Hey people, how are you all?

It has been some time since I last wrote to you all and for that I am sorry. It is not that I had nothing to write about but rather couldn’t find the time to sit down and articulate all the latest developments - things have been quite hectic. I will try to start where I last left off and not overblog you with all the details—even though I would love to—otherwise it will just linger on and on and on…and on.

The 1st of July was the last day I spent working for CFCA, and even though I enjoyed my time there immensely I did realise that I could have learnt more elsewhere. Although CFCA gave me the bearings I needed to understand how effective NGOs can be on a grass-root level, especially in regards to child education and female empowerment through micro-credit programs, it lacked the ability to influence policy changes on a governmental level and, mainly due to financial restraints, to operate in other areas that also affect children and their rights (e.g. HIV/AIDS, child protection etc).

While my plan was to go to Sri Lank straight after CFCA and help with post Tsunami development efforts, my position with Caritas International was cancelled at the last minute due to heightened security risks caused by terrorist attacks by the LTT and retaliated air strikes by the Sri Lankan government. It’s difficult to understand why a group like the LTT are fighting for independence on an Island that clearly does not want them there. Generally, I tend to agree with my friend Esty who described it as ‘nonsensical violence’—she was working for the UN on the northeast coast at the time . The violence has caused so many human rights violations, especially against children, this being the main reason why I wanted to go but now it just seems impossible. In my opinion the violence caused by the LTT is a clear reflection of the material interests of a few wealthy Indians who through personal financing are supporting terrorist actions in order to exploit the vast amount of natural resources found in the north. This might be a bold statement but I can’t seem to understand why else they are continuing to fight.

This turn of events also came as a real shock because I hadn’t made any plan B—which is bad enough by itself— and on top of that my visa expired beginning of July causing me a lot of trouble. After talking with my friend KC, a Nigerian intern who himself went through hell to get his visa renewed, I decided to try and get my visa extended in order to buy some more time. Unlike any civilised country, India is a complete administrative nightmare with corruption as a main means for getting things done. The visa and immigration office in Hyderabad is located inside the Commissioner of Police building and kind of resembles a discount store with an end of year clearance sale. The office is overwhelming at first due to the level of chaos—groups of people trampling back and forth, wild sporadic head jostles and non-stop noise. The majority of people waiting at any given time are a large number of students from either Sudan or Africa with only a handful of westerners, and maybe one or two Russians. Everyone sits for hours while they nervously await the unreasonable and extremely facile comments made by the corrupt immigration officers. One example can be: “You can’t have your visa extended!” “But why sir?” “Because you can’t!” Lucky for me KC knew one of these officials and after paying at total of 3000 rupees (approx. €50), half of which was paid in the form of a bribe, my application was processed. Three weeks later and two more visits to the office my visa extension was approved—a process that usually takes 3-4 months on top of an endless amount of visits, telephone calls and time wasted for no real reason at all. Suresh (director of CFCA) once told me that if you want something done in India you need to give a tangible thank you, one that can be felt in the hand.

After two weeks of finding a new place, getting over some strange monsoon virus while trying to plan my short-term future, I was accepted for a three month volunteer’s position with a zonal-office of Save the Children UK. Having wanted to work for an international organisation of this stature for some time I was even more surprised to find out the office was a five-minute walk from my apartment. On the 19th of July I started my new position and within a week I was in charge of a project proposal to the Dutch Ministry of Foreign Affairs for a three year HIV/AIDS project costing close to €1 million. This was certainly a step up from CFCA and more inclined to the sort of project coordinators position I was hoping to attain. Ironically enough and not knowing before hand that I would be accepted for the position, I planned a 10-day trip up north with my girlfriend Ozana. A trip that certainly turned out to be the craziest experience I have had in India up until now.

On the 26th we started our journey with a 24hr train ride to Agra, home to one of the eight wonders of this world: the Tag Mahal. While travelling with train there are numerous classes to choose from, the main ones being 1st class, 2nd class sleeper with A/C and 2nd class sleeper without A/C—the other classes usually involve travelling in a tightly squeezed compartment which resembles a tuna can, on top of the train or with livestock. Having experienced Indian A/C travel on a previous bus ride to Goa, we decided to take our chances with the third option, which was also a hell of a lot cheaper. The thrill of getting cheaper ticket did, however, wear off quick when we saw that we where seated next to the exit doors where large numbers of people, including screaming children, cued up to use the urine drenched toilets. It was no surprise that we would also experience screaming children, weird & wonderful smells and non-stop talking from people waiting for the toilet throughout the length of the trip. What was more amusing was waking up the next morning to the sweat sound of Indians clearing their throats in a wash bowl next to the closest toilet, a routine that is practiced with the utmost intension of fully clearing the sinuses and throat of all different forms of mucus before moving aside to let others do the same. Multipurpose in every aspect of the word, these little wash bowls are a must on any Indian train and are used as a mucus clearing dispensary, hand/feet & face wash including brushing teeth, common spit bowl for everyone passing by and, as seen on numerous occasions, a baby urinal.

After what seemed to be an endless journey of fun filled ‘egg’-citment we reached Agra. Coming out of the train station we were, of course, once again surrounded by a wealth of taxi chauffeurs all screaming out ridiculous prices to, literally, take us down the street. There are a few rules when it comes to rickshaw drivers, so here’s some advise for anyone wanting to travel through India: first, don’t believe what they say; second, they always give you 3-4x the normal price; third (then again, this is not only for transport), if you don’t want to be bothered then just tell then that you have a ‘pick-up’, which implies someone is picking you up; forth, try to find out a hotel and the normal rate to get there before arriving or just ask a police officer, they usually like foreigners—don’t ask me why. After a frustrating and time-consuming negotiation we hoped in a rickshaw and proceeded to the nearest rickshaw drivers’ recommended hotels. I forgot to mention that drivers usually have agreements with hotel owners and if they bring tourists there they can get a commission. By violating the above rule number three, we were taken to numerous different hotels, all inappropriate with one located on the far side of a dangerous looking slum, which was by chance a great sightseeing tour at 5am in the morning with mist still covering most of everything and not knowing where our non-English speaking driver was taking us. Personally, I thought we were going to be robbed. Eventually, we found a great quest house called the ‘Backpackers Lodge,’ also conveniently recommended by Lonely Planet. After a quick shower to wash of the donut glaze from the train we headed off to the Tag. This great monument is more or less the only thing worth seeing in Agra with its profound beauty its story is what I think drives most tourists to visit the site. It goes a little like this:

On one day way back in 1607, Mughal prince Shah Jahan strolled down the Meena Bazaar and caught a glimpse of a girl hawking silk and glass beads. Five years and a wife later (in those days princes did not marry for love alone) the regal 20-yr-old went to wed his 19-yr-old bride. It was a fairy tale union from the start, one that withstood court intrigues, battles for succession and finally, the grand coronation. Unfortunately, when she died on the 19th year of their marriage, he etched her story in stone. As Mumtaz Mahal lay dying, she asked four promises from the emperor: first, that he build the Taj; second, that he should marry again; third, that he be kind to their children; and fourth, that he visit the tomb on her death anniversary. He kept the first and second promises. Construction began in 1631 and was completed in 22 years. Twenty thousand people were deployed to work on it.

In 1627, Shah Jahan became Mogul emperor. Although his reign was prosperous, even named by many as a golden period in Indian history, his life, which began in 1592, ended in a more tragic way. He was put under house arrest by his son Aurangzeb and spent the last eight years of his life sequestered in a part of the Agra fort; only Jahanara, his sincere daughter was allowed to visit him. Yet his only consolation was that from his prison window, he could see his unique architectural work Taj Mahal, though he couldn’t visit. During those eight years, Shah Jahan’s soul had always yearned for visiting Taj Mahal where his beloved wife lay and it only rested when he was finally buried beside her.

The Tag is surely a beautiful sight located on the banks of the Yamuna River. It then becomes even more beautiful after paying the tourist fee of Rs. 750 (€15) when Indians laugh at the foreigners while they can relax with an only Indian rate of Rs. 20—can’t help but feel cheated here. We did, however, get a complementary tour guide after buying the ticket, which was a treat because we thought we had to pay after ten or so Indians approached us asking Rs. 400 for the same service. Once inside the Tag you will notice that it is basically a round room with many different Indian artistic designs on the walls and a replica of the emperor’s original burial tomb in the middle. When entering there is a staircase leading down to the actual resting place of Shah Jahan, which is forbidden to enter but located under the main hall were the replica tomb is found. Having respect for the dead most tourists observed silently as their guide explained the details of inscriptions and tomb monuments. This form of respect is, however, not understood by Indians who on more than one occasion found it necessary to scream and make obscene noises in order to be amused by an echo effect. I have to admit that the population of Hindu’s has not enlightened me, even though I consider myself to be quite open minded and a strong believer of cultural plurality. This comment is not meant to condescend or make a mockery of Hinduism or its followers, although I can’t but get annoyed at people, of any race, who show no respect for other religions, discriminate amongst there own, are racist beyond explanation, have no respect for the environment or act like idiots when visiting sacred sights. For example, Indians get annoyed when you shout or act obscene at their temple but have no objection to it happening elsewhere. Anyway, after taking snap shots at a rate that would put most Japanese tourists to shame, we had lunch, did a little shopping, returned to the hotel, packed and left to the station for another 18hr train ride to Amritsar (Punjab state), home to the Golden temple and hairy kingdom of the Sikh’s. It wasn’t any surprise to know that when we boarded the train that we were again seated next to the door, toilets and, of course, famous wash bowl.

Amritsar is a lot different than most other places in India, besides having the majority of residents being Sikh instead of Hindu, it is also a lot cleaner. Other things you notice upon arrival are people are more pleasant and friendly and don’t just see you as an economic opportunity, and that streets are filled with an immensely colourful array of live size smurfs with a diversity of colourful turbans. Once you enter Sikhville, especially the area surrounding the Golden Temple, you are obliged to slap on a pirate’s head hanky and join in on the smurf march. Even though I felt ridiculous with my orange bandanna, the sight of the Golden Temple was certainly worth it. Just before going to the Temple we checked in to a hotel and repeatedly had to convince the owner that we were married in order to get a room for half a day. After some discussion and persuasion we were able to dump our stuff, again wash off the donut glaze and head out for the gold. The Temple area is basically a tranquil watered marble slab walkway surrounded with beautiful buildings and, yes you guessed it, a golden temple located in the middle. Even better is the fact that you don’t have any beggars inside the sacred sight—they attack when you walk out—which gives you time to enjoy the scenery. It was a pleasant experience and ranks up in the top 3 list of my personally recommended places to visit in India—although don’t stay there more than two days. Another thing that shouldn’t be missed whilst visiting Sikhville is the Sikh museum, which is conveniently located at the southern entrance—I think. The museum gives a historical look at the Sikh’s and their courageous battles for independence against the Mogul empires. There are numerous paintings, one of which depicted a Sikh guru being placed on a red hot metal slab whilst burning sand and coals were poured over his naked body. The interesting story behind this painting was that whilst the guru was enduring such immense torture, he did not at any given point show signs of pain or suffering, something that I personally find truly remarkable; moreover, this was not the only case of such bravery—or whatever you wish to call it.

After a few hours of slip sliding around the temple, we decided it was time to head up north and check out the home of the Dalai Lama. We went back to the hotel, grabbed our stuff and once again got ready for a long journey. Once arriving at the bus shelter, we were confronted with confused Indians not knowing what bus to catch and having to wait three hours before finally catching the wrong one. Ending up in the middle of whoop whoop at 2am in the morning was not my idea of fun, but after another hellish bumpy bus ride and an overpriced taxi trip up the mountain we eventually made it away from Sikhville and straight into the Buddhist haven retreat: McLeod Ganj.
Budaville is a great peaceful place with loads of tourists, especially Israeli’s who, after their military service, come in great numbers to smoke dope and live up the good life, free from, as one girl told me, ‘our indoctrinating and religiously fanatical homeland’. Amazingly enough, most didn’t seem too bothered, except for their family, about the situation with Lebanon and just mentioned that they were glad to be out of the military. Anyway, as for Budaville it was forestry, had plenty of fresh air, a lot of Buddhists but no Lama—he was away I guess— and different shops selling mostly Tibetan made products. It was surreal, relaxing and had a positive tranquil effect on the mind; therefore it also ranks on my top 3 list of places to visit. The only thing that went slightly wrong was something I ate at the last supper before leaving to a place more up north called Manali. Although I ate the same dish for lunch and then again for dinner, because it was so damn good, the evening serving had a little bit more kick than my body could handle.

After a bus trip and some pills that kept me constipated throughout the rest of the trip, we arrived in Manali. The place has a really great river that cuts through the heart of it and is also has beautiful forestry surrounding, although less spectacular than Budaville. Manali does, however, have one great downfall to its nice atmosphere in that the town centre is a complete dump. It’s basically one long road and looks like any other part of India’s busy, polluted and overwhelming cities. There isn’t much else to say about Manali except that this was the place you need to be to hire a congested seat on a jeep that would take you through the 5000 meter high mountains on a supposedly 18 hr jeep journey to Lay in the eastern and also safer parts of Kashmir. On the night of the day we arrived we were crazy enough to just keep going and booked our jeep seats with the expectation of seeing beautiful mountain ranges and other heavenly scenery once arriving in highly recommended Lay. By the time we got there though we were in a totally different frame of mind.

The trip started at a usual Indian time of 2am in the morning; with eyes wide shut we pulled ourselves out of bed to the sound of a jeep pulling into the driveway. The first thing I noticed was the lack of space and more conveniently lack of neck support the jeep would offer us along the 18 hour rugged terrain adventure. Another thing that sparked Ozana’s attention was the driver who looked no older than 15 and had barely enough muscle on his skinny torso to hold the steering wheel straight. From that moment we new we were in for the time of our lives. We were taken to the centre of the city where our jeep recruited other jeeps, taking almost another 2 hours before we were finally on our way.

With only one music tape that played the same songs repeatedly throughout the entire trip, our skinny driver thought it convenient to wind down his window fully whilst reaching altitudes of close to 5000 meters. It got pretty cold throughout the night and due to having a non-stop breeze in my face the entire time, it was also no surprise that I felt sick the next day. While our expectations were high, the scenery didn’t really come anywhere close to what we envisioned. Besides this Ozana and I were continually freaking out when or driver decided to overtake trucks on tight bends with a downhill plummet that meant almost certain death. There were also three military check points along the way, the first of which almost didn’t accept copies of Ozana’s passport because she didn’t have the original with her and the third checkpoint almost sending me back to Manali because I left my visa extension papers back in Hyderabad. After 12 hours of travelling through hell the weather decided to change for the worst. In no time the road became one big puddle of water as rain gushed down in bucket loads. All our trust was now in the hands of our driver who amazingly enough seemed pretty relaxed. When we finally got off the mountain, and only half an hour away from our final destination, we were suddenly faced with an up hill road turning into a wild river, which also conveniently enough bogged down our car forcing us to get out in the poring rain and push. The jeep didn’t make it up the hill so after pushing it free we decided to drive back down the road only to find that we had been trapped between both a road river and a landslide that would have taken us out only 20 minutes earlier. At this time we had no choice but to sleep in the jeep and wait until morning. From here onwards our trip to Lay and then Delhi was nothing short of a series of extremely unfortunate events.

In short, the following happened: spent the whole night wondering whether the big hill of dirt next to the jeep would give way; next day made it to Lay only to find out that due to freak floods the whole town had no water or electricity, thus couldn’t shower for three days; all roads were blocked so we had to take an expensive flight to Delhi for which there was only one flight leaving the next day; flight was cancelled after waiting eight hours in the airport wondering if the flight would be cancelled; had to go back to Lay and find another hotel which took 2 hours walking with all the luggage in the boiling sun, eventually finding one with no water and only sporadic signs of electricity; and then finally catching a flight after a 5 hour wait and making it to Delhi only to get rejected from the hotel because we didn’t have the proper visa papers. Although Lay seems to be a popular tourist destination, the short time we spent there hardly seemed worth all the trouble. It does, however, have some beautiful surroundings and the restaurants, people, and cows are also nice. One thing about my experience in lay will, however, remain embedded in my memory: on the second and ultimately last day, Ozana was kind enough to remind me of my stomach situation and the tablets I took already in McLeod Ganj by screaming out in a busy restaurant “you can’t have that banana shake, you’re constipated!” As the whole restaurant turned around to look, even the cook who probably didn’t even understand English, I realised that the peak of my egg-citment in Lay had come to an end.

Fortunately we had some more luck in Delhi, of course not taking into consideration the rejection from our hotel and the effort put into finding yet another one. Crazy enough one hotel even showed us a room that was obviously being used by one of the servants, not thinking at all that our negative reaction to the deal was something worth considering before presenting it. When we did finally get a room, however, it wasn’t too bad and the lukewarm shower was a treat after not being able to wash of the donut glaze for almost four days straight. It was strange to again come face to face with everything I had written in my first blog(s). Even though my attitude and understanding of India had changed after mas o menos 8 months, Delhi is still as shocking and intriguing as ever. The next day was spent zooming around the city and trying to make the most of our one big day before having to leave back to Hyderabad. We visited a few tourist sights in the morning, including Gandhi’s memorial and the place where he was assassinated on January 30, 1948—Gandhi, one of the world's most famous pacifists, was killed by a fellow Hindu—and the big bazaar market where Ozana went on a crazy shopping spree buying presents for everyone back home in Romania. By the time we were finished we rushed back to the hotel and again got ready for our final train trip back to beloved Hyderabad. Again, and without surprise, we were once again presented with the same seating arrangement as when we left to go on our wondrous journey through India.

Well, that was pretty much it for now. I plan to stay in Hyderabad until the 25th of September after which I will travel to Australia. Can’t wait to breath fresh air, swim and shower in clean water, eat food that hasn’t any hidden surprises, and not having to bargain down anything I want to buy. Before I leave I will most probably start to reflect again about my experiences here in India and will most probably come up with my own analysis to what makes this country, its people, its cows and its culture tic. I wonder if there is anything that I will miss when I’m gone, then again I’m most certain that my love/hate relationship with India won’t change and that the experiences I have had during my time here will remain a part of me for the rest of my life. I guess I will have more to write about this towards the end of September. So stay tuned for my next blog report!

In the meantime, take care, let me know how you are all doing and stay safe.

Missing you very much! Donny***

Hey people!

It’s been a while since my last post but many things have happened and every time I sat down to write it seemed like there was no time. Anyhow, I did manage to complete this post, though a little late, with a reflection on some great experiences that I have had in the last two months.

There are so many places to visit in India, especially when you are backpacking, and because the price is relevantly cheaper when compared to most other places you really need to make a choice amongst many choices. In the beginning of last month a bunch of us went to a place called Pondicherry, which is situated three hours away from Chennai on the east coast of India. One of the main reasons I was going besides an insatiable lust to see the beach again was to drink some non-Indian produced vino. See Pondicherry is an old French colony and having not drunken a drop of wine since coming to India I thought this was a prime opportunity to suck back on some nice Bordeaux. Unfortunately after a 26-hour train trip followed by a 3-hour bumpy bus experience, I realized that all the shops—conveniently advertised as “wine shop”—didn’t sell anything but hard liqueur and beer; thus no wine anywhere. This was a real let down and after sobbing like a little kid for half an hour the group decided to head off to the nearest beach, which conveniently enough was also a let down due to the polluted sand and brown water. Moreover, not knowing that it was Tamil New Year when we arrived, our initial attempt at getting accommodation was also hopeless. After wondering around for ages one of the girls (Tania) said that we should head of to a place only twenty minutes away called Auroville.

Some self-proclaimed French idealist called “the Mother” and an Indian freedom fighting guru activist visionary called Aurobindo started Auroville with the goal of creating a self-supported biological health paradise and spiritual retreat. To be honest it was really pleasant and knowing that the foresty and luscious green area that Auroville is built upon was once nothing but red sand is quite impressive. We stayed at a quest house called Creativity—don’t know why they called it that—located close to a restaurant/cafeteria called Solar Kitchen—this I know because the kitchen and also all of Auroville is run only on solar energy. After taking a refreshing ‘get rid of that 29-hour traveling smell’ shower, we walked over to Solar Kitchen and got served some free non-spicy Indian food as a nice gesture to celebrate the day’s event. The food, company and climate were all great, and to top it of the moon was encircled by an astounding aura of clouds. It looked absolutely amazing and I swear I could have been perfect—had I had a glass of wine at the time.

The next day we spent walking and melting around surreal Auroville in the 42-degree killer sun before catching some brown waves at the beach. A couple of wannabe guru locals told us there would be a rave/trance party somewhere in the remotes of Auroville that evening. After dinner, swimming and beer we decided to catch some midnight moonbeams and float over to party we heard about earlier. Walking for ages in almost pitch darkness we finally found the place the locals were boasting about, although instead of it being a trance jam, the party was something that I myself like interpret as a: psychedelic-yoga induced-spiritually weird-moon funk-dance party. It was generally a bunch of weirdoes letting loose and trying to dance to some phuked-up yoga beats whilst others transcended into a meditated vibe in front of a big bonfire. I like to think I am pretty open to all of this stuff but this was just too mind blowing yah and after trying to jump onto the psychedelic nirvana train myself I instead started to feel nauseated. The next morning I found myself in pain and completely sick from the night before, although it wasn’t so much the yoga trance jam that caused the illness but instead a mouth full of beer and sea water I swallowed whilst swimming the day before. Unfortunately for me, and a strange coincidence with my return trip from Hampi, this was also the day we would be traveling back to Hyderabad. While the bus trip back to Chennai almost had the best of me, the train trip back home was spent cleansing the system on a toilet that looked like a scene out of the twilight zone. After a few days of pampering at the office I was again ready to face the smog and sewerage invested streets of Hyderscumslumabad.

Most international students here in Hyderabad work for a company called Satyam, which is basically one of India’s prime time success stories in the services I.T sector and highly regarded, by Indians that is, as one of the top companies for employment. For most foreign interns, however, it seems to be a complete waste of time, and after careful consideration it appears the main reason they are employed is to make the company look more “global” than it really is. Anyway, my girlfriend Ozana—who is one of these interns—invited me to the company’s yearly annual feast. Like all Indian parties and get-togethers, especially weddings, it was an extravagant event at best. There were around ten thousand people, with rice, chutney, chicken chutney, brown snotty chutney and many other kinds of chutney served at every corner. While alcohol was not served that night—probably because Indians can’t hold their liquor— water was free and served at strategic points around the venue. Instead of lining up and waiting your turn like normal human beings, Indian employees fanatically barged others out the way in a desperate attempt it reach the free water before anyone else. Generally, when there is free anything available, in this case water, Indians tend to go mental, with neither the patience to wait in an orderly and respectable manner nor the slightest inclination that there is no need for panic. Its is also quite strange that Indians always seem to be in a rush at the wrong time; for example, they can relax and watch a four hour Bollywood film at the cinema but when its over they all want to be outside in less than three minutes. The same experience I had at a newly opened supermarket around the corner from my house. There you are standing in line with some groceries when you feel and see everyone jumping back and forth into different lines, others riding up behind you in an effort to get the line to go faster and some even jumping in front of you when you turn around to look at who’s riding up against you. Anyway, back to the Satyam party. There was a big podium outside with some live entertainment and at one point they had a bunch of disabled kids going hard out dancing on the stage and shacking whatever body part they had attached whilst trying to keep up with some fast paced Indian pop music. After the show finished, they got some DJ in to play a mix between western trance and Bollywood’s all time greatest hits.

There is, however, one thing that should never be underestimated in India and that is the pure dancing talent of young Saturday Night Fever inspired Indian males, who themselves are the Gods of the dance floor with their shoulder shimmies and almost obscene hardcore pelvis thrusts. Usually males are also the only ones on the floor in the first place because girls tend to sit on the side and watch or when they actually do get up to dance they just pop up and down like twats. There was such euphoria amongst the three thousand or so males grinding up against each other that it seriously started looking like a gay club gone ballistic, with some dudes seriously getting busy with their mates. See the funny thing is since male/female contact, even holding hands, is considered taboo in Indian culture, males tend to resort to the same sex for comfort. Some even go as far as having homosexual relations with their fellow mates and then successfully pawn it off as just having fun with their buddies: according to estimates close to a third of male university students have had sex with the same gender. It’s pretty weird, like everything else over here, but while holding a girls hand is considered strange, holding your mates hand, sliding it down his back pocket or even playing with his hair at public venues is considered quite normal. Personally, I just thought India had a large gay community until I asked an Indian mate why guys on the street keep telling me I look pretty and why some dude would squeeze my ass on the bus and then run off.

One of the most well know places in India is Goa and lucky for me I got to go there for a short four day getaway. This time instead of taking a train, which would actually have taken longer, Ozana and I decided to bus the trip with the idea that an A/C luxury coach would do us good. This is a small warning for future India go’ers, do not be fooled by Indians promoting A/C as luxury traveling experience since it actually is utter hell—as we so conveniently found out. It seems that Indians don’t get the concept of A/C as being a means to keeping thyself cool instead of deep-freezing yourself to a point where you could be stored away in the frozen meat section of a supermarket. This is everywhere where A/C is used and strangely enough Indians also seem to think A/C is part of exemplifying your wealth because you are able to afford premium priced luxuries like freezing your nads off whilst trying to act comfortable. Thus, the bus trip ended up being a portable frozen meat wagon as the A/C hit temperatures that even polar bears would consider extreme. In a desperate attempt to defrost, I asked the driver to lower the A/C but he just responded with “but siiirr, it is already on low,” “turn it off dude before we freeze to death” I replied. Later I read the instruction manual on the back of the seat that red “for your own safety, do not argue with the driver” and understood why my face became numb. Eventually we got off in Goa and even managed to forgo getting frostbite or gangrene from the trip.

There are many beaches to go to in Goa and some like some other popular tourist destinations are not that relaxing after all. Unlike the main touristy congested and polluted beaches, however, there are a few located away from all the hustle and “come, yeess, yeesss siir, come!” bustle. The beach I managed to get to called Palolem, which was about a two hours bumpy, squiring road, sardine packed bus journey away, was one such place. When we finally got to the place we were remarkably refreshed at the sight of a beautiful and astonishingly unpolluted beach in front of us. I would seriously recommend Palolem to anyone not only is it clean but you can breath relatively fresh air and get really cool little beachfront huts accompanied by beach restaurants serving delicious seafood/steaks/veg. meals for the price of peanuts. It’s also quiet and secluded, there are a limited number of loud hippy Euro tourists, the water is blue instead of brown and the locals a generally pretty nice to foreigners, not seeing you only as an economic opportunity. Spending the whole day relaxing on and in the beach with great food and great company only arms length away was again almost perfect. Besides cutting my foot on some sharp rocks and then later having it get infected on Goa’s germ infested streets, I can say that I had four days of bliss with no upset stomach and no nausea caused by the seawater sneaking down my throat. While the trip back was long, somewhat painful due to my foot and freezing beyond comprehension, I did feel this was one of the better trips I have had here in India.

On Saturday the 22nd I was invited to play part in an Indian documentary film shoot about some pre/post colonial area in Hyderabad. The day was really intriguing, dressing up like some pompous English colonial colonel and even getting the make-up treatment and a mustache stuck to my face. While Ozana looked amazing, I felt like a patriotic putts with shinny black boots fit for a drag queen. However, even though we had to wear dickey costumes in the filthy hot sun, I did enjoy acting like some big hotshot Bollywood film star, especially when I was approached by bunch of young Indian guys who came to tell me how pretty I looked in my dress. The compliment was the height of my day and as I collected my 1200 rupees (€20) I felt that was the height of my Bollywood film career as well.

Okay people, these are the experiences I have had since my last post. My days in India are becoming numbers since I plan to travel to Sri Lanka and do some work with post Tsunami programs by the end of next month. Hopefully I will be working in Colombo but I not sure at this stage. At present, the situation in Sri Lanka seems to be heating up due to recent terrorist attacks on military basis by the LTT (Tamil Tigers). Hopefully this will calm down before I arrive, but then again if it does not it will just give me more to write about in my next blogs.

Take care everyone and thanks to those who have written and supported me all along. I am sorry if I have not written back to all your emails but please realize that they have helped me considerably and I appreciate each and every one of them.

Be good and take care all of you. Ciao!

Donny***

Hey People!

Wow, isn’t time flying past. As usual a lot has happened, some good, some bad and, of course, some really weird. This month was also the first time that India attacked my health and for one week I was quite ill, but thanks to India’s public health system I was able to stuff myself with cheap—and probably illegal in other countries— medication and recover whilst flying cloud nine with 39 degrees of temperature. On another note, some of you haven’t written me in quite a while—you know who you are— so write me a quick hello just so I know all is well. Okay, enjoy this month’s update!

The start of the month took off to new highs as the most infamous man on the planet decided it was time to join forces with India by coming down for a short visit. Bush’s drop-off in Delhi and later also Hyderabad was welcomed with in full flare with true activist spirit as millions gathered to reject the war-hungry-country-boys presence on home soil—especially the muslins who were already jumpy due to some Danish dude making a caricature of Allah only a week or two before. Unlike Clinton who had the nerve to drive around in a vehicle, old Bushy boy was flown from sight to site in a helicopter. To be honest I really have respect for the guy, in that I mean I can’t believe he can stand with that stupid smirk on his face before millions, who obviously think he’s the most incompetent moron on the face of the planet, and then not crumble in self-denial. Then again, the people who matter (i.e. politicians, corporate head honchos, and the rest of the upper class richies) seem to have commemorated his visit as trade deals were renegotiated and barriers dropped, immigration laws for Indies loosened and the all so simple “friendship” not “foe” status being given. Thus, India is now a fully-fledged buddy in the American led “war on terror” or “war on any suspicious guy from the middle-East region with a beard that talks funny.” India even guaranteed its support in motivating the U.S denial of Iran’s nuclear power program. Looks like Iran is the next target for the Bushies—personally I’m kind of pessimistic here. It always seems to amaze me, however, that we forget which country has the most nukes on the plant, and then coincidentally is also the only one in history to ever use them on people.

Other than politics, work at the CFCA office has been quite sporadic, some moments falling asleep on my desk whilst at other times running around like a headless chicken with a limp. My boss Suresh also took off to Delhi for a week, which gave me the liberty of using his office space and acting like someone important. All the Indy ladies that week gave me confusing stares as they tried to figure out whether I was the new big shot boss—I think being white also had something to do with it. Oh—most of you have asked what I do, so I’ll try to explain it a little here. Besides being a new attraction for people visiting the office, I generally maintain educational programs for children through sponsorship funding. In other words, I make sure children have enough money and basic necessities to continue their schooling and maintain a healthy development free from exploitation and other factors that deny them their basic rights. This is one part, the other focuses on the holistic development of the child, for example empowering the mothers through micro-economic saving programs, educating local community on diseases like HIV/Aids, Malaria and informing mothers about health and nutritional matters for early childhood development, and some administrative duties like writing an organizational manual/ annual report. So that’s what I do here six days a week ten hours a day other than writing this report, going to the gym, learning Espańol, and trying to keep up a social life.
India has so many different animals and like Australia they can jump up and surprise you at any time. Growing up in Australia I thought I would be prepared for anything—well maybe not transsexuals jumping out from the bushes and grabbing my arm—but India also has it array of fury-sometimes-unfriendly-mammals and Aussie with all its nasties still didn’t prepare me for all close encounters. This I realized when one day a monkey decided to jump through my window and land on my desk; of course I again screamed like a little girl, the guys in the office just started laughing as I tried to save face and act macho. All I could think about was the immediate effects of rabies if this pink-arsed–bastard would bite and whether or not the expensive anti-rabies serum I was injected with in Holland would help. After some screaming and some fanatical hand-head jostles my fury friend took a leap of faith back out the window. When looking outside I noticed he was going for reinforcements as 20 or so of his buddies were preparing their attack. I then closed the window, tried the macho laugh and spent the rest of my day paranoid whilst staring at the window to see if it was still closed.

After the monkey attack and a stressful week, especially since I was spending whole days behind the computer with no time to relax or enjoy the fresh smog outside, I felt like it was time to take a break. Luckily enough I heard from someone who new someone else that a couple of other interns where planning a tranquilo weekend away to some place called Hampi, which is located a little more South from Hyderaslumscumabad. Leaving on a Friday, this would be the first real backpack trip I would take since arriving. Whilst leaving it also started raining like crazy and within half an hour people were up to their knees in some of the foulest filth one could possibly think of—just think of water mixed with three-week-old sunbathed garbage. Lucky for me I was already in the bus. Usually it doesn’t rain this time of year but I guess its times like this that we must all realize that global warming is becoming an ever-present reality. At around 9am the next day we all arrived in Haspet, a small town next to Hampi. Swarmed again by rickshaw drivers and deceitful tour guides, we took an alternative approach to being ripped-off and decided instead to try traveling the Indian way by catching a smelly old urine filled bus with an inside temperature of 112 degrees. By the time we arrived to Hampi, only an hour or so later, the effects of breathing urinated air gave me a killer headache that lasted almost the whole day. After bargaining with some locals we found a guest house fit for an unworthy guest, settled down, took a shower, ate something that was supposed to resemble breakfast all before signing a contract guaranteeing the owner that we would pay the room fee of Rs. 150 (€3) per day—at this price I couldn’t complain too much about amenities or the level of hospitality.

By viewing the surroundings and other tourists made me realize that Hampi was quite the hippy paradise, also being well recommended by Lonely Planet and other travel directories: many of the bars/restaurants having signs that shouted “Lonely Plantets choice” or “Eat Lonely Planet here!” Hampi has a large number of different Hindu ruins to visit and includes a magnificent monkey temple in the main town. The first half of the day was spent visiting the monkeys at their temple and then doing some hiking after which the baking sun coupled with a splitting headache forced me to retire back to the shack. At about 5pm I arose fresh and full of aspirin and decided to hire a bike with my Dutch buddy Chantal. We cruised the sites, wondering also what happened to the others, when at no time night fell and everything turned black. Our ability to seek direction had become somewhat difficult with no lights other than candles placed in front numerous 1 meter high voodoo statues housed under different trees along the roads; although this did eventually lead us back to town. Later we hooked up with the rest of the happy campers, relaxed a bit and then went to a groovy restaurant and munched out on different goodies while demanding the owner play groovy Hindi hippy tunes. Besides the splitting headache the first day was pretty cool. On the second day we all decided to hire bikes and see all that Hampi had to offer, which was great considering I didn’t really see jack the day before.

Just before I go on I wanted to note that while Hampi’s environment is surely tranquil the locals unfortunately are not. Most of the Hindu’s here have an immensely strange obsession with money, therefore not seeing westerners for who they are but rather as an economic opportunity. Of course they need cash because they are poor but the way they try to continually try to cheat you or hide their true intentions just shows no sign of dignity or moral values—this was actually one lesser point of the journey. People help you just to get some money instead of doing it out of kindness, children are constantly begging whilst parents do the same, conmen try to pull you into their shops and temples all have one price for Indian nationals and another for tourists, the second being 1000% times the normal rate. Unfortunately, this obsession with money is also taking place all over India and not only with the poor. Whilst the actions of the poor can somewhat be justified, richies in India seem to be the worst as the accumulation of wealth is concomitant with the need for status or recognition, and also seems to give them the right to treat people of a lower caste like dirt. Ego status reinforcement can usually be felt when parents introduce you to someone in the family: “Yeeess, and this is my son Deepak—MBA, his wife Azoe—MBA, and my daughter Punima—MBA, in Engiiineeeeriing! “And what do you do Donny?” Well, I’m a cleaner!” They never quite figure out that by “cleaner” I mean that I am trying to help clean up the mess their respective government, globalization and their own culture has made for children who are far less fortunate than their MBA’ers. In actual fact, while Gandhi is truly one of my all time heroes, his influence is vastly fading in modern day India—at least from my perception it is.

Okay, back to Hampi. Half an hour into biking one of the guys from the group snapped the handlebars and was forced to hitch hike most of the trip—we saw him pass by occasionally—the rest of us, however, kept riding whilst slowly melting in the suns heat. We eventually reached a river where they were using little boats that looked like giant coconut halves to transport locals across. While almost sinking due to the boatmen’s over enthusiasm to include all of the bikes, some extra locals, and ourselves, we did eventually make it across the highly polluted swamp. After another hour or so of biking we noticed a temple on top of a hill and decided to take the steep 500-steps trail up to check it out. Trying to be cool I raced up first and then spent almost another hour recovering from heat exhaustion. Whilst enjoying the view some Indian’s invited us into the temple to join in on some spiritual celebrating, playing music and singing some strange Hindu melodies. One of the Romanian guys (Bebe) disappeared into a side temple, of course I was enlightened to follow and upon entering I saw a weird dreadlocked Asian guy wearing a traditional Hindu priest outfit (basically a towel raped around the lower body) conveniently sitting next to a huge pile of Ganja. I tried to react relaxed although I have to say that it was pretty mind blowing sitting in a small temple on big hill in the middle of nowhere staring at some once tourist now turned Hindu Asian priest smoking up a pile of wacky weed. After my brief interaction with the Ganja gods I took the now hallucigenic trip down the mountain whilst overlooking the truly amazing landscape. The nirvana did wear off, however, after I come down and recovered on a shady patch of grass whilst sipping coconut juice, eating a bag of chips, two chocolate bars, three bananas and an apple. By the time the others arrived I realized that Bebe the Romanian guy didn’t make it out, although he did meet up with us later but lost the ability to function properly for the rest of the day. By about 5pm we all headed back to base to get ready for our journey back home. Before getting on the bus that night a few of us thought it would be a good idea to get a quick bite in one of the local restaurants, unfortunately for me it was the worst thing I could have ever done. When there are times you wish you could have skipped that spicy-egg noodle-chowmein-deep fry-oily dish then this was certainly one of them. Besides, spending an 8 our trip on a bus with no toilet and a ready to burst pelvis was not exactly my idea of fun. By the time I got back to Hyderabad I could already feel that the next few days were going to be interesting.

Being in a somewhat backwards Industrializing country I was not expecting too much from hospitals or medical practitioners. After trying to recover from the last supper at Humpi, spending a few nights with high fever and being slightly delusional I realized that I had more than just an upset stomach but, in fact, had severe food poisoning. I told my boss Suresh who then arranged a meeting with a doctor who coincidentally was also a board member of CFCA. Although this did not influence the doctor to make a special appointment for me since I had to wait for almost two hours in the waiting room with other Indians who were all but too pleased to share and spread their sickness with others; for instance, coughing into open air. I hate hospitals, period, but on top of that I don’t exactly have the highest admiration for doctors either. By the time the good old doc saw me I was already feeling a bit edgy and as I sat next to him I couldn’t help but notice his urge to massage his feet whilst peeling of bits of skin. At this point I could recall my boss telling me that he claimed to have studied medicine in Finland, but from this view it seemed he only went there for a holiday. The next thing the doc did without warning—and without washing his hands—was touch my face, grab a big-ass industrial torch light and asked me to say aahhh. I really felt like saying aahhh go f#$%%^$((&^%$) but I was just too tired and too sick to respond. All I wanted was some medication to knock me out until I was better, which he conveniently prescribed after the most pathetic medical analysis I have ever had in my entire life. Within three days though I was much stronger and ready to face some of that spicy chutney again.

On the fifteenth of March Indian celebrate a famous festival called Holi. Basically what happens on the day is everyone runs around throwing colors, made out of wet chalk and some other highly toxic crap, at everyone walking on the street. Actually, and to be honest, it was the most fun I’ve had in ages. It was pretty hot on the day so about 30 of us went wild throwing paint, water colored paint, mud mixed with paint, and all other shit at each other for about 3 hours. By the time I got home it took another 3 hours to scrub the shit off, but then again it was all worth it.

Originally I was supposed to get transferred to Calcutta after some unexpected person decided to turn up to my work and create a scene (some of you will know what I am talking about), although lucky for me it turned out to be a temporary assignment to report on tribal developments in a place called Bhagalpur, which is another eight hours north-east of the already 28 hour trip to Calcutta. Calcutta by the way is truly an amazing place, while poverty, pollution, corruption, crime, exploitation and the rest are at an all time high there, it does have a certain post colonial charm. While in Culcutta I saw some amazing sites, the first of which was Mother Teresa House for the Sick and Dying Destitute; this is also where Mother Teresa had served for so many years. Upon entering the building I noticed over 100 terminally ill and dieing patients, and straight away felt a great pain in my heart to see their conditions and the way they were spread out across different rooms. I will not go into any detail here but all I can say is my experience there will stay with me for the rest of my life. After this I was taken down the street to a famous Hindu temple (Khalighat) where numerous dudes tried to act like tourist guides, even taking me into secret worshipping chambers, just to score some dinero. Like all the other temples I have been to my forehead got thumbed with wet red chalk and holly polluted tap water was again squirted into my eye. The next stops were: Victoria Memorial Hall, which exhibited the history, tradition and culture of Calcutta and its people; a place called Science City where they had all different fun fair games, 3D movies and rides that were about 20 years technically backwards in time; and just before jumping on the train to Bhalgulpur, Mother Teresa’s convent where we visited here tomb and saw some personal memorabilia including the room in which she stayed.

Bhagalpur the place which I would travel to next was of great interest to me, not only is it situated in one if not the most corrupt and backward states of Indian, Bihar, but the CFCA projects there are predominantly focused on the development of Santhali tribal people. Santhali’s are remarkable people, one reason is because they are neither Hindu’s nor Christians but instead follow one of the oldest religions on earth: Paganism. Another important tourist attraction of Bhagalpur is the river Ganges, especially since the Hindu’s have an age-old tradition of roasting dead relatives on open fire before throwing their ashes into it—this was quite visible from an overarching bridge. Spending time with the parish priests and nun’s working in the remote villages I could truly learn the meaning of dedication at a grass-root level. All the projects I visited were scarce in viable resources or sufficient infrastructure. In other words, the projects, mainly due to their rural location, were ill equipped with telecommunications facilities, electricity, sufficient water supplies, medical facilities for treating Malaria and other illnesses, had insufficient roads, buildings etc. It was remarkable how the fathers, who were working for no money other than their allowance for basic necessities, could make so many sacrifices to help others. The visits I made to the Santhali tribes were also an eye-opening experience, especially since there cultural traditions are so hospitable that it at times made me feel unworthy. One such tradition is to wash and massage the feet of quests that enter the house. This is to relax a person after sometimes walking great lengths to visit a family—I therefore felt weird because I came with a car that dropped us off at the doorstep.
Anyway, the time I spent in Bhalgapur made me think about many things, mainly about the world in which we live and especially about how much time we waist worrying about things that in “reality” do not really matter. The Santhali’s made me realize that those having only the bare essentials can also have peace of mind and live a fulfilling life. I guess if you are not happy or feel blessed with everything that you have now, nor will you be so when you have that which you desire.

Okay, this story has gone on for a while so I hope you have made it this far—and above all found it worth reading. I will try to make the next story a little bit shorter, but then again that depends on what happens to me in the next few weeks. Take care everybody and let me know a little about what is happening in your life as well.

Take care and hope to hear from you soon!!!

Ciao, Donny***

Hey everyone, hope you are all well!

I had a little difficulty in knowing exactly where to start and what to tell you since so much has happened, but I think I will concentrate on the main and weirdest events.

The 27th of January (Indian Republic Day) was quite a colorful day, with people from all different regions of India strutting their best to show off some national pride and patriotism for accomplishing independence from the poms all so many years back. Unlike any other bread, Indians have to show this off by doing strange acrobatic stunts, like the red-blood-shot-eyed police core riding their motorbikes backwards while reading a newspaper. While all of this took place in the countries capital Delhi, Hyderabad was supposed to have a smaller yet similar show somewhere unknown to my co-workers. So I packed my stuff and decided to go into town to pick up some action, and even tried the public transport system for a change in a desperate attempt to integrate. The transport system in India is quite humorous; firstly, they don’t stop for pedestrians, only cows; second, sexes are segregated with women at the front and men at the back, except if you’re officially married; third, people will literally crawl over you in an effort to snatch any available seat; and forth, hanging out the side of the bus and jumping off when you’ve reached your stop is a must, even if it risks certain death from the beeping lunatics driving their bike, car, cow straight at you.

Jumping off at the corner of a big market called RP Road I immediately noticed that I was the only white person—and so did everyone else. If you lack attention in other countries India certainly makes you feel like a star. “Yeees, yeeess, siiirr!” “Come, come, yeesss! If you can put up with the local prices being raised by 5000% with a swarm of smelly Indian body odder encircling you whilst a desperate attempt is made to rip you off, then an endless amount of free tea (chai) and attention awaits. Actually one funky watch store caught my attention so I went in for a looky—of course I was grandly welcomed with a “yeeess siiiirr, come!” After entering an old guy behind the counter smiled with a big colorful rainbow array of teeth and tried desperately to start a conversation. He asked, with an overly loud voice so that the rest of the store would notice, “where are you from?” Aaar you maarriiied? And “what is your good name?” After asking me more questions about my occupation, how much I earned per month, my parents names, their occupation, nationality, and how much they earned—per month, he presented me his daughter. I must admit she was pretty cute and with only white teeth. However, having to buy a cow without tasting the milk seems a little odd to my western trained taste, so I just said no thank you and then ran out of the store like a wild chimpanzee.

After this interlude I walked further along RP Road and came to a stall that sold mirrors—needed one for my bathroom. I attracted the store keeper who approached by saying “yeesss Washington!” I replied “dude, my names not Washington and I’m not American. Europe, have you heard of it?” I wasn’t too impressed but his friends found him hilarious as they were laughing their head off, and also the small crowd that literally stopped to join in on the action. All I actually asked was how much one of his mirrors costs but he kept on replying “yes Washington, RP road, hahaha.” This also triggered off an ever bigger response from the now extremely entertained crowd. You see Indians always have time to be entertained, so if something touches the enjoyment nerve they rush like wild buffalo to the scene; unfortunately this time the seen was me. Feeling a little overwhelmed at my instant stardom, and after a few attempts at understanding what the hell everyone was laughing about I just felt frustrated and left. Some guy with a very cocky old British lingual asked “what did thou want, siiieer? “I just wanted to know the price man,” I replied, then he said “yes, RP Road,” after which I just felt like pulling the pin and launching the grenade but instead caught a bus home and called it a day.

Being in India and wanting to enlighten myself with religion, meditation, and extreme self reflection, I thought it would be a good idea to take up some intense Yoga lessons. This for me was also a way to keep in shape, especially as I am still not sure what the Indian diet will do to my body—most Indians being skinny with plump bellies and no body tone. Anyway, after a short search I found one centre conveniently at a 5 minutes walking distance from my building. The only problem, however, is that each season starts at 5:30am, which is pretty intense when your brain is still in an incubation mode. Each lesson is separated by an introduction of breathing and OM exercises (something I like to call morning bliss due to the noise made by certain nostril-clearing-throat-cleansing individuals) and an intense power yoga workout that is accompanied by weird bodily functions being let loose. See when it comes to spitting, burping, farting, and the rest, Indians are pretty relaxed to let it rip. Everyone feels free to clear their throat at any time and then put it onto display, burp out loud when you need to or fart to see if you’re still in tune. Anyway, the yoga lessons are helping since I’m more relaxed, focused and open minded, and more importantly they are slowly getting rid of the love handles.

The NGO I work for (CFCA) recently had a spiritual animation day where a large number of women from different sub-projects came together to share in the Lords bliss. The day was organized by the CFCA social workers, the director and project managers, and also featured a dynamic Indian Christian priest whose name I so conveniently forgot. Anyway, if there is one fellow in the world which has emulated the Southern American “alayloolya, alaylooolya, praise the Lord!” style healing, it’s certainly this dude. Although everything said was in of Telugu (Hyderabad’s native tongue), except for certain English outburst like “let the healing begin!” just to look cool, I could certainly feel the spiritual vibe. After an immensely stimulating session of indoctrinated healing, backward forehead throwing, and alaylooolya’s, the lady social workers from CFCA thought it would be a funny idea to feed me a disguised red chilly covered in pastry. While they all thought the smoke coming from the top of my head was funny, I almost passed out. I can certainly tell you that my stomach wasn’t happy, but I did happen to pray continuously to the almighty porcelain God throughout the night.

When India is the home and founder of 3-4 of the world’s major religions you can’t help but flirt with a few just to open your mind and figure out who’s actually right. While the Catholic beliefs rule most of the western world, except for a growing Muslim influx, India is an amalgam of religious thought and expression with Hinduism taking center stage. Hinduism is pretty cool since you can pick your deities and Guru’s at random depending on which ones are more convenient at any given time. However it’s more a way of life than a religion in itself since the caste system will define your place in society as either the privileged or the scum of the earth. The equality of man does not exist as a concept and thus you must accept your destiny; hence a lot of lower class Hindu’s have converted to Christianity or Buddhism—mostly in the North near Nepal—to escape the continued suppression. When you’re white I think the only thing that matters is if you can flash a substantial amount of cash at Hindu’s when they offer up their daughters. Anyway, on the 5th of February my flirt began by going to a Hindu site called the Birla Temple. I have to admit that the temple was really beautiful, and besides the million smelly Hindis walking around a little plastic statue that looked like Barbie with voodoo hair and a priest thumbing your forehead with white-reddish powder after squirting soiled water into your eye, it was quite an uplifting experience.

Strangely enough one morning before yoga I also had the opportunity to witness a Hindu wedding that was taking place: Hindu priests calculate the time of marriage using astrological charts that usually point between a convenient time of 2-6 in the morning. The scenery was pretty funny since most family members were crashed out like homeless peasants all over the place and the bride and groom were desperately trying to keep awake while two priests threw rice at their heads and rehearsed Sanskrit prayers in a high toned voice similar to a chip-monk CD played backwards on high speed. When coming back from yoga I saw that they were still at it, only this time the priests were building a small fire in front of the newlyweds whilst a fanatically coked up band played their instruments giving of a sound distorted beyond imagination, like everything else in India. All I could think of was that if it was my wedding I would literally have the band shot on site; although the ritualistic migraine inducing practices of Hindi marriages is something that must be endured for a chosen loved one regardless of caste. Made me glad I’m not part of any Hindu caste.

After these initial Hinduistic experiences I realized that Buddhism with its calmer meditation music and journey of self controlled enlightment would be more my cup of tea. Next month, if all goes to plan, I should be joining a Buddhist meditation camp called Vepasina, up in Nepal. The camp runs for about ten days and involves no speaking, a ten hour a day meditation class, and an all fruit diet fed twice a day. The camp is further designed to withdrawl and enhances ones control over all desires; thus for someone who has always chosen for sex over self-control, I’m positive that this course will do me wonders—I hope.

Okay, the final update since this post is getting out of control and my wrists are starting to cramp up. Last Friday 10th Feb. my organization was nice enough to give me a 3 day break and send me to Bangalore, which is even more south on India’s map. Bangalore is typically Hyderabad with less smog, more prestige universities, and more trees. They have a gigantic park called Cubban Park, another big Cyber-city with all the high-tech I.T companies, and a really big Taj Mahal like government house—that’s pretty much it. Nothing really happened until the last day when my non-English speaking taxi chauffeur dropped me off at a wrong spot, which happened to be a ghetto slum 30 minutes outside the city. While I continually asked the weird looking one-eye-patched willy where he was taking me, he just kept replying “yes, yeesss, Cubban Park, main entrance, yesss.” Unfortunately for me he understood a Cuban-like ghetto death camp, resembling where I eventually got out; have to admit I was a little nervous since I thought he’s buddies were going to jump me for the 300 rupees (€6) I had in my pocket. Lucky for me another passing Indy took the liberty to help and take me back to the main road where I could catch yet another taxi. I think my Indy mate (Mohammed was his name) saw that I was stranded and a needed to escape the slowly escalating curiosity and strange one-red-eyed stares I was getting from the locals. Eventually I caught another cab and ended up at my initial destination, Cubban Park. Although its supposed to be a peaceful park, the amount of beggars, astrology telling beggars, and transsexual beggars makes it a little stressful, the last of which kept whistling for me from the bushes. It’s a fact that Indian girls don’t look at you, full stop, even if you want their attention, like I did on a few occasions, they just walk off and act as if you don’t even exist—it’s kind of ego-killing actually. Transsexuals on the other hand literally try to pull you into the bushes or otherwise situations you wouldn’t necessarily want to be in. At first I was just looking out of curiosity but when she/he/thing jumped out and grabbed my arm I screamed like a little girl and ran off. After crying and sobbing with shock, I caught yet another taxi and went straight to the railway station. Hoping that my train-trip would be a comfortable one, I was held up all night by old guy with snoring disability—sounding like a freight truck was backing out of his head. This kept me and nearly half the cabin awake for our 14 hour journey back to Hyderabad. When I eventually arrived home, I just crashed for the next two days whilst complaining to the guys at CFCA that I ate something with red chilly in it so that I would receive some extra pampering.

Almighty then, I hope you enjoyed the story and if you have any comments you know where to post them. Thanks also to all who had the time to read less alone comment about my last post, and all of you who have taken the time to write me personally. Sorry If I haven’t had the chance to write you all back but I certainly cherish all the support you have given me. I consider myself very lucky to have such great friends.

Cheers and take care,

Donny***