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