North India

It's another long haul journey. My first plan had been an east-west bus ride across Nepal to reach the Kumaon region of northern India. However, the absence or cancellation of buses means I have to retrace my steps back to Sounali and across to Delhi before heading north to the mountains.

The bus to the border and the crossing a pretty uneventful. Immediately on arrival a man with paan-stained teeth asks if I need a taxi to Gorakhpur station, he can get me there in two hours. Jammed into the boot seat of a four-by-four I quickly lose feeling in my left foot as my legs are entangled with those of the three other passengers, the four of us stuffed into a space meant for two (if meant for anyone at all!).

It also becomes apparent that the two guys running the operation are a little hazy on directions as they have to stop and ask a few times. I'm told the short cuts are to avoid the main bridge which will be hectic and also any police checkpoints. We end up getting stopped three times and because the driver has no papers or driving licence we have to wait whilst they negotiate the charitable contribution they will make. The stout police officer with dark patches under his arms scratches his nuts pensively with one hand whilst cupping his jowl with the other. Deciding it's not worth the hassle he settles for a 200 rupees payment. Dismissing them with a flick of the head, he pulls his belt up to get a better purchase and sets about tackling his persistent itch.

With a unreserved ticket that took me 40 minutes to get I set my rucksack down on platform 5 to wait for the Delhi train which will arrive at midnight. Boys scavenge the platform looking for plastic bottles. Wearing oversized shirts tied around their waists and tucked into their pants, bottles are stuffed under their armpits and collected in the bulge at the back causing each to look like a hunchback as they wander up and down the platform and along the sleepers.

The train inches into Old Delhi station and finally grinds to a halt at 4.30pm. By 5.30pm, 36 hours after leaving Pokhara I'm back at Hare Krishna guesthouse to book a seat on the sleeper bus for the next day to Dharamasala.


Dharamasala

The home-in-exile of the Dali Lama, this north Indian town is a popular destination for travellers, devotees and pilgrims, and also hosts a significant population of Tibetan refugees. The sleeper bus pulls in around 8.30am and it's shared taxi ride up the hill to the McLeod Ganj settlement area where most of the guesthouses are located. Rather than stay in the immediate area I follow the guidebooks advice and head a bit further along the road to Bhagsu village. In the pouring rain I find Zilon Kagyeling Monastery. It has very simple rooms with beds and not much else, but it is clean and the balcony walkways look out over the hillside.

A smiley monk appears, he is the 'manager'. He welcomes me and asks my name and where I'm from. He seems friendly and later I'll discover he has a good sense of humour when after a couple of days he asks "how long you stay?" I tell him "maybe for another couple of days, until Friday evening if that's ok?" He looks at me with a completely earnest and concerned expression and says "No, no that's not ok" and leaves it just long enough for me to begin fumbling a response "oh, er... I..." before roaring with laughter and saying "no problem" walking away chuckling to himself probably more in surprise than anything else that the old chestnut worked.

Free Tibet?

At the Tibetan Welfare Office a recently filmed documentary is shown called 'Team Tibet' following the attempts by a group of campaigners to organise and send a national squad to the 2008 Bejing Olympics. It includes a series of interviews with leading figures of the Free Tibet movement based in McLeod Ganj and various awareness raising stunts and efforts including unfurling a banner at Everest Base Camp and on the Great Wall of China, as well as a football match played in Delhi. Despite having a large audience for viewing there was disappointingly little debate afterwards about any of the issues raised by, not least about how this would affect the freedom struggle.

Afternoon debates

The Tsug Lakhang temple contains impressive mandalas and statues surrounded by votive offerings of food oils and money. Outside in the courtyard the monks are paired off to debate. Whilst topics and issues may vary the actual ritual of debate follows fairly consistent patterns only slightly embellished by the idiosyncratic movements of individuals. One monk sits whilst another paces before them and putting an argument or statement to them they make a step towards and clap their hands together as thought the dramatic movement emphasises the point to elicit a response or is intended to stir the mind.

As I'm sitting on a bench overlooking the courtyard a middle-aged monk sits down beside me and smiles. He is holding a thermos flask and unscrewing the lid pours himself a cup. He also ponders the scene for about 5 minutes and then reaching inside his crimson robe produces a very new looking Nokia phone and starts fiddling about texting and playing games. Ah the ascetic life!

The Tibet Museum leaves me with mixed feelings. The video footage of Lhasa uprisings in March 1988 and 1989 are very interesting historical records, however this and the other materials on exile, military events and repression, are presented with very sparse accompanying background information, for example the social organisation and culture of Tibet and the greater region it encompassed at points in the past. There are virtually no references to any studies or research and the only statistics given are embedded in prose describing how over 1 million people have been killed or displaced by the occupying regimes since the mid-20th Century. (As a historian and an empiricist this is particularly frustrating.)

Fat as a pancake

Takhyil Peace Cafe is a very serene place to watch the world go by, which is pretty good really because after trying one of their pancakes I'm assaulted by a ton of carbohydrates so much so that I can barely move and want to fall asleep. They're plate-sized and more than an inch thick with huge chunks of apple, banana and papaya inside. I spend my time reading Jared Diamond's 'Guns germs and steel' which attempts to make sense of why Europeans conquered the South Americans and not the other way round, apparently it has a lot to with cows and latitudinal versus longitudinal axes.

Vashisht

Should that be hashisht? There's a haze of charas smoke in almost every cafe in this inert little hillside village a few kilometres from the razzmatazz of Manali, India's premier mountain retreat and honeymooning destination. I only stay for a day or so, just long enough to book a busride to Ladakh, meet a couple of Scandinavian socialists, and visit the Habimda temple.

According to the guidebook, Habimda is Hirma Devi, wife of Bhima and considered to be a 16th Century incarnation of Kali. The temple is a three-tiered pagoda, wooden with ghoulish looking carvings, mounted ibex skulls, and a glowing red inner-sanctum area where people leave offerings. As ever, there is a bell hung above the door-archway to announce your presence.

I circle round the outside of the building and sit down on the simple stone bench to the side, daydreaming for a moment. As I do a short and rotund woman arrives holding a flapping chicken upside-down by it's legs. She's accompanied by a younger man, possibly her son, who is carrying a hatchet. She holds the chicken across a wooden block and with one blow the young man decapitates it. She quickly takes the body which has begun to spurt blood and sprinkles it against the temple walls. The darker stained patches suggest this is not an uncommon event. I'm still trying to work out if this is a sacrifice or they're intending to eat the chicken for dinner and thought they'd kill two birds with one stone (sorry!). As I get up to leave one of the stray dogs that are hanging around steals up to the chopping block, snatches the chicken's head still laying there and scurries off appearing to swallow it whole on the run. I think I'll go back to the guesthouse and lie down...

Manali to Leh

The road from Manali to Leh is something of a traveller's rite of passage, a two day 485km journey climbing up through the Himalayas and passing over the second highest road in the world (the highest awaiting in Leh), on a rickety bus bouncing along rough stone passes, bending around mountain-sides with steep falls and scree slopes with a tendency towards landslides.

The Rohtang Pass is a notorious stretch for accidents and according to the guidebook the name literally means "piles of dead bodies".

Having negotiated the precarious navigation of high altitude rocky roads in the late evening we enter a valley plateau, passing through a moonlit otherworldly landscape, reflections of stars bouncing across the uneven ripples of the river. The valley walls shaped by the elements morph into recognisable shapes like a crowd of giant and slender beings reached towards the skies, waving us on.

Despite assurances from the ticket seller of a fixed price, the camp-site offers dingy tents at more than double the cost. I find allies in two medical students from Scotland and we decide to sleep on the bus. It's definitely false economy but and interesting experience wearing virtually all the clothes I've got, huddled on a poorly padded seat with irregular frosty blasts of ice-cold air piercing my multi-layered protection.

Taglang La, 5360m, is the highest point on the planet on which I've stood. Fortunately I don't experience AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) but my head feels a bit of dizzy as we take a short break to admire the surroundings. Around 6pm we arrive in Leh, the final stretch of the journey passing by straw fields and patches of green trees overhanging streams, all warmed by the bright yellow glow of a setting sun. We're here at last and certainly it feels like an accomplishment as fellow passengers smile and bod to one another. It's surprising how adventurous it feels and what a sense of achievement considering our part involved little more than sitting down for 36 hours.


Palu Guesthouse

Pink-purple, white, orange and yellow flowers surround the garden chairs and table set below a homemade canopy. It's 9.30am and I sit down to munch toast and drain a milky sweet coffee. The guesthouse is off Changspa Road and away from the noisier areas of town, so the only sounds are the murmurings of people strolling along the streets and the bees going about their tasks in what seems to be an unhurried manner. Over the next few days I spend most mornings and some afternoons sitting here, reading Nehru's 'Discovery of India' and playing long games of chess against an Italian man called Romano, who supports Milan but I manage not to hold it against him.

The Ladakh Festival runs for two weeks from the 1st of September. It's essentially engineered to extend the tourist season before the cold weather kicks in towards the end of the month and roads become impassable for the winter. The parade through town involves local people and school-kids dressed in 'traditional costumes'. The people involved look a little disconcerted, like this is not a particularly genuine gathering, and they aren't helped by a mass of amateur photographers, dressed in khaki or safari gear, sporting sunburnt legs and often with more than one camera lens dangling below one their chins, all jostling to get right in their faces to take snaps (what's the collective noun for such a group? a 'skidmark' perhaps? ... based on all the stumbling around). Robbie's assessment that the parade was 'rubbish' was perhaps a bit harsh. In the afternoon, I join Kevin and Robbie, the two guys from Scotland, to climb up to the gompa above Leh palace. Sitting atop of the gompa gives us an impressive panorama view of Leh and the Himalayan mountains in the distance.

Stok Kangri ascent (or how we nearly got to 6000m)

In a small, crumbling roadside cafe a shop in the early evening of 5 September 2007, a rag-tag group of travellers huddle around a table covered with a fading laminate cloth, sitting on unsteady plastic garden chairs, and swigging down spicy chai. Spirits are high with excitement as we discuss the preparations for attempting to climb Stok Kangri, a 6135m Himalayan mountain only 20km from Leh.

With a little asking around sleeping bags and an additional tent are hired together with crampons. The morning bus leaves at 8am and we'll be on it. The air is crisp and with only a hint of cloud pretty soon we're warming up as the bus trundles towards the village of Stok where we'll begin our trek to base camp.

The valley is lush with trees and bushes and a scattered river flowing between boulders and pebbles left from years of glacier melting. From Stok we'll hike about 6-7 hours to about 4450m and set up camp for the night besides a tee-pee style tea-tent. The gap-toothed man grins as he pours parafin into a small stove and cooks up Maggi (the ubiquitous packet noodles), dal and rice, followed by sweet milk chai. His home is a stone shack built close into the hillside. Full and tired we nestle into the two, three-man tents for an early bed-time. It's a cold, cold night and I guess we're all thankful for the extra warmth from sleeping alongside someone.

The morning of Day Two we have our first casualty. Mark decides he is under-equipped to continue having shivered all night in the tent without much sleep. There's a half-hearted attempt to dissuade him but fact is he's not got any pants only shorts and long-johns and wearing puma trainers. Now five we set off after a similar breakfast of Maggi and chai to reach the base camp.

Anders is suffering with the runs which slows us considerably, however the journey only takes 3 hours. Luck doesn't seem to be with us today as we find that the tea tent has closed as the season is nearng an end. Without carrying many supplies we're looking forward to surviving on a few sugary biscuits and cold tsampa (a kind of barley porridge). However, Anders asks around amongst the dozen or so other trekkers and manages to locate snacks and the promise of some cooked food later from some generous campers. Our evening meal consists of a littl pasta with white sauce, three slices of pizza, some kofta, corn and nut snacks shared between us. It's not really a full meal but we wolf it down and save a few chocolate biscuits for the summit attempt.

'The Bastards'

couple and The summit attempt would have to begin in the early hours with 4-5 hours before sunrise so thesnow would be firm enough. Our simple map photocopied from a guidebook and laminated in Leh showed that it was a steep climb up a ridge and the following a rough path before crossing a glacial morain riddled with large crevasses (perhaps it should be renamed the New Labour pass?) A dangerous prospect in the dark without a guide therefore an important task was to findsome who had a guide and follow them. We found a guide who was going to lead a middle-agedwilling to allow us to tag along provided his clients agreed. Although we offered a payment they refused saying they did not want to be responsible for our climbing as they did not know how fit we were. Therefore they immediately got given the tag 'the bastards'. Thismight seem a little unreasonable but they would go on to earn this and other stronger terms.

Undeterred, we'd found out they were setting off at 1am so we reckoned on being able simply to follow them at a convenient distance so as to see the route they took. However, waking at 12.30am we could make out lights on the ridge, 'the bastards' had set off early! Fixing headtorches we set off to catch up what was probably a 30minute start. Aviv took the lead and showed deft skills tracking over rocky terrain where the footprints in the snow can disappear for metres at a time. Fortunately it doesn't snow much as zig-zag across the glacier following the deep-tred bootmarks. The next ascent towards the summit ridge is a steep scree-slope which certainly seemed the most dangerous and scary as we scrambled upwards.

It's a slow process with temperatures at minus 10-15 degrees and although bodies are warm all the extremities are bitterly cold as toes and fingers have long since gone numb. It's harder to breathe and stops become more frequent as Alex especially is gasping short-breaths and has mild nausea.

Confirmed! The headlights above us are descending. Having tracked them for almost 5 hours 'the bastards' seem to be descending, but why? They couldn't have reached the summit yet. They're near now and passing below us about 30 yards to the left. Without shouting we attempt to hail them. Raising voices we get a reply after five attempts from their guide who says it's too dangerous to reach the summit as it is whited-out with a wind and snow storm. Proving they deserve their title, the two climbers with him had obviously seen our lights, knew we hadn't a guide and yet were prepared to allow us to continue without any warning... bastards!!!!

After a conference we decide on descending to base camp. As if to reward our sensible decision the falling snow becomes less and turning around the sunrise yawns and casts a reddish glow across the peaks which brightens the skies quickly, dotted with orange and yellow clouds, a revealing the contours of the peaks and the glacier. Descending in the first-light is much easier and we're all happier despite not achieving the peak. We all find more energy as we retrace our steps, surprised at the terrain that looks so different now and marvelling at how much distance we covered. A sense of achievement replaces the cold and weary thoughts as we reckon to have reached above 5,900m maybe even 6,000m. It's been a tough climb but we've survived it without succumbing to the cold or any serious AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness), although photographic evidence suggests we may have had some mild dozes.

Back at Base Camp Anders takes it upon himself to express our collective distaste at the selfish climbers who seem pretty uncomfortable with his articulate and sarcastic comments delivere with a dry Scandinavian accent, "I just want to say thank-you for all the support and help you have given us, especially for considering the safety of fellow climbers and warning us of the dangerous conditions, thank-you" (either that or they couldn't work out if he was being serious)
Back at base camp we sleep from 9am to 11am before the long downhill journey back to Stok, which can be done in an afternoon, to catch the 6pm bus back to Leh.

Namaste Primary School

It's been almost six months on the road. So far it's been exciting, exploring new places, meeting a variety of cool, interesting and/or odd people, and having shed responsibilities of work and earning enjoying the freedom of travelling. However, as much as I'd like to tell myself it's just a hangover from previous experience there is also a sense of being un-employed, lacking purpose other maybe being a passive observer. Perhaps it's time to do something but what?...

By chance, asking Shekhar about possible volunteer opportunities in Pokhara I find out that he is a trustee/governor of Namaste Primary School and he can arrange for me to do volunteer teaching there. The school was founded by two women from Delft, Holland who had worked with children at a nearby state school and decided there was a need for more provision. They managed to raise funding for land and building and opened in April 2007.

It's 45 minutes walk from lakeside, passing through the main road junctions, dodging buses transporting schoolkids wearing pristine white shirts, following a rough-road alongside canal trenches and two-storey breeze-block houses built amidst saturated fields, skipping puddles and climbing the embankment to get out of the way of enthusiastic motorcyclists, finally reaching a colourful and friendly looking building with a crowd of kids mingling awaiting morning assembly.

First Day

I'm introduced to Anne Bosch the current Dutch volunteer teacher trainer who will show me around. Lessons start at 10am and at 9.45am every morning there is a whole school assembly in the playground. Students from each class form a line for the morning exercises. This involves clapping, standing to attention, raising hands above your head, and although at first it seems a little militaristic the kids smiles suggest it's a lot of fun.

This is followed by morning prayers. Three students are 'volunteered' to stand in front and lead the assembly in reciting the morning prayer by saying a line which is repeated by the rest of the students. With great enthusiasm the kids shout out the lines attempting to set a rapid pace for everyone to try and keep up. It reminds me how at primary school some hymns became more like football chants... "WALK in the light, WA-AW-AWK in the light, WALK in the lie-ight, walk in-the light of-the lord!"

Anna shows me to the staff room where I meet all the teachers - from left to right, [top row] Priya, Nirmila, Savitri, [bottom row] Arjun, Hari, and Dhana (school principal).

It's decided perhaps the best way I could help out is to work with teachers and students on English grammar and pronunciation. Anna sets about devising a schedule for me to rotate between the teachers and I join Dhana for my first lesson with Class Two.

Initially Dhana suggests I can just observe and get a feel for how the lessons go. Standing infront of 18 wide-eyed kids staring at me is a bit daunting not least as they afford me the same status as a teacher and wait for a signal "you can sit down" (which Dhana has to prompt me to give).

Getting to sit at the back of class with the cool kids eases the butterflies. However, having settled down to watch for a while Dhana obviously decides a plunge is the best policy and starts quizzing me on grammar points of conjugating the verb "to be" and suggesting I read a dialogue from the textbook so the kids can hear how I pronounce "croak" (ah the irony!). From this point on I'm classroom support and reference on most English language things.

I follow Dhana to her next lesson with Class One. They are just beginning to learn basic sentences and grammar. However this does not deter conversation and questions. Practically every kid in the class crowds round and wants to know my name, where I come from, do I have brothers and sisters, what are their names, do I like Nepal. It's fun being the centre of attention in such an enthusiastic bunch although not much lesson teaching gets done in this first meeting.

Anna pops her head round the door and asks if I would like my picture taken with the kids - cue mad scramble so everyone can get in on the photo (this could be my favourite travel picture, not least for the Kes impersonator in the front-row!)

Organisation of School Day

There are six classes at the school into which the kids are placed depending on their age and previous school experience, so there's a mix in classes 2-4 ranging from kids aged around 9 years old to 14 years old. The school-day is 10am to 4pm divided into 45 minute periods with a Tiffin (lunch) break at 1pm which means 7 lessons throughout the day. The daily schedule is fixed so everyday the kids will get lessons in English, Nepali, Maths, Science, Health/General Knowledge, Social Studies, and Games.

For fairly obvious reasons we decide there's not much point me attending Nepali or Maths lessons (which is just as well really as seeing quadratic equations on the blackboard sends a cold shiver down my spine!) I'll end up spending most time in Classes 2-4 and working with Arjun and Hari.

Class Four

After a couple of days I've got a schedule of my own to follow devised by Anna. The first lesson of the day is English with Class Four taught by Arjun. I'm sitting on the back row next to Pradeep and Bishal.

Infront, Pooja, Anu and Renuka are exchanging whispers looking over their shoulders and giggling. I wonder what's so amusing. Then Bishal says "Matthew" with and huge cheeky grin (yellow/green t-shirt) "you like half pants?!" I dawns that wearing shorts as an adult and a teacher is not conventional and worthy of a few laughs. "Of course, in England everyone wears half-pants to school", an eruption a laughter from others who've been listening in.

Surviving Nursery

Anna explains that she is due to spend some time observing Hari's teaching in the afternoon and suggests that rather than us both be in the same classroom why don't I join another class instead. By this point I've sat in on most classes except nursery and kindergarten so why not give them a try.

Anna had warned me on my first day that the younger kids could be a little boisterous. I'm greeted very courteously by a class of wide-eyed little people what I mistake for shy smiles "good afternoon". I wave and good afternoon back and as a girl in the front row leans forward and wants to shake my hand, very polite! I smile and say 'hello' and shake hands and all of a sudden I'm surrounded by the entire class all wanting to join in. This could've gone on for quite a while but fortunately Nirmila calms them down and they settle back into their seats for lesson.

At the back of the classroom is a drawn curtain that hides the play room. After an English lesson it will be time for Games. The curtain acts as fortress gate, impenetrable to the kids, but as it is drawn back a whoop of delight rings around the class, the defences have been breached! I blink as a stampede rushes past. At my feet are are pile of shoes expertly removed on the move and looking inside the quiet colourful room that was unoccupied two seconds ago is a full swing party with kids waving games and toys in the air, jumping around manically and waving their hands in the air to imaginary music!

Over the next hour I show them how to play dominoes, help out with a dozen or more jigsaws, and get dragged all round the room to be shown each and every toy by very enthusiastic coterie of connoisseurs. The younger kids finish one period earlier so by 3.30pm I'm sat in Dhana's office that doubles as a small staff room. Anna walks in, takes one look at my obviously exhausted and shocked state and laughs, "you've been in nursery!!"

Quiz-time

On my last day Arjun decides to liven things up with a quiz on general knowledge. Class Two is divided into Team A and Team B. There's an odd number of kids so I make up the extra person on Team A which they (prematurely) celebrate as a guarantee of winning. The General Knowledge questions are taken from their coursebook that includes a wide range of things from geography, animals, Nepali history and Culture and some particularly random literature facts and references. For example, what was the name of the very first children's printed periodical? Deepak on Team B is scoring heavily and knows this one. It's from the 18th Century.... no? why the 'Lilliputian' of course! Afterwards I ask if he likes Gulliver's Travels, (I saw a couple of kids versions in the library) he shrugs, he's not read it.

In the afternoon Hari suggests I do a quiz for Class Three, which ends up being an extended session of 'hangman' (without the hanging man cartoon) by popular demand. Durga's (front row centre blue t-shirt) team lead by a considerable way and even granting a bonus 20 points for the final puzzle isn't enough for the other team to catch up.

Fond farewells

Once the kids have left for the day the other teachers gather to present me with an unexpected gift, a book on Nepali Culture with farewell messages from each person. It's a very thoughtful gesture and although I've only been at the school three weeks it's left a big impression on me, not least that teaching is very rewarding and very tiring! I joke with Arjun that I might be able to answer some of the quiz question next time. It's a bright afternoon as I walk back towards Giri Guesthouse... what's next?

Trekking the Annapurna Himalayas

Day One - Pokhara to Jomsom to Ranipauwa (Muktinath)

Washed, packed and ready to go, feeling just a little bit dazed at 5.30am. Shekhar, the manager of Giri Guesthouse where I'm staying, gives me a life on the back of his motorbike to Pokhara airport, east of the Baidam lakeside area.

The Gorkha Airlines flight is due to take off at 6.30am but due to cloudy and rainy weather conditions we don't depart until 7.30am and I almost miss it by dozing in the cafe whilst waiting. The plane bounces of the clouds shuddering with the winds, which causes a mild panic for a couple of fellow passengers, whereas it's rocking me to sleep. We land just over half an hour later in Jomsom, 2700m. From here it's a 1,000m hike up to Ranipauwa village just below the Muktinath monastery.

Leaving the built up surrounds of Jomsom's guesthouses and restaurant strip, the first stage is a long walk across a wide riverbed of pebbles and branching streamlets. It takes 2 hours to arrive at Kagbeni where I stop for breakfast. There are number of guesthouses and homely cafes in the village but I'm swayed by Mustang Gateway which has 'borrowed' the golden arches logo and named it's restaurant 'Yac Donald's'. The thukpa soup is a bit bland but the homebrewed cider is potent and warming!

Well breakfasted I set off again on what proves to be a lactic acid inducing, calf-busting climb. The environment is windswept and fairly barren on the exposed roads with greener valleys below. It's mid-afternoon when I reach the village settlement of Ranipauwa. Reading a book by it's cover again I choose the Bob Marley Guesthouse to stay the night. It's quiet and peaceful with colourful rooms, but the boiler doesn't want to work so the hot showers are a bracing experience!

Day Two - VIP Lama visit

The temple at Muktinath is just beyond the village and a short steep climb. On the roadside infront of houses and shops tables have been laid out with bowls of food including rice and fruits, flowers, and incense. There is a gathering of monks and local people on a plateau halfway up the path and a troop of mules and horses descending the mountainside following the outer-wall of the temple compound.

A VIP lama is visiting the Mustang region and it is coincidence that today he is here to inaugurate a new monastery building which has been recently built in the village. A parade is held from the temple to the new building. Villagers congregate at the archway to greet the Lama accompanied by a musicians, flower-bearers, people dressed in elaborate and colourful attires and an entourage of horse-riders. The gathering moves to the monastery and following a short ceremony inside the temple hall the throng of spectators and villagers enter a large assembly room. Along with a handful of other trekkers, we're invited to join a communal dinner with 300+ people seated on plastic chairs, sharing Dal baht meals (rice, curried vegetables, lentil soup) with locals and monks wearing orange and crimson robes, some sporting Nike trainers, and gold wrist watches.

Afterwards outside the neighbourhood gathers to watch young guys and a few older ones race horses up and down the main muddy road. Not racing in the sense of a joint start, the competition seems to be who can ride quickest whilst performing equestrian-handling skills including leaning back as far as possible in the saddle or reaching down either side to touch the ground in mid-gallop.

The guidebook entry says of Muktinath temple 'the Mahabharat mentions Muktinath as the source of mystic shaligrams... a Newar-style temple '. The temple itself is relatively small. The square courtyard surrounding has 108 shoulder high waterspouts that channel the streams into a trough on 3 sides. The mid-afternoon skies are bright clouds which provide a kind of hazy light. This accompanied with the wispy white spores of popular trees floating gently around the grounds like snowflakes (or for the more imaginative flight of fancy, faeries,) gives the temple compound a detached, other-worldly feel.

Day Three - Muktinath to Marpha

Fuelled by mountain water and trekker granola bars, I arrive at Jomsom just after midday and after lunch head further on down the track to Marpha. Before the village is a mhane prayer wall meeting travellers. It's a interesting village with an uneven paved road turning between rows of differently shaped buildings leaning above you, which reminds me a little of Czeky Krumlov.

I stop for a breather and something to drink. However, having tasted the apple juice and cider at the small restaurant/guesthouse I decide to rest here. My host is a very-friendly woman who offers me to try some of the apricots that are being drying, both on the balcony and inside the simple bedroom where I'm staying. This small guesthouse is possibly the most rustic living I've experienced so far, complete with an outdoors shower - a brick-walled hut with wooden roof at the back of a rear farmyard, to get to which you walk across the straw-strewn ground past a bemused looking goat loosely tethered in an adjacent overlooking shed.

Day Four - Marpha to Ghasa

On the outer edge of the village I meet Tiffany and Lamore, two fellow trekkers from the US who were also in Ranipauwa. We set out together to reach Ghasa. The landscape is becoming greener now with hillsides rising either side and waterfalls as we wind our way following the contours of the descending river-valley. Landslides render parts of the route tricky and at times nerve-racking, particularly when occasional gangs of workmen point to what proves to be a precariously narrow temporary walkway circling round a mound of rubble and earth with a sheer drop of a few hundred feet below.

Day Five - Ghasa to Tatopani

I'm walking quicker so spend most of time by myself. It's a significant descent to Tatopani which lies at around 1000m. By now the surroundings are covered in thick vegetation, many trees and wild grasses. The route cuts across the river a number of times to bypass landslides, each time passing over steel wire, rope and wooden planked suspension bridges that give me that familiar Indiana Jones sense of adventure.

The menu at Bob Marley cafe Tatopani lists 'special bread' for a significantly inflated price compared with other items. Smiling, the woman chef explains it is because it contains 'Bob Marley medicine', good for what ails you, although she adds promptly that it is better to consume by smoking. Wild cannabis plants cover the hillsides at this altitude and it seems this menu serves as a conveniently indirect way to advertise sale of hashish.

'Pani' means water and 'tato' hot, referring to the hot mountain springs in the village. We spend a good hour or more sitting in the steaming pool, soothing aching muscles and salving hiking blisters. Waking up the next morning the benefit is dramatic, not having to stamp out the nagging feet pains in the first 10 minutes of walking is welcome (although it doesn't last all day).

Day Six - Tatopani to Birenthanti

A group of other trekkers choose to go back via Beni, which involves a 2-3 hour hike to the next settlement where they can get jeep to Beni and then a shared taxi 5 hours back to Pokhara. Having only been trekking for 5 days I decide it would be more fun to go the alternative route via Ghorepani, which involves a 1700m climb to near the summit of Poon Hill and then a long walk down to Nayapul where a taxi back takes 1 hour. The trekkers' guide estimates it will take two days, more than 8hours to reach Ghorepani and a further 6-7 hours to get to Nayapul. Feeling in good condition from the hot springs and setting off at 7am I decide to see if I can do it one day...

The trail is beautiful, a steady stone path meandering steeply up a hillside enveloped in mist with persistent rain that refreshes. However, the going is tough, lugging my rucksack probably 18-20kg, the path becomes a series of short goals and frequent stops to catch a breath. My first proper pit-stop for a hot drink is at Sauta, maybe halfway up, 10.15am for 45minutes. I reach Ghorepani, legs burning and soaked to the bone at 2.30pm. The town seems deserted with hardly any of the guesthouses open as it is out of season. The only place I find serves hot drinks but the kitchen is not open. A hot chocolate later I set off at 3pm on the way down to Nayapul. The checkpost guards shake their heads and say it's at least 6 hours. Unswayed I continue on the path at a pace enjoying the reward of being able to go downhill. This turns into a different kind of challenge beyond Ulleri, the steps. More than 3,000 uneven stone steps weaving down the mountain that strain knees and joints regardless of speed. Around 7.30pm I arrive at Birenthanti, only half an hour away from Nayapul, but the dusk has given way to night and unable to see the path anymore I concede to common sense and stop at a small guesthouse for a welcome hot evening meal and warm bed.

Beni-ficial route?

The olive-green 1970s Toyota Corolla whisks me back to Pokhara from Nayapul. I wonder if I'll meet the trekkers somewhere by lakeside to tell them how I nearly made it in one go from Tatopani. I bump into Tiffany and Lamore a day later. As it turns out, their route was severely hindered by landslides that made it slow-going and prevented jeeps so they ended up staying over-night in Beni and only made it back late in the afternoon.

Pokhara Part One

It's early evening and walking northwards along the lakeside road there's a buzz of activity, restauranteers standing outside hoping to attract diners, old Tibetan woman sitting-down and opening out shawls to lay pendants and necklaces on the pavement, and other visitors wandering about. Soon, passing the shops and cafes, buildings become sparse again. The road bends round the hills to where areas of the lake are being reclaimed gradually for paddy fields, irrigation steps up the delta inlets in neat rows. As I pass by, a family drives a plough knee deep in water and work the mud into dam ridges. The road peaks at a corner with views across the lake. I sit down and watch a fisherman drag nets close to the shore's edge, Nick Drake singing 'Pink Moon' as the sun sets in the far hills.

Peace and leeches

It's a long walk round Phewa Tal (lake) to climb the hill and reach the World Peace Pagoda. On my way I'm met by a young Nepalese lad, Souli, who says I'm going the long route and offers to show a shorter route. He leads a way, rising more steeply, cutting behind cottages and small farms, following narrow pathways and occasionally along a stone-wall line. He tells me about landholding and farming, how his family leases from an owner for the cost of 50% of their crop yield and that buying a decent-sized farm costs about $4,000 which is beyond the means of most. At the ridge summit the World Peace Pagoda stands, a kind of sorry sight up close with a mangled barrier preventing people from climbing the steps and masonry rubble littering the ground around it. Souli explains that not so long ago some visitors were badly injured, one killed, when the balcony gave way and they fell. Now all the marble is being replaced with more sturdy materials.

The views of Phewa lake are stunning though. We walk further on up the ridge passing water buffaloes wallowing in muddy puddles and children playing on the hillside. Back at the Pagoda there's a route down to the lake from which it's possible to get a boat back to the other side. However, the boatman wants to charge 250 rupees and I've not got that in my wallet so ignoring his warnings I set out to circumnavigate the heavy wooded shoreline. More than two hours later, having pushed past face high brambles and spiders webs, clung to rock faces and slid down muddy hills that gave way underfoot, I arrive back at the guesthouse. Kicking of shoes and removing socks I slump into a chair feeling exhausted. It's only spotting some small red specks on bottom of the bed's valance that causes me to look down and realise the boatman was right, I've taken 15 little freeloaders back with me. These bloodsuckers are tiny, able to crawl through your shoelace holes and you don't feel a thing. Some scrubbing later I'm leech-free but my feet look like they've been savaged by Dracula's baby.

Gonna climb that hill no matter how steep...

The Khahare hills to the north have interesting looking rock formations jutting out like giant fingers high above the lakeside below. Emboldened by the pagoda-leech experience and feeling like a challenge I set off walking to find a route up to the ridge. The south-facing hillside gets the early afternoon sun and as the initial canopy of trees disappears it soon becomes a very steep incline of shrubs and rocks without any pathways.

After fun climbing for 45 minutes all of a sudden the hillside plateaus and I'm standing on a well-trodden path. (There's an established route that I missed on the way up which proves far easier to follow on the descent.) From here the route leads through hilltop farms, occasionally going directly through the cornfields.

In places the pathway seems overgrown with brambles and disused, although the fresh buffalo pats suggest otherwise. Walking past a few village settlements and finding sidetracks to keep along the ridge line eventually I reach the rocky outcrops. The reward is panoramic views of the lake and surrounding hills.

Finding Kathmandu

I'm happy to be leaving Lucknow. My short stay in the city unfortunately tarnished by poor accommodation and, as it turn out, not having time to view any sights as it takes a long time to sort out my train ticket to Gorakhpur. However, I did find a decent bookshop nearby the hotel and bought three cheap books which will keep me busy for while:

• The Argumentative Indian, Amartya Sen


• The Jungle, Upton Sinclair


• Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

The train pulls out of the station and soon the city is behind us. I'm resting against the berth dividing panel, looking pensively out of the grilled window and listening to the rhythmic clatter of wheels on the track. The night sky is lit by strong moonlight defining the contours of clouds, like a sombre painting, contours of clouds defined with celestial shadows like brooding titanic boulders. A strong sense of relief.

We arrive in Gorakhpur at 3.45am. Finding a bus to Sounali takes no time and soon we're bumping along a country road on a 3 hour journey to the border town. At the border Indian cycle rickshaw drivers have formed a barricade 200 yards from the border impeding traffic from the Nepal-side. A man tests my reaction saying 'Nepal is a dirty country, why do you want to go there?'. I decide pointing out that he is standing on the street by an open gutter and a pile of rubbish and excrement would not be the best response so I smile and say 'that's your view, I've never been' and walk past.

Getting a visa stamp and exchanging currency is relatively simple and after 30 minutes I've arrived in Nepal and on a bus towards Kathmandu. The landscape is noticeably greener and reminds me of the journey through hills between Krakow and Budapest. The mountain road is spectacular, following the winding course of a river, passing suspension bridges and cables traversing the water, gaining altitude. After a 9 hour ride we arrive at Kathmandu and a short taxi ride later I'm at Hotel Elite in the Thamel District. I set off from Lucknow at 7pm and 22 hours later I'm in Kathmandu, tired but excited at arriving in a new country at the roof of the world!

Sen relaxation

I'm recovered from the journey after a good night's rest in clean, comfortable room and not bothering to get up til noon. The Thamel District in Kathmandu has evolved to meet the needs of the 'tourist /traveller market' and as such you can find Internet cafes, clothes shops, camping and trekking equipment, restaurants all along a couple of main streets. It's a welcome relief some time insulated in this traveller bubble, and I pass a couple of days spending hours in Chikusa Coffee House reading Amartya Sen's 'The Argumentative Indian ', which is a series of essays looking at Indian history, identity and politics. He offers an alternative view of the religious / spiritual characterisations of India and examines its rich traditions of scientific and rational philosophy along with a remarkably heterodox culture of different religions co-existing and interacting.

Swayambhu Temple

Across the river 2km west of Thamel, weaving up a hillside, steps come into view as I turn the corner to the east entrance of Swayambhu. It's a steep climb up to the temple, declining offers of a guide and watching monkeys with amusement as they walk in front of tourists. At the summit, the giant stupa stands with reliefs and sculptures of Buddha at four points to symbolise the elements of earth, wind, fire, and water. On top is the white dome painted with the eye symbol of enlightenment and crowned with a golden spire from which strings of prayer flags are tied.

Walking clockwise round the stupa there is a large bell-frame and mhane row (cylinders inscribed with prayers that rotate). Set back and to the right is a cemetery of headstones and shrines with votive offerings honouring long-since deceased worshippers. Around the central stupa, stone and wooden buildings have become converted into shops peddling brass-ware, handicrafts and artwork as well as soft-drinks.

Further to the west are other shrines and the world peace pond, an unremarkable circular trough with bronze figures at the centre, into which people toss rupees coins, perhaps for luck? Here families of monkeys wander about munching on leaves and tit-bits offered by visitors. They are surprisingly unbothered by human interlopers and if you sit down they walk past or very occasionally over you without a care.

Looking back at the main temple there are thousands of prayer flags strung over an impressive distance all fluttering in the light breeze, a rainbow array above the tree tops.

Mo-mos and Tongba

Across from Elite Hotel is a small restaurant off the side-street, 'the New Kavreli'. Here I try mo-mo for the first time, steamed dumplings containing veg and ginger served with a fiery sauce. Tongba is Tibetan beer. It arrives as a metal tankard filled with millet seeds and herbs and a flask of warm water. The water is poured into the tankard until saturated and using a metal straw pinched at one end to prevent sucking up seeds you drink the mildly fermenting liquid. It can be refilled 3-4 times. The taste is kind of like home-brew and takes some getting used to.

Freak Street?

Jnoche, better known as 'Freak Street', is one of those places that have acquired status in a canon of classic hangouts. However, this is due to the experiences of travellers in the 1960s and 1970s,what remains today is a pretty sanitised and commercial road with few outward signs of whatever made it 'hippie' in days gone by. A little disappointed by the spectacle, I decide to explore the area instead and get lost in some of the streets behind, finding myself wandering through a very different looking part of Kathmandu with few tourists and old crumbling buildings. I re-emerge at the main Durbar and Hanuman Square which is crowded with visitors and local teenagers congregating on the building steps.

Conversations and Cocktails

It's my final evening in Kathmandu, tomorrow I head for Pokhara. Rather than head back to the hotel I decide to try and find a fruit juice bar I'd seen nearby. Unfortunately, they've run out of all citrus fruits apart from lime, which isn't very appealing. As I'm leaving a voice calls to me. A man sits on a stool outside by a table. He's fairly plump, messily dressed with a stubbly face and warm smile. He introduces himself as being from Lebanon and invites me to sit down. We talk for about an hour. He tells me about his home in the south near the Litani river and we discuss the current political situation. He is firmly convinced of 'Syria's meddling causing violence', but reserves biggest criticism for George Bush and Tony Blair. He says they have blinkers and cannot see they are ruining the region, as he puts it "Iraq there are many deaths and now Iran is more powerful. Why? Why do this when this (invade) when this is what happens? No sense!" Hard to disagree.

After a good hour on Middle East politics, I say goodbye and head back towards the hotel, but on the way decide to stop of at a restaurant bar. They offer a free cocktail with each meal so I order enchiladas with Mojito, Nepali hecho México. The barman takes an interest in 'The Motorcycle Diaries', which Aubrey gave to me once she'd done with it, possibly because of the revolutionary symbols on the cover. I offer him the book and in return he insists on pouring me a tall glass of the 'house cocktail' that leaves me feeling just a little tipsy and feeling like another beer. A few extra drinks, nicely toasted, I'm chatting away merrily with all the other barflies, including a Nepali man who claims to have just returned from the West Indies after leaving his wife and pursuing a woman only for it to all fall apart, and Marek a Czech traveller with a passion for India. Much later in the evening I say goodbye, leaving healthy tip, and stumble back to the hotel. I must wake up at 6am to catch a bus to Pokhara and there's a dim sense I'll rue this in the morning but for now the bed is very, very comfortable!

No luck Lucknow

Lucknow is basically a stopping point for me before long haul trip to Kathmandu. Still it's a chance to see another city in India, maybe some of the landmarks associated with the great mutiny of 1857. However, after a pleasant train journey things start to deteriorate...


Outside the railway station the familiar ambush of rickshaw drivers awaits. This time it feels more irritating. Having managed to negotiate a fare and destination to a cheap hotel recommended in the Rough Guides book (not easy as drivers can receive commissions by taking tourists to other, usually more expensive, hotels) and reached the rickshaw (which turns out to be cycle rather than motorised) and placed my bags on the seat the driver changes the price and demands 33% extra. When I ask what for he says to cover the railway 'parking fee'. I protest that we agreed a fare and this is a charge that shouldn't be passed onto me. I take my bags out of the rickshaw. The driver protests at first, holding onto my rucksack and I say 'let go' as firmly as possible without swearing, and then he consents to the original fare. But feeling almost cheated and not a little stubborn I shake my head and say 'why should I trust you now' whilst walking away. I'm pursued for a few hundred yards by the driver on his rickshaw trying to convince me but to no avail.


The long walk to the hotel is a chance to stretch my legs after the train journey and also clearing my head somewhat. On reflection, I feel bad about the encounter. We had agreed a fare so to some extent my stance was legitimate. But the amount was so small, only 10 rupees, and walking the distance over 50 minutes, I know it would've been a big strain on his legs to haul me, my rucksack and guitar all that way, through hot, dangerous, noisy and fuming traffic, for only 40 rupees (50 pence).


Maybe it was a reaction to being surrounded by people and having to be on guard and assertive to avoid being tricked? Maybe reading too much into warnings from the guidebook? Maybe because this is the first time alone in India? Maybe all of the above. It was one of those moments where you forget what you know to be reasonable and focus on feeling aggrieved. Anyway, the walk gives me chance to think and resolve to stick to what I know i right, be more flexible in the future and less curt with someone trying to make a living in very difficult conditions who doesn't need extra crap from me, sorry man!


The hotel adds perspective. Rickshaw drivers are trying to earn a tough living by eeking out favourable fares, but these guys can be far more dodgy with their margins. Chowdhury Lodge Annexe is behind a restaurant which you have to walk through, passing the kitchens to the reception hidden in a back-room that looks like it doubles as a storage facility. It's 9.30pm, I'm tired and it's dark. The po-faced man at reception doesn't even shrug as he tells me that the only room he has available costs 500 rupees a night and I won't find anywhere else cheaper in Lucknow as it is the holiday season.

I pause trying to look like I'm unconvinced and maybe a discount will be offered. But the reception man just stares blankly with an 'I couldn't give a .... what you do' look. The room is large but the walls are yellowing, the bathroom is decrepit, and insult to injury there is a condom floating in the toilet that refuses to flush away. Thessaloniki youth hostel has a new partner in my worst places to stay league!

Orchha

The main fort and palace at Orchha is across a bridge over the Betwa River, which at this time of year has shrunk to a series of fluorescent green pools scattered along the riverbed. Walking through a giant spiked wooden door we head towards a raised terrace.

At one end a strange mass of rises from beneath stone steps. Branches seem to melt and wilt in the heat and it appears to be a number of trees intertwined but on closer viewing it is only one tree from which branches have grown floor-wards and secured roots.

From the main courtyard of Jahangir Mahal you can survey the domed towers and turret walkways. Centrally placed are sunken bathing pools surrounded by stone benches. A few women are using the only pool filled with water to do laundry.

Ascending the main stairway from the courtyard you gain access to the turret walkways and ramparts that have precariously few railings and excellent landscape panorama views of temples, green fields and trees stretching to the horizon.

Railing support brackets are built into the side of the walls and they include foot high stone carvings of elephants bearing the load (a nice touch!) Inside the low-ceiling rooms are filled with materials and equipment for renovation works, bamboo ladder and scaffolding along with piles of rubble. The outer-walls have stone window frames shaped into various detailed geometric patterns.

Raj Rama cafe is just across the bridge back towards the village. They make very good thali, a mixture of spicy lentil-Dal, vegetables, papads and rice. Afterwards we try the Internet place but the connection is down so instead 'plan B', beer in the guesthouse garden. We manage to buy an Indian brew called 'something 5000', which has a very odd taste. Consulting a guidebook it says that brewers use glycerin as a preservative, which might explain why the sunset view of the fort appeared to be an especially dazzling pink!

Jhansi to Lucknow

Jhansi railway station is 18km away from Orchha. From here the train takes 7 hours and despite the apprehension of not having confirmed a seat it turns out not to be a problem. Asking if the seat is free a friendly looking guy nods and invites me to sit down. Vire is 31 years old and lives in a town just before Lucknow. We move from polite conversation to chatting about background and experiences, passing the time. I learn he has a degree in metallurgy and works in the steel industry. He explains that Goa and Bihar both contain large mineral and ore deposits that are mined and then sent to regional centres for processing. He also has a passion for cinema and an encyclopedic knowledge of older classic films. Without noticing time passes quickly and saying goodbye I realise it's only another hour until arriving in Lucknow.

Khajuraho

The night train from Varnasi takes 9 hours. I wake up 6am, my bare-arm sticking to the blue plastic seat-covering. The landscape is noticeably greener outside as we roll past farm-land easing into Satna railway station. We arrive 6.30am and catch an auto-rickshaw to the depot just in time to get on the late-running 6.30bus departing to Khajuraho and saving a 3 hour wait. Although the journey is less then 100km it takes 4 hours due to the road condition and stops. Three people crammed on a two-seat bench it is a knee-jarring bowel-bouncing experience made infinitely more testing by overhead speakers blaring unrequested high-pitched Indian pop music at decibels to prevent rational thought. We're dropped off 11km away and make the final stage in a landcruiser-style truck made to seat 8-9 but which holds 21 (I am convinced they are competing with Cairo cabbies for some world record, 'how many passengers in a...') Tired, aching, with slightly worse hearing, we arrive at Surya hotel, Khajuraho. Sitting down for a late breakfast in the hotel garden I notice we're joined by a distant cousin of Zebedee who is obviously curious about our choice of food but opts instead for the insects crawling about lower down the tree-trunk.

Athletic animal lovers

The 10th and 11th Century temples at Khajuraho are unique across India and the world. Incredibly intricate carvings and sculptures adorn all the walls and steeples. Lying within a compound that has been cultivated and preened to create a feel of well-kept public gardens, the vast monuments depict armies of warriors, elephants, gods and goddesses.

However, the Western Group is probably most famed for the very sexually explicit figures and scenes, including the south-facing wall of the Lakshman temple, over 1100 years old, which has a embossed frieze 1-2 feet high and 3-4 feet wide, 6 foot above the ground illustrating a man getting personal with his horse to the shock of onlooking women. This is alongside some truly athletic 'mithuna' scenes that suggest the Chandellas were committed to exploring possibilities from all angles.

The sheer volume of carvings is at times too much to take in. Just looking at one face of a building in full detail would take hours. Inside the temples are more statue sculptures and shrines for worshipping that catch the late afternoon sun and seem to come to life.

Whilst walking between temples I hear a rustling overhead and a very large monkey is chewy on some leaves. As I raise my camera to take a photograph the monkey bares its teeth and hisses loudly. Apparently home-sapiens share something like 98% same DNA as monkeys, which I can believe as I got that message clearly 'feck off!'.

It's almost sundown and perhaps a chance for a ambient photo of temples bathed in orange-red light. Unfortunately a stubborn gray cloud blocks the light and is joined by some equally moody friends. We consider staying for the sound and light show but it means paying the entrance fee again so instead we look for a restaurant for tea. For a while I'm distracted by a gecko stalking insects in the corner of the room when I notice that outside we're getting a show for free. A sharp crack not of thunder but lightening fills the air. For the next 30 minutes and electric storm rages above us, sheets and bolts streaking across a crumpled a crumpled indigo-violet canvas.

Varanasi

Smarter than your average guesthouse

Varanasi train station is awake and busy, I'm still sleepy-eyed, stretching and trying to adjust to the morning brightness. We wander outside and meet the waiting throng of rickshaw-drivers and hotel touts. On another day it might seem stressful to have 15 people surrounding you all talking at once trying to persuade you to follow each of them, but somehow it's not, in fact it's almost amusing as I'm disorientated by multiple questions and decide just to smile until there's a chance to speak.

Half asleep I'm barely able to communicate but in the end we negotiate a ride to Yogi Lodge recommended in the guidebooks. It turns out this isn't the same one but 'Old Yogi Lodge', the qualifying prefix not actually denoting precedence merely an embellishment. However, the place is clean, inexpensive and the guy who greets us, Bhai is friendly and welcoming.

Muslim silk district

Our first morning and a glimpse of the monsoon rains. After ditching our bags and a brief rest we set out with Bhai to explore the famed Varanasi silk district. About 10,000 people, predominantly Muslims, form a concentrated 'cottage industry' in Varanasi for the production of silk items. Although famous for the quality of garments and fabrics it is not a network of independent artisan craftsmen. The production process is divided into parts and most workers are involved in repetitive tasks to generate significant quantities of material.

We get a walking tour of the district, passing along the uneven and broken flag-stone paved, narrow streets. Our guide describes how production involves distinct stages and processes, some sequential others parallel. Processing of raw material and extraction involves regular dunking and removing of matted material in large vats of boiling water and chemicals to soften 'threads'. We pass by open doors and windows where foot and hand loom weavers, quite a few appearing to be young, sit hunched at the manual-power machines. Clustered together are tiny workshops for repair and maintenance of machinery and labourers used metal plates and hand chisels to punch holes in boards that will be used to weave elaborate and ornate patterns into fabrics.

At the end of our tour we're brought to a merchants house who offers us tea and displays some of the finished articles. Curious about how many merchants there are I ask about how many people he employs - 600-800 depending on orders and demand. He pays mainly a hour-rate but sometimes this can be topped up by piece-rate for specific work. He explains earnestly how he has done away with monthly wages and instead pays his workers each week so there's less chance they'll run out of money and need to borrow because if they do it will at most be a couple of days before they're paid again, very thoughtful!

Brahmin ceremonies and burning ghats

In the evening we head towards the riverbank to view the performance of a nightly ceremony. Sitting on the concrete steps overlooking a raised platform we're in the company of hundreds of spectators and worshippers, many visitors from other part so India and the world, travellers, as well as local people. Seven priests dressed in striking orange robes perform highly synchronised rituals under a delicate canopy of silk sheets and flags, involving chants, candles and oil lamps, chiming bells, and shaking of incense sticks to produce a thin haze through which you can make out reflections on the Ganges and the silhouettes of boats. A little girl, less than 10 years old, passes through the crowd anointing people with a red tikka on the forehead for good luck, and a few rupees donation.

Afterwards we walk along the twilight riverbank towards one of the main burning ghats, which appears only as a dim glow in the indistinct distance. Here an almost ceaseless process of constructing funeral pyres and cremation takes place, only pausing briefly in the early morning hours to enable bathing. We climb up the step nearby to reach an overlooking building. Here a volunteer from one of the ashrams approaches and offers to explain what is happening.

The Ganges at Varanasi is considered to be source of great power, one of the most important crossing points between this world and the spiritual world, where the devote can transcend the cycle of physical reincarnation. When a person dies the burning ceremony should take place within 24 hours. Even with modern transportation methods this is not possible for many further away regions. So people, elderly or infirm though also some people wanting to simply live out their life in the holy place, make a pilgrimage to Varanasi in order to die. Those with little or no money stay at ashrams where they are cared for by volunteers and via charity donations.

Watching a blackened form glowing as an whit-robed eldest son throws handfuls of sandalwood on the pyre, a heavy-scent burning and musky rises and sort of sticks in my nostrils. Head-hair is shorn from the deceased and gathers in an untidy pile amidst the logs, ash and mud. I'm aware of seeing this as an outsider and as such the experience seems strange. Some people feel reverence witnessing this process and I can sense the religious meaning but as well there is a growing uncomfortable feeling of witnessing something else, raw and real. In the darkness, watching ragged-clothes men sweating to drag logs and construct pyres seemingly oblivious to anything but their physical exertion, the burning bodies, the piles of human-hair, these images of death demand attention and there is something haunting about them which remains after we leave.

Buddha speaks!

In 6th Century BC, Siddharata Gautma, Buddha, uttered his first teachings at Sarnath. Here excavations have uncovered the remains of a monastery, alongside later stupas and temples. The Dharma Chakra Stupa, a cylindrical tower of bricks and carved inscriptions, is claimed to mark the exact spot of the sermon. Nearby the main grounds is a garden with a large statue of Buddha raised on a central podium.

Ganges at sunrise

An early rise at 5am we head to the river to see the sunrise on the Ganges. We're driven in an auto-rickshaw by the brother an older man, maybe late 40s, who seems to be either the owner or main manager of the guesthouse (who has a distinct aroma of alcohol that accompanies his cheery smile). Our boatman paddles gently along the river pointing out various ghats and buildings on the bank (mostly just reading the names written in large painted letters on the walls). Expanding on his list of sights he tells us something about the burning ghats explaining that it requires at last 20 kilos of wood and three hours to properly cremate a body. Based on what the ashram volunteer told us this would be 3000 rupees just for the fuel to perform a funeral. It is not surprising that many poorer families are unable to afford this expense and instead wrap their deceased relatives in cloth and set them in the river. As if to prove the point an anonymous white parcel floats past with an emaciated leg jutting out from a tear in the cloth.

Afterwards we're taken on a tour of the local temples, including: the Rama temple, a single, elegant and quiet building with marble floors, central shrine, and large scale inscriptions from the epic Ramayana on walls; the Durga temple with its brightly painted shrine and bells for worshippers to announce their presence as they bring gifts to the goddess; and the Hanuman 'monkey god' temple, which perhaps unsurprisingly has many monkeys walking about to which Hindu worshippers give gifts of fruits and nuts. In the story of Rama's exile in a forest and searching for his wife Sita who has been kidnapped by the emperor Ravana, Hanuman helps Rama by leaping across a vast ocean to find her. For this, as well as other examples, the monkey god is revered for his strength. This temple is by far the busiest and Bhai later explains that this Saturday 16 June, is a particularly important religious date and maybe 85% of all Hindus in Varanasi and around will attempt to visit the temple during the day. (Unfortunately, though understandably photography is not permitted in these temples)

Classic evening

Triveny Music House is not what was expected. Leaving shoes outside on the street step, we enter a small ground-floor room which has a few cushions lining the walls and at the 'far' (2-3 metres away) end sit a tabla and sitar player. We're part of an audience of 6 people. A synthesiser provides background waves of sound, alternating E and B notes, as the musicians start playing, slowly at first then gradually building the layers of melody and rhythm to a pulsating blur of hands, rapid notes, string bends and beats. They play for almost an hour a medley of songs. Then a woman in the audience sitting closer to the musicians begins to sing, holding the synth notes and then, just like the musicians, adding detail and intricacy. After an hour and half the concert is finished and the sitar player and singer leave to warm applause from his small yet thoroughly impressed audience. The tabla player then invites each of us to join in, providing extra drums and for me a Spanish-guitar. We play for another 45 minutes to an hour, learning rhythms and creating melodies, maybe not quite the same level of skill as before but in my humble opinion not half bad, and immense fun!