How do you know when you have adjusted to India?

1. You find yourself tapping your feet to the same Bollywood beats you didn't really like on arrival
2. You have spent the last three weeks drinking filtered (not bottled) water and eating food from roadside dhabas and your stomach has not even once swirled ominously
3. You know more gossip about the Bollywood stars than the international celebs
4. You end your sentences with yar instead of hey eg. "that meal was delicious, yar?"
5. You nod your head from side to side instead of up and down when indicating understanding in a discussion - I actually caught myself doing this the other day!

Incomparable India

Brian’s first impressions with the occasional foot note from me

The scourge of Delhi Belly

Since my arrival in the land of sensual assault (noisy views, loud tastes, riotous sounds and obnoxious odours), I have so far managed to stave off the lewd advances of Delhi Belly. Holding thumbs.

The land of servants and their assistant servants

Servants for everything. Servants to help the servants. Servants to stand around and watch the servants that help the servants. In comparison, rural Africa runs like a well oiled machine.

The quest for the Dalai Lama and the subsequent discovery of the existence of the unfairly incarcerated Panchen Lama (16)

Many Tibetans now live in the seemingly futile hope of regaining their stolen land from China. Daramsala, a small mountain village, persists in an otherworldly bubble looking 40 years into the past. As it happens, our visit fell over the time when the Tibetan refugees were conducting a major protest aimed at the Chinese President’s state visit to India. Their protests seem to fall on deaf ears though, and despite the efforts of His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama, the fate of the Tibetans looks bleak, especially when you consider that most of the Tibetans in India were born outside of Tibet, ‘refugees’ from birth.

While we were there we also learned about the imprisoned Panchen Lama (16) untimely ripped from divine service by the enemy. At 6, he was the youngest political prisoner ever. Unfortunately for him, by being recognised as the 11th reincarnation of the Panchen Lama he and his family have been imprisoned somewhere in China for the last 10 years.

The quest for sleep on the Bus of Death

No rest for the wicked, good, and the indifferent in the “luxury” bus away from the mountains. *

The quest for the Tyger Part 1**

Searches for India’s Pride proved fruitless on Day 1 of the Corbett Park situation. The country’s 1.1 billion people have not left much land for the Tyger.

The quest for the Tyger Part 2 – Elephant Ennui

The crack of dawn sees us (unusually) wide awake to take a ride on Sonibala our leisurely elephant. We strolled into the valley and meandered through the wet grass at sunrise. Not quite “teeming with game”, but some deer and elephants were around. No sniff of our Tyger though.

The quest for the Tyger Part 3 – A near miss

A late start led to a near miss, but we spotted the Tyger! We knew it was around because the other two vehicles couldn’t stop telling us how many great views they’d just had, and how they hoped we’d get one too. I would have hated them if we had not ended up seeing it... But the Tyger crossed the road right in front of us, then allowed us to watch him stalk some nondescript buck (all brown). No point in going to the Tiger Park and without seeing a Tyger. So well done team.***

Agran Chagrin

The architectural masterpiece built by Shah Jahan in his grief for his lost wife ironically became a symbol of devastation for us too. It turns out that the Taj Mahal is closed on Fridays. Some tourism genius must have picked the first day of the weekend for the Taj’s weekly bath. It threw a bit of a dampener on our daytrip to Agra, which incidentally takes about 5 hours to reach from Delhi (200kms away) on India’s superb express train. Also, 5 hours back, of course. But we ended up in a restaurant that afforded us some moderately good views, and the other views we bought in postcard format, which is almost as good.****

*On the road

For guaranteed safety and comfort we opted for the deluxe bus for McLeod Ganj overnight rather than the far more temperamental and infamous municipal bus. It turned out that we needn’t have bothered. The bus careened down the windy pass from McLeod Ganj tossing its passengers and their innards violently from side to side. We tried to distract ourselves by playing cards but the lights were not working and we very quickly both started feeling a little car sick. Brian tried to lie down but bounced so high as we hit a bump in the road (of which there were many) that he rapidly sat up again.

Hair pin bends did not intimidate this driver. Nothing would slow him down. Slower traffic was pushed out the way with a disdainful hoot and a menacing air. Sleeping proved impossible with teeth clenched and body braced at all time for the inevitable collision. There were at least five times in the nights where I was adamantly convinced I was going to die. At one point we hit a bump and were airborne long enough for me to clutch the shout “Oh my God, we’re going to die.”

Efforts to sleep were not aided by the freezing draught pervading the bus due to the windows that stubbornly refused to stay shut. Fortuitously, Brian had relieved a grateful McLeod Ganj street vendor of half his stock of Tibetan blankets which prevented us dying of hyperthermia. This bus driver obviously had some sort of pressing engagement. Not only did we arrive an hour early (HIGHLY unusual) but on arrival, he gave us all of ten seconds to gather our wits and belongings about us and disembark before screeching off again.

**Far from the madding crowd

My booking mission could well have been all for naught had I been following the news and seen that for the previous 2 weeks, Corbett had been closed due to strikes. Aside from being sent from pillar to post a few times on our arrival, it turned out quite serendipitously for us as the rest of the guests cancelled their reservations and we made up a third of the compliment of the guests in the camp and had the reserve completely to ourselves.

***The Tiger Dance

As I was resigning myself to the reality that we were not going to see a tiger, an enormous, dark brown and beautiful male across the road in front of us. I attribute this virtually unheard of sighting almost entirely to my tiger dance (much like a rain dance) with accompanying lyrics which I perfected during hours of patient tiger waiting.

****School Boy Error

We spent the morning trawling the perimeter of the Taj with the other losers that didn’t get the memo that it is closed for cleaning on Fridays. I felt better when we met a group of three Spanish guys who had arrived the day before but left going to the Taj to the Friday. Misery loves company.

A couple more Indian reads

1. A fine balance by Rohinton Mistry
   This beautifully written tales chronicles the lives of four individuals brought together by the circumstances of the state declared emergency in India in the seventies. It highlights the atrocities that took place during this period such as forced sterilisation and brings to light the discrimination that still characterises rural India as a result of the caste system.
   
   A book well worth reading but not for the faint hearted as it can be incredibly depressing in parts.
   
   Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: A Superlative Seven
   
   

1. The inheritance of loss by Kiran Desai
   An exquisitely descriptive story set in the Kalimpong district in the Darjeeling area in the mid 80's with a frustratingly unfinished ending. Winner of the Man Booker Prize 2006.
   
   Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: An Enigmatic Eight
   

Jungle fever

We went to a Bacardi Jungle party last weekend at the Lodi Garden Restaurant. We got to do a little celeb spotting with Mohammed Kaif in attendance. For other sport ignoramuses like me, he is the heart throb of the Indian cricket team. Chanda even cracked her way into the social pages of the Hindustani Times. The caption reads "THE KISS. Model Ani with friend Chanda. Check out his Abishek Bachchan hair band". The alice band has ARRIVED in Delhi. However many months after Becks started wearing it. Abhishek Bachchan (the even more famous son of Amitabh Bachchan who we saw in Varanasi) followed suit. Now everyone who is anyone is madly unearthing their sisters old alice bands and sporting them with panache.

Haryana happenings

The last 2 days have been SERIOUSLY lllllooooonnnnnnnngggggg. Up at 5.30 and off to the depths of Haryana and travelling up to 12 hours in a day. This may give you the impression that we travelled great distances. This was not necessarily the case. In India, your cruising speed averages at just 50km an hour. The way is constantly thwarted by trucks, top heavy buses and precariously laden, camel pulled trailers. At one point we hit 110km on an open stretch of road and I thought we'd hit 200km at least as my cheeks were being pulled back by the unaccustomed speed.

To preserve one's sanity, numerous stops at road side dhabas (truck stops) for a chai and a paratha (a kind of stuffed roti typically served for breakfast) are required.

At each NGO we visited everyone available would come to attend the meeting until there were 10 or 12 people all seated on plastic garden furniture crammed into a small head office. Piles of dusty paper files reigned with not a computer in site.

Going into the villages themselves was a little like stepping back a century. Women with water pots balanced on their heads gracefully weaved between idle buffalo on the dirt village roads. Without exception we were welcomed into the communities like long lost relatives. Food and drinks were showered upon us. Not accepting these delicacies is considered an offense I discovered when I did not drink my water because I wasn't sure if my Western stomach would be able to handle it. My camera was a big hit and produced much hilarity when they discovered they could see pictures of themselves on the screen.

Haryana women

Life for the women of Haryana is not easy. They are responsible for all the housework; working in the field and of course bearing sons. The productivity of the region is almost entirely a result of the efforts of the women.

A son is of utmost importance. He continues the family line. A daughter on the other hand is a liability. Dowries have to be paid to get her married (a motorbike if the prospective grooom has a year 11 education and a Maruti car if he has a year 12 education) and then there's the cost of the wedding (minimum 50 000 rupees) that is borne by the family of the bride - not exactly affordable for people predominantly engaged in subsistence agriculture. Strange that in Africa it is the other way round and it is the groom that pays lobola for the bride?

There is a strange paradox here between technology and thousand year old mind sets. Foeticide is a HUGE problem here. Women will use technology available to determine the sex of their unborn child and terminate the pregnancy if it is not a male. A colleague that has spent a lot of time working in the area speculated that the average rural women has up to three terminations during her lifetime. As a result Haryana has one of the most disparate men/women population ratios.

A concept unique to India and incredibly effective is that of Self Help Groups (SHGs). NGO driven groups of rural women create a savings scheme together. Monthly they contribute anything from 10 to 100 rupees (about R15). This money is reinvested in financing income generating activities such as candle making or stitching. In addition, the fund provides collateral for women to get loans from microfinance institutions. Women can also take loans from the fund thus circumventing the need to sell their soul to the rapacious village money lender.

The SHG provides morale support to the women but also a high level of accountability - the average default rate for these loans is less than 2%! You may have read aboout SHGs recently as the founder of Grameen Bank, a microfinance institution in Bangladesh, won the 2006 Nobel Peace Prize.

As the structure has proved successful it has garnered the all important support of the village men and the rest of the community. SHGs have empowered women financially but more importantly allowed them to become decision makers in their communities.

It is to these women that we are providing further income generating opportunities. We took two phone prototypes with us. Many of the men in the communities have used mobile phones but up to now, the women have been denied access to them. The look of complete delight when two of the women spoke to each other on the phone (a mere two metres apart!) was the highlight of my day.

Jaipur

Jaipur is known as the pink city because in 1876 Maharaja Ram Singh had the entire city painted pink, the colour of hospitality, to welcome the prince of Wales. The tradition has been maintained and they still have very strict rules about keeping it this colour. It's more of a burnt orange in my opinion.

Jaipur is a bit too much of a big city to really fall in love with as I did with Udaipur. Lucky for me I was adopted by Jannu who nominated himself as my official tour guide for the weekend. He is an incredibly charismatic rickshaw driver that has great business savvy. He has differentiated himself from the other guides and drivers through a guest book of sorts in which he has the business cards and comments of his customers.

I was blown away by the Janta Manta, an outdoor observatory of instruments developed by Jai Singh in 1728 that do anything from accurately telling the time to charting the annual progress of the sun through the zodiac.


I went to all the tourist hot spots but my favourite was Hawa Mahal (the palace of wind). Hawa Mahal is a fairy tale palace of icing topped turrets. At the time women were expected to observe very strict purdah. The turrets with the trellised windows were designed to allow them to watch the goings on in the town without being observed from outside.

At the city palace (home of the largest silver receptacle) a pigeon decided to leave an enormous 'welcome to Jaipur' present all over my shorts. I decided to quell the rising irritation and rather take it as a sign of good luck for things to come!

Closing doors

I decided to do a spot of solo travelling this weekend and booked myself a ticket to the pink city of Jaipur leaving at 6am. There was a fatal oversight in my otherwise flawless plan. I had noone to make sure that I woke up at 5am as planned and didn't pull the battery of my cell phone off in my sleep (a useful trick that my body picked up at varsity to cope with one too many late nights).

Running more than half an hour late, I arrived at the station with just 1 minute to get all the way to the opposite side of the station. As I started running, the second flaw in my plan was, shall we say, exposed. I had invested in a pair of Indian balloon pants - perfect for travelling and quite trendy if I dare say so myself (all the backpackers are wearing them). The elastic holding them up was not doing a very good job. The faster I ran, the more stubbornly they slipped down. I hurtled down the stairs and managed to jump on the train as it was slowly chugging away pants clutched in one hand and my bag in the other.

LOST

Just once I would like to go to Elodie and Vivien's house in Defence Colony without having to stop to ask for directions six times. You can't blame the rickshaw driver because all of the colonies are a complete warren of illogically numbered side roads and cul de sacs.

The problems lies at the feet of the people we ask for directions. I have never stopped to ask someone directions and heard them admit that they do not know. No, no, far better to tell us something, anything rather than run the risk of losing face by admitting they don't know the way to our destination.

Thus ensues our [the rickshaw driver and myself] goose chase following one set of vague and incorrect directions after another in the vain hope that just maybe, this time they will be correct.

High Infidelity

I'm trying to pick up running again. I decided to try running with a running club. Someone told me about Hash. Hash it turns out are in pretty much every country with an expat presence.

After the run the club president got up on his soap box - literally a box with the words "soap box" written on it and proceeded to conduct a fines meeting. Completely surreal. A motley crew of half locals, half expats - pretty much all pushing their fifties - pretending to down beers and competing with each other for the crudest wise cracks.

We had to introduce ourselves. We had come with two Italians who had misread the SMS and pitched up dressed to the nines because they thought they were coming to a party. Whilst the one guy was introducing himself he mentioned that he was married. "But are you MBA?" the group bayed back with delight.

MBA as it turns out stands for Married But Available. "Yes, I am." the Italian responded. After the formalities, I asked him if he had understood the question. He assured me that he had and he was indeed married but available.

Now this is not the first time I have come across this.

Expat communities in Africa are notorious for their "white mischief". I know of a group of friends in Uganda who had been friends for more than fifteen years. The group was harshly divided in two when the one wife had an affair with someone else's husband.

I met someone who perceived himself to be single despite his two year long girlfriend because of the zip code rule. As long as you and your girlfriend are in different zip codes what happens doesn't matter.

I know of someone who is very open about having a long term girlfriend and a wife and a family because his was not a love marriage and now it is time for some passion.

I know of men that take off their wedding rings before going out drinking with their mates.

I know of people who regularly when hammered cheat on their partners.

I know of many strong, loyal and madly in love couples but are they the minority?

I guess I just didn't realise it was so prolific. I've obviously been walking around in a little bubble of naivete and obliviousness. And it's not just in countries with an expat presence. It's everywhere.

HECTIC.

Ode to Chanda's mom

(who included a family size pack of strawberry Twizzlers - the US candy to which I have been completely addicted since working a ski season in Colorado - in her package to Chanda)

Chanda's mom

You are the bomb

I've been-eating-the-twizzzlers-that-you-sent-to-Chanda

(say this bit very fast so that it fits in)

All day long

Red Tape

For the last two weeks I have been trying to book a night at the Corbett Tiger Reserve. I started off by emailing the contact us email addresses cited on the website. Both of them came back unsuccessfully sent.

I then met someone at a party who regularly goes to Corbett. He told me I had to book ASAP to secure a room. He suggested that I rather fax a letter to make the booking. He advised me that the content of the fax should read as follows:

"To the Director Corbett Tiger Reserve, Raam Nagar

Dear Respected Sir

I, Louise B from South Africa would love to visit your park from the 21st to the 22nd of November. I would be very grateful if you could book me a double room in Dhikala FRH for the night of 21 November.

Thanking you

Kind regards

Louise B"

I dutifully typed out the fax and attempted to send it. Attempted being the operative word here. Everytime I tried to fax the letter, a man on the other side would answer the phone.

Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Me: Please can you give me a fax tone?
Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Corbett man hangs up.

Attempt 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 followed a similar pattern.

I enlisted the assistance of one of the office assistants. Attempt 7 went as follows:

Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Office assistant (in Hindi): Please can you give me a fax tone?
Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Corbett man hangs up.

3 other office assistants attracted by our raised voices came to assist. Office assistant 2 suggested we phone Corbett man first to explain we are trying to send a fax. He phoned Corbett man and explained the situation to him. Attempt 8 went as follows:

Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Office assistant (in Hindi): I just spoke to you on the phone, please can you give me a fax tone?
Corbett man: "Hello? Hello?"
Corbett man hangs up.

Chanda arrived at the office to see 6 of us crammed into the fax/printer room. The room was all fogged up with the steam coming from my ears.

Not the most patient person at the best of times I decided to abandon my efforts for the day. I phoned my friend from the party and he assured me that he was going that weekend and would personally deliver my fax.

He rang me on the Monday only to tell me that his attempt had been unsuccessful. He suggested I go to the tourism office in Delhi.

Off I trotted during one of my lunch breaks. After three false starts I eventually found the building - the office had moved. I explained my situation to the staff at the tourism office and they were very sympathetic but regrettably informed me that they only booked package tours. They must have noticed my look of complete despair because they made a couple of phone calls and managed to pull some strings. 2 HOURS LATER we had filled in the booking form and paid my deposit.

1 night at Corbett Tiger Reserve booked. Success after a mere 2 weeks, 58 million fax attempts, 6 emails, 14 phone calls, 1 personal delivery and a very nice tourism office!

Couch calamity

It was just another normal night in GK 1 Enclave until the long-awaited couch was delivered. The mammoth four seater did not fit up the narrow stairwell and there was absolutely no way that it was going to make it all the way up to the third floor. After much head scratching and speculating a decision was reached. We would hoist it up by rope from the terrace. This may sound quite simple.

It was not.

The first issue was securing enough rope around the couch to ensure that it the force of the pulling was spread across the whole couch. We needn't have bothered. As the couch hovered around the balcony of the first floor, it got caught. The more they pulled, the faster it stuck. The rope securing the couch gradually slipped off until the whole couch was hanging upside down from two tenuous attachments.

Neighbours below us were enlisted to push the couch outward as we passed their balconies to ensure that it didn't get caught again on the remainder of its ascent. It took the combined strength of six men and a number of small boys to hoist it up. I opted to take pictures.

A couple more India reads

1. City of Joy by Dominique Lapierre
   A heart wrenching yet inspiring account of a Polish priest's experience in one of Calcutta's most destitute slums ironically named the City of Joy.
   Lou's Barry Ronge Rating: A Terrific Ten






2. Yoga School Drop Out by Lucy Edge:
   An enjoyable read about a London girl that gets fed up with marketing margerine and decides to go and find herself in India. You know the drill.
   Lou’s Barry Ronge Rating: A Frivolous Five

Sari shopping

On Saturday I joined Elodie for a bit of sari shopping. She has a wedding to attend on Wednesday and has been told specifically to wear traditional Indian dress. I thought that this would be a good opportunity to achieve the first half of one of my Indian Aspirations (see side bar) of riding side saddle on the back of a motor bike in a sari and decided to tag along. With the added expertise of her Indian friend Anju we confidently hit the three story sari emporium.

Well, that is not entirely true. Anju was a little late so Elodie and I decided to start on our own. Anju rescued us from a poky little shop with about 100 saris in front of us, all of which we were being assured were a very "good colour, good colour" and "nice price, nice price".

From there Anju guided us to the sari emporium. Thank goodness she was there. We were completely surrounded by saris of every colour, style and fabric imaginable: chiffon (good if you're slim); crepe (flattering if you're not); georgette; valkalam; kanchipuram; kanthowork; sungidi cotton; bandhini; silk; and more. One also had to look at the fall of the fabric and whether there was extra fabric for the matching blouse. This all has to be taken to the tailor who makes it up for you. The sari underskirt is all important. This is not a normal skirt that can be worn without anything over. Some westerers in Delhi have been seen committing this fashion faux pas.

Elodie at least knew which colour she wanted. I, on the other hand, had been thinking about green or pink but didn't really know. Needless to say, Elodie walked out with a sari and I did not. I have come to the conclusion that shopping for saris is a little like shopping for perfume. Once you have smelt about four you can't really tell the difference between them anymore.

I think that I will have to go back another day.

Halloween

So what do you do when you have to find an outfit for a Halloween party and there is a city wide strike across Delhi because the government is SEALING SHUT all businesses operating in residential areas (many of whom have been doing so for decades) and you can't buy anything?

• Grab your Lonely Planet and Learn to speak Hindi books, don your "I love Africa" T-shirt, stick Tabard, Valoid, Blackcurrant Rehidrat and suncream in your belt (me);
• Put lipstick all over your face and give yourself a really bad glasses tan (Lauren);
• Wear socks with your sandals (Chanda);
• Pull your pants up to your armpits, smash on a veld hat and hang your binocs around your neck (Nic);

and go as TOURISTS.

Check out the link on the sidebar for the pics.

Need a family vehicle?

Thinking of having kids? Need a family vehicle? Don't waste your money on station wagons and kombis. GET A SCOOTER on which you can fit your wife and not one, not two, not three but at least FOUR of your kids comfortably. What's more it's an economical ride. It's low on petrol and you don't need air-conditioning! What a deal.

Say good bye to sitting in traffic jams. Always wanted to travel light? Now you have no option. Who need's boot space anyway? What's more, your older kids can take it out on the weekend.
If you call in the next hour, not only will you get tassles to hang from your mirrors but you will also get a helmet ABSOLUTELY FREE (the rest of your family don't need one).

The real Delhi Belly

The contents of my breakfast are swilling ominously around my stomach like a washing machine on the wash cycle with a pair of tackies inside. I feel decidedly sea sick in this landlocked town. I think a bout of the infamous Delhi Belly may be coming on.

The car makes it worse. The sudden accelerating and braking and the smell of petrol fumes wafting through the window as we crawl along. It's a forty minute drive to the cool, crisp sheets of my bed and the fan in my face. I don't think that I can make it.

Testing the boundaries

Living immersed in a culture other than one's own constantly challenges one's perceptions of what is socially acceptable. Sometimes something happens that is so COMPLETELY off the charts in terms of what you know that you are at a complete loss as to how to react.

Such was the case on the train to Varanasi. The eight of us were playing cards, wiling away the time until we arrived at our destination. I was absently watching the wife of the family sitting next to us. As I watched, she shifted her weight onto her right butt cheek to face our direction, lifted her left butt cheek into the air and let out a steam-train-like fart that lasted for at least five seconds and would have made even the most well practised and enthusiastic teenage boy proud.

For a good thirty seconds we stared at each other in silence, completely dumfounded that such a little lady in such a pretty sari could possibly be responsible for the noise to which we had just been subjected. After our aghast silence we all collapsed into fits of giggles not knowing how else to react.

The family looked at us a little confused as if to say "whAAAATTttt???"

Different strokes.

Varanasi

Varanasi or Benares as it has long been called is on the Ganges and considered the most auspicious place to die since expiring here offers Moksha – liberation from the otherwise eternal circle of life and death. Millions of each people each year make the pilgrammage to wash away their sins on the ghats in the Holy Mother. These people bathe, undeterred that the water of the Ganges is so heavily polluted in this area that it is classified as septic – no dissolved oxygen exists. To be considered bathable, water must contain no more than 500 faecal coliform bacteria per 100ml of water. The Ganges contains 1.5 million!

OBSERVATION - We speculated that the original g-string may have been invented by the Indian men of Varanasi who bathe in these rather crude g-strings (pictured right) to preserve their modesty.

This weekend it was a group of eight of us. We were well represented with France, the Netherlands, Austria, the US and (of course) South Africa in attendance.

We fortuitously arrived on the weekend of the annual chat puja which meant that for sunset of Saturday evening and sunrise of Sunday morning women half submerged themselves in the water to pay puja to the sun. We took a rowing boat along the ghats at sunset and again at sunrise.

On Sunday morning, we were awakened long before our alarm clocks by the crackers that the children were setting off as their parents readied themselves for ceremony at sunrise along the riverside. Elodie was heard to mumble into her pillow at about 4.30am “What is this? Baghdad by night”. I think Elodie, like myself has had her fill of crackers after the madness of Diwali.

We all clambered into the boat half asleep swathed in grey tendrils of mist. The only light came from the warm glow of the candles lining the river. As dawn lightened the sky we watched in awe at the spectacle before us. All along the ghats, thousands of vibrant saris jostled up against one another in a melting pot of humanity. Drums and trumpets intermingled with prayers and the shouts of children to create a continuous wall of sound. Cupped hands faced east patiently waiting for the sun to make its appearance. As it quietly appeared over the horizon the noise crescendoed as all around us as everyone started praying

The atmosphere became more sombre as we passed Harishchandra, the burning ghat where the dead are cremated by the Doms or Untouchables. The Doms are one of the lowest castes but also conversely one of the wealthiest in Varanasi as they are the only people that are allowed to perform the cremations. Cremation here is not affordable to many people. The wood for each cremation is carefully weighed and the family of the deceased are charged accordingly. Only the rich can afford to cremate their loved ones with sandalwood, the most expensive of all the woods.

Lepers, pregnant women and children are not allowed to be cremated. They are tied to a stone and thrown to the bottom of the Ganges. Sometimes, the string holding them to the stone wears through and they rise to the surface as we realised when we saw the wrapped corpse of a pregnant women (according to our boatman) float past us.

We also had the great privilege of seeing (to Elodie’s delight) none other than the inimitable Amitabh Bach-Chan. Amitabh is perhaps one of the greatest Bollywood actors and is revered across India. If I had to compare him to anyone it would probably be Sean Connery but there really is no adequate equivalent in the western culture who holds the same demi-god status. He is making a movie in Varanasi at the moment and drove past us in his boat, also watching the ceremony. Elodie almost tipped over our little boat she was waving so viogourously.

Our lovely weekend concluded with a 19 hour train trip of which I think about 9 of those hours were spent playing a continuous game of asshole. There is still a great deal of speculation as to who held the greatest reign as president. Chanda, Clement and Laura/Lauren are the top contenders.