the shaded courtyard. Augustine takes the old bread and fish from the market for his sheep and pigs. So we emptied a van of bread and gladly ate the hidden pain au chocolat and brioche. Unfortunately we missed the opportunity to castrate a boar but never mind, next time.

After these days amongst the harvest we felt rested and yet aware of our eager feet,waiting for the new roads ahead. We ventured east and more south from Ales, saying our goodbyes to Franzeska and Lily.
With our travelers luck and magic thumbs we ended our day dining with a seriously cool guy, Marc, and his family from St Remy de Provence. A bed and a full belly later, we resume our wandering and enter the parc du Verdon where mountains and mists take over.
From Greoux le Bains we hike eastward along the Grand Randonee, following the river for a time, before being taken across the vast flatlands toward Moustier St. Marie. We divert and abandon this trail, preferring our own intuition- being rewarded with the Lac deVerdon. 12km of pristine fresh mountain water amidst the arid surroundings, we camp on the shore and swim in the afternoon to wash the dust from our bodies.
The following day we trek round the edge of the lake and make our way into the mountains proper, through dense oak forest to find our haven in a secluded valley, at 1400m, towering above the landscape below. We set up camp and walked up to the peaks, maybe nearer 1500 to watch the sunset over the lands below. The air and wind was getting cooler, but our valley felt like ours, like home, so we were at peace this evening. The frosty morning began by reaching the highest peak at about 1600m. We saw towering rocky ridgelines beyond and wild drops down into the gorge below. Our favourite bit of walking perhaps so far, along the crest of these mountains, perfect cold air and warm morning sun. The descent from this landscape brought upon us a big change to our walk. The big gorge was closed for walkers. We hoped to meander along the 20km path at the bottom of the deep deep canyon and meditate our minds by the crystal clear river. Alas, our saviors came in the form of a lovely couple from Germany, destined to be our angels for the next days. They took us to a nearby town and we said our goodbyes. The next morning they passed us again and took us beyond the big big cold mountains that we were ominously heading toward. They treated us with real coffee and lots of chocolate with our first view of the  Mediterranean Sea. We were both really happy that we didn't have to walk up any more vertical slopes. The weather was turning, the clouds had covered the sky and the nights, even on low ground were beginning to be really chill-some. After our real goodbyes to the Germans in their big blue beast, we walked up and beyond for the last leg across France. We could see the sea, and could see Nice. Everything seemed close by and easy. Here is where the GR took a turn on us, not in an evil way, nor dangerous, but strange. We were walking thinking about sleeping and suddenly we are walking along a water pipeline. For km's this pipe line took us, right against the edge of the mountain. Eventually we stopped where we could and managed to cook dinner in between the first torrential showers. But of course all was ok with the chocolate supplies, thank you German Christmas cookies!

This path alongside the mountain and the water line took us all day to escape from, though of course Marc loved it because we went through pitch black water logged tunnels. CAVING adventures! Head torches were appreciated for the first time. Out of the tunnels and nearing the end of France, we felt content, the sun was shining and we passed a massive group of OAP ramblers heading off into the tunnels with their head torches, giggling and marching on. The rest of the day we walked through more mountains, in fact for the next few days we did this. The sea was close, as was the Italian border, but the mountains stopped with a halt at the sea, and the urban sprawl was getting bigger.

After doing a James Bond route down the mountain into Monaco we decided our bodies were knackered and ready for a rest. Walking is wonderful, it take us to places unknown, we sleep with views that are always incredible and breathtaking. Our day's only concern is food and water. Life like this is really special. However carrying bags, is not a great long term way to walk. Our bodies, though stronger, are hurting. So we stop and rest. Catching a train for the first time, we whiz by the urban nightmare of Monte Carlo and beyond. Unfortunately the Italian side is equally urbanized nightmare and we have to stay in a hotel for lack of wild places. A shower and bed, homemade pizza and cheap Italian wine was not a so bad way to spend a special evening. Celebrating our Successful 500 + Km walk.

Now we are at Elena and Johnie's house in the hills near Piacenza. Resting before our flight to Milan. Learning how to make cheese, collecting wood, pumpkin harvest, fitting stoves, moving horses, surrounded by loads of cats, dogs and goats. Mainly also enjoying the amazing Italian food and watching the fog and mist roll by.

We'll write more about our time here, before we escape the fast approaching winter.
Ciao

Disclaimer, Amiee is illiterate and we have been speaking broken English for months. Sorry readers.


See the part of the journey we are writing about:
              http://g.co/maps/g7abf
(however this time I couldn't stop Google taking us via Corsica)