Saturday, October 23, 2010

Blog 6 – Lumbini, Chitwan, Pokhara, Kathmandu, Hetauda (Nepal)

Blog 6 – Lumbini, Chitwan, Pokhara, Kathmandu, Hetauda (Nepal)

With only two more nights remaining before we return to India, all of the group are making the very most of Nepal and Kathmandu where we are currently based. On a personal level, I have had some of the most enjoyable days of the Oz Bus trip so far and although we have been here over ten days, I feel that we have only scraped the surface as regards experiencing what Nepal has to offer. We had a twelve hour bus journey from Varanasi in India to Lumbini in Nepal and the border set-up was the most primitive I have ever seen. We arrived in darkness, parked on the side of the road in a very busy and dirty looking town and fought our way through mothers with babies and empty milk bottles, beggars and street hawkers. In my three minutes walk, I politely refused to purchase 72 Buddha’s, 45 Mount Everest’s, 24 plastic Taj Mahals, 18 Golden Temples and 3 babies.
There were two men working in what resembled a dilapidated hut which was called ‘Border Security, The Passport Office and Immigration Control’ – so with all those titles, they were undoubtedly very important men! In order to be processed, you had to walk over every type of animal shit on your route to their very important desk. They threw some forms at us which we filled in whilst using the outside walls for something to lean on and they then took our passports and brought them into what looked like a dark broom closet and closed the door. The thought entered my head that I would never see my little maroon EIRE passport again and that it was destined to a life in the cupboard buried in the mop bucket and the Domestos. (if that’s where it ended up, it DEFINITELY never would be seen again because from the look of the place, neither mop bucket or Domestos had EVER made it out of the closet either). Anyway, my fears were allayed when Important man No. 1 came out with the passports stamped and handed them to Important man No. 2 who flung them at us in a ‘take them to hell and get out off my sight’ gesture. We did exactly that, boarded the bus and drove to Lumbini which is a few kilometers inside the Nepalese border.

That night, for the first time since I boarded the bus in London, I was allocated my own bedroom. Because of the odd number of females on the bus, (as opposed to the odd females on the bus) each night there is one person who is granted the luxury of their own room. In fear of an Animal Farm type of revolt, when announcing who has their own room each night, Lana our Tour Leader has had to develop a watertight system that is 100% transparent and free from ambiguity. Therefore, this single room allocation is done alphabetically and most of the passengers had already experienced their ‘turn’, but being an R (Ruddy), it took 40 nights of sharing before it came to me. Unfortunately, the actual hotel we stayed in that night was a bit of a dive and the room was tiny and damp and dirty – but I absolutely loved it.
On entering the room, straight away I emptied my rucksack onto the bed and then folded each piece of clothing ever so neatly and placed each garment into the musty wardrobe whose door was hanging off. I used six of the six shelves – about one piece of clothing on each shelf! I then went into my little en suite bathroom and put every toiletry I possessed on top of the sink that I didn’t have to share with anyone. I walked to the door (one step actually) and stood and admired the magnificent sight that was my shampoo, my conditioner, my shower gel, my deodorant and my facecloth … STREWN over the bathroom. Out I came and threw myself onto the double bed (only after I had a look for insects and creepy crawlies). I contorted myself into every position possible and spent the next ten minutes deciding which way I’d lie when I first got into bed, which direction I’d then turn before I went to sleep and what way could I best utilize every inch of the double bed. When I tired of that game, I decided to have a shower before I went downstairs to dinner. I gathered my belongings close to me (my four bottles) and turned on the water and was experiencing my freezing cold but ’isn’t life wonderful’ shower when all of a sudden ….. complete darkness … a Lumbini power cut! I turned off the taps thinking ‘that might bring the lights back on’ (the mechanics of plumbing obviously isn’t my strong subject), but no, that didn’t work. I closed my eyes for thirty seconds … and reopened them … but surprisingly enough, that too didn’t work, it was still in darkness. All of a sudden, this single room lark didn’t seem quite as attractive a proposition after all. After five minutes of chanting ‘oh god, oh god, oh god’ I decided to try make my way out to my bedroom. I knew there were no windows in the bedroom when I entered the bathroom and chances were, there still wasn’t going to be windows when I came out. My assumptions were correct. Like a spindly legged newly-born giraffe taking his first steps (more emphasis on the giraffe than the spindly legs please), I performed little tentative baby steps from the shower and out into the bathroom. I found the sink and felt my way along the wall until I came to the towel rail and then found the door and then the door handle. Feeling quite confident and cocky at this stage, I opened the door and stepped out. Somehow, between the time I entered the bathroom and exited the bathroom, a HUGE step had appeared … a huge step that I had not anticipated in my stepping out. I felt myself falling and falling and falling and my life flashed in front of me … I had flashbacks of myself in a pink baby-gro, as an awkward teenager, on my graduation day, on the OZ Bus …….and BANG, I hit the deck! I lay in complete darkness on the floor of the bedroom in a crumpled heap, at least three and a half foot below the bathroom floor level. Had I survived or was I dead? Could I hear angels singing in the background? Where were the fluffy clouds and cherubs playing harps? Were the shadows I could see the silhouettes of the pearly white gates? I lay there in a state of confusion until I heard three Nepalese male voices roaring at each other outside in the corridor – presumably looking for the candles or matches or the generator switch. With the newly acquired knowledge that I had survived the fall and was definitely alive, whilst stretched on the ground, I performed a full body check on myself – starting from wiggling my teeth and ensuring that at least a few of them were still embedded in my gums. I rotated my ankles, gyrated my hips, counted my fingers and toes, swiveled my neck, felt my vertebrae, circled my shoulders and then I tried the concussion test. Whilst, on the broad of my back, I held up three fingers in front of face and couldn’t see them. Then I held up two fingers and couldn’t see them either. It became strikingly apparent that the fall had left me blind.
‘Mary and Michael Joe, it was one of those unfortunate things, she hit the step with her head in the only place that could have left her without vision! I let out a bloodcurdling screech akin to Mary Ingles in Little House on the Prairie when she herself went up the ladder in Pa’s house and discovered that she had gone blind. Then I remembered that the lights were off and no matter how many fingers I held up, I wasn’t going to be able to see them. Blushing at my silliness, I hoisted myself up onto all fours and crawled over until I found the bed and gingerly stood up. I knew that I had carpet burn on my knees as I could feel the remnants of Persia’s finest carpet patterns across my patellae. Other than that, my other injuries were not life threatening. In complete darkness, I proceeded to try to find clothes in my wardrobe … any clothes .. and put them on in a manner that would allow me to go downstairs for dinner. Isn’t it quick that food came back onto the agenda once I discovered that I had a pulse?  I had just made my best attempt at dressing myself when the electricity came back on. With the luxury of a 200 watt bulb, I checked that I had all garments on in the right way; I had another examination of my wounded knees, applied some TCP and plasters and limped downstairs. Before I left the room, I located my torch in the base of my rucksack and brought it with me. Never again will I have to go through the ordeal of power outages and being left in the dark … literally!

Anyway where were we? As those blogs are going on, I’m getting more and more distracted. Yes, I was telling you about Nepal and some of my wonderful days here. Let me tell you about Chitwan. We arrived in this mountain village and our accommodation consisted of timber huts in the middle of trees and a forest-like landscape. There is no internet, wifi, or mobile phone coverage so it really felt cut off from the rest of Nepal. The first morning we got up at 7.00 a.m., had some breakfast and walked down to the riverside where the entire group boarded canoes. With about seven people to each canoe, we were transported down the river by a Nepalese man who used a pole to navigate his way through the river. Our boat was fortunate enough to be the first to go through the undisturbed territory and throughout the ninety minutes, we were privileged to see the most wonderful array of flora and fauna. I kept thinking it would have been a bird-watchers paradise – every type of imaginable bird from Kingfishers, to Lapwings, to Fish and Serpent Eagles to Pheasants to Peacocks. (I’m a complete novice when it comes to ornithology – I’ve now exhausted my terminology). The guide had very good English and was able to point the places we should be looking in order to see the best views of the animals – monkeys, rhinos, deer, elephants and many many more species. When we arrived at the point of the river to get meet up with our fellow Oz Bus boaters, we discovered that the screeching we had heard earlier was when a crocodile had leaped from the water directly beside one of the other boats. They were all still quite shell-shocked when we spoke to them but totally exhilarated and believe me when I tell you that Mr. Crocodile is regularly mentioned when discussing Nepalese highlights. By the way his dimensions get bigger every time we’re re-told the story. In fact there’s a direct correlation between the size of the crocodile and the number of cocktails consumed – hope you’re not thinking there’s any signs of the green eyed monster in this blogger????

That same afternoon, we went out on a two hour jungle trek which rates as one of the highlights of the trip for me so far. We were separated into four different groups and prior to starting off, the guides instructed us on how to react if we came across different animals. For example, if we were charged by a rhino, we were to run in a zig zag shape as fast as our legs could carry us and up the nearest tree. But, if we were charged by a tiger, on no account should we run away from it. He told us that we have to face the tiger head on and APPROACH it and this might make it run away from you. (the ‘might’ didn’t convince me too much!). Being mindful that my attention to detail isn’t too great, I had visions of myself getting my new instructions all mixed up and sprinting towards the rhino and being impaled on his rhino horn or alternatively, running from the tiger when she makes her appearance and being mauled to death three paces into my zig-zag sprint. So you can imagine, I was a nervous wreck starting off on my jungle trek. The rain was absolutely torrential – in fact, in my whole life, I have never ever experienced two hours of rain like it. Whilst listening to the Head Guide giving the ‘you’re doing this at your own risk’ and ‘on no account will we pay for your body to be repatriated’ spiel (okay, he didn’t say EXACTLY that, but you get my drift!), out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the other Guides tucking their trousers inside their socks. I thought ‘if it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for me’ and although having no idea why I was doing it, I proceeded to do the same with my own Adidas socks and my jungle walking trousers! I was willing to sacrifice looking like a complete eejit if it was going to protect me from something bad happening to my ankles. So we set off, and I have never felt more like David Livingston or Sir Francis Drake …. as I entered into the unchartered and highly dangerous territory …. a Guide to the front of our group of six people and a Guide to the back of the group … and me as good as ON the latter’s back!

Twenty minutes into the expedition, I realized why the Guides had tucked in their trousers … feckin’ leeches. The monsoon rain had brought them out in their millions. Now, I had never seen a leech before and I definitely didn’t realize that they attached themselves like limpets to your skin and if not removed within seconds, they make you bleed as their slimy little bodies gets fatter and fatter from your platelets and red and white blood cells. If there was any chance of spotting rare and exotic and wild animals, it was effectively nulled by the sounds of squealing and screeching every thirty seconds when someone felt themselves being bitten. The rare and exotic and wild animals were given more than sufficient time to be in the next province such was the extent of the howls of pain and the efforts required to remove the leech before one needed an emergency blood transfusion. However, one hour into the jungle trek, with both of the Guides eyes scanning the horizon for dangerous wildlife and our eyes scanning our legs for leeches, the fella at the front, practically falls to the floor on all fours, puts up his hand and whispers ‘SSSHHHH STOP’. He says ‘Mother Rhino and her baby – very dangerous combination… NOBODY MOVE!’ At the risk of succumbing to death by undiscovered leeches, I averted my eyes from my legs and peered through the bushes to try and see ‘the dangerous combination’. Through the lashing rain and the jungle terrain, I could just about see some shapes in the distance which in truth could have been a rose bush, a double decker bus or a mother and a baby rhino. He ushered us all to keep low down as she could charge at us – I was down so low that I was on eye level with his tucked in socks. All of a sudden he shouts ‘SHE’S SEEN US – RUN’. Well the six of us took off in a 100 metre sprint – in all different directions. I almost trampled the other Guide who was standing his ground with his big stick – in fact I used him as a human springboard to make it up the nearest tree. My heart was jumping in my chest as I hid my frame around the six inch wide baby sapling and I wondered did rhinos trample their victims to death or would I simply be gored to death by her ivory horn. I tried to calculate how many of my vital organs would be attached to her horn when she decided to remove it from my torso – I figured definitely the liver, kidneys, pancreas, at least one lung and maybe one if not both of the intestines. Next thing the Guide shouts ‘I think she’s gone, you can approach slowly’. He and his fellow Guide stood in a warrior like position brandishing their very primitive like sticks in the air (I would have been FAR happier ‘approaching slowly’ if both carried Kalashnikov rifles). Endangered species statistics mean very little to me if it comes to a choice between slapping an approaching rhino with your stick saying ‘you bold bold rhino’ or giving him a bullet straight between the eyes. Whether the rhino and her baby actually ever existed I’m really not that sure but did it make us forget about the leeches, without a doubt!

I haven’t even gotten to the elephant trekking or the bathing the elephants part of the day yet and I’ve ran out of blog and you’ve ran out of patience I’m sure. I’ll tell you, it was one long and eventful day. I think there’s quite a lengthy book written called ’61 hours’ and the full book is written around those 61 hours and nothing else. I think my ’24 hours in Chitwan’ bears a strong similarity – I’m only up to 1.00 p.m. and I have a load more activities to tell you about – maybe I’ll include them in another blog if I haven’t bored you to tears. If you see my bathing with the elephants description appearing in the Koh Samui beach blog, don’t be surprised – but for now I’ll spare you the details. We head back to India in two days time for three days and then we fly from Calcutta to Bangkok – so that’s probably when you’ll hear from me again. Till then, wishing you the very best and will chat soon. Debbie x (the Fearless Jungle Explorer).

Monday, October 18, 2010

Blog 5 – Agra, Lucknow, Varanasi (India)

Blog 5 – Agra, Lucknow, Varanasi (India)

We have just completed our second week in India and lots of the group reckon that they’re well and truly ‘India’d out’. I think there is a limit to the level of noise and chaos that the average person can take and at times I have almost fallen in off the street and into whatever hotel we’re staying …. anything to get away from the commotion and pandemonium that is everyday life in this country. I genuinely reckon that if I had to relocate to India and live in any of the cities we have visited, I wouldn’t ever reach my fiftieth birthday. (I was going to say my fortieth, but with its proximity, chances are I definitely would!). In saying that, there is something about India that has captivated my attention and my imagination. The Oz Bus has now driven through ten countries and throughout our two weeks in this country and throughout the thousands of kilometers we’ve travelled, I have hardly closed an eye on any of those journeys. Whilst in India, gazing out the bus window is something that I have never tired of and thirty seconds can not pass without seeing something or somebody that gives you something to think about and reflect upon. What has taken me by surprise is the sheer volume of people and it makes me wonder what it must be like to live ones life without any personal space. With a population in excess of 1.1 billion, one would automatically think that the cities and towns and villages would be constantly chock-a-block and indeed they are. But the small country roads between villages are also filled with people on every mode of transport – rickshaws, bicycles, walkers, busses, animals, cars – all vying for their own bit of space to go about their daily business.

Stopping for toilet breaks in the most rural and remote service stations has also been an educational experience for me. It is the most amazing sight to witness the locals gather around and stare at the twenty six white people who have stepped off the bus. What starts of initially as three or four people watching frequently builds to fifteen or twenty people in the fifteen minutes taken between our arrival and our departure. We may as well be aliens who have entered their community such is their level of interest and absolute fascination. Other travellers on the bus have explained that as the bus is travelling outside tourist areas, for many of the locals, it may well be their first time seeing Caucasians and indeed their reaction to us suggest that this could well be the case. Perhaps I’m simply naïve but I had this vision in my head of native tribes in the Amazonian jungle providing such a reaction when they saw white people but not for one moment did I think that our arrival would evoke such a response here in India. I know in my last blog I spoke about the little children I’ve encountered and throughout the last week, they have continued to make me laugh and cry. In Agra, I made friends with one little boy called Biki. He was twelve years old though if he had told me he was seven, I would have believed him. He was so small and so thin but he had the most beautiful little face and had a smile that would absolutely melt the hardest of hearts. He travelled on our rickshaw when we were going to visit the Taj Mahal and throughout the most hair-raising journey, several times he laid his hand on my arm and said ‘you okay lady, don’t worry, I’ll take care of you’. In my own mind I was thinking that one way of taking care of me was if he could get the rickshaw down from the bonnet of the rickshaw behind us ….. or get the driver to indicate over (!) to the rickshaw slow lane or else get the buffalos head out from the back of the rickshaw and away from my left earlobe. The buffalo’s participation in the journey was when we were stopped for thirty minutes in the Taj Mahal’s equivalent to the Headford Road Roundabout traffic jam. In truth he’d have been grand if he just stayed quiet whilst walking alongside our rickshaw – but in his excitement, he became like Pavlov’s dog and drooled and salivated down on my new Visiting Temples sarong and my Visiting Temples shoes. Now that’s all fine if you can bring that same sarong and shoes home and pop them into a Whirlpool 500 or a Miele 1000 washer / dryer, but buffalo saliva is best avoided when you have to try and wash the soiled garments in a leaking wash hand basin, in freezing water …. with Clinic shampoo … and have them dried and on you before the bus departs five hours later.

Anyway, going back to Biki, we had several lovely chats over the course of the few days. He had very good English which he had learned from his years hanging around tourist hotels and selling postcards. He had never been to school because as he said, ‘I am not a rich man’ and he wanted to be a rickshaw driver when he grew up. He asked me loads of questions about what I had been doing at college and we talked about the types of courses he’d like to do if he had the money. It made me so sad to think of what this little boy with charm, charisma and intelligence could actually become if he was given even the smallest opportunity in life. I remember last year teaching a 1st year CSPE class and dealing with the child labour topic and what that might mean for the child who has to work and who never knows the feeling of being able to play and to enjoy life. We talked about how children involved in child labour wouldn’t be able to go to school and what their daily lives might be like. Probably for the first time in my own life, by engaging in conversation with this young boy, I learned a little bit about what it is like to be working since he was four years old – trying to make enough money to give to your parents so that they can rear their other children. In Biki’s case, there were another six children – four boys and two girls.
On our last evening in Agra, when I arrived back from a nearby restaurant, Biki was waiting for me outside the hotel. He gave me the biggest most genuine smile, came over and said he had waited to say goodbye as he lived five kilometers away and wouldn’t be into the city by the time we departed at 7.00 a.m. the following morning. He told me that ‘I was really nice lady because I treated him like a friend and not like the Israeli tourists treated him’. (I don’t know any Israeli’s but I think I’ve gone off them!). Anyway, we had another lovely chat about how we are all equal (and not to take any notice of the Israeli’s). He gave me a little plastic Taj Mahal toy in snow, I gave him a few rupees and we hugged and said our goodbyes. A wonderful little boy who could teach us all a few lessons. I hope he’ll be okay and I hope what life throws at him never makes him lose his kindness, his spirit and his endearing personality.

Several people have sent emails asking how I’m finding the bus journeys and whether I’m still ‘in love’ with the bus. You’ll be pleased to know that despite our odd lovers tiff, we’re still very much an item. We are now almost seven weeks travelling and how little the journeys bother me continues to be the most thing that has surprised me about the whole trip. In truth it really doesn’t make any sense. Anyone in their right mind would say that being confined in a bus for eight, nine and sometimes ten and eleven hours would be unbearable and prior to this, I couldn’t have agreed more with them. I don’t know, perhaps it’s a frame of mind that we have had to adopt that makes the incarceration endurable but the reality is that I definitely don’t dread getting on the bus in the morning in the knowledge that it’ll be evening time before we reach our destination. The bus we’ve had in India has been smaller and less comfortable than the European and Iranian busses and after a couple of hours I generally have to perform a few bodily contortions, and writhe and flex anything that will still writhe and flex ….. in order to bring the feeling back to my limbs.
The days of being able to use your laptop are well gone and the quality of the roads in India have deteriorated to such a poor state that sometimes it’s literally a case of trying desperately to stay rooted to your seat as opposed to affording yourself such luxuries as writing ones blog or journal. Throughout the European leg, we had the luxury of a full seat to ourselves which meant it was possible to stretch out, however, now the majority of us have to share. Each bus is air-conditioned but for the last few weeks, we’ve discovered that those sitting up front have a perfect air temperature and those sitting from the middle of the bus back are almost mummified from the arctic temperatures. There is no happy medium and it is the funniest sight to see half of the people getting off the bus in string t-shirts and shorts and fanning themselves, whilst the remaining passengers disembark wearing fleeces, tracksuits, woolly scarves and gloves. Passengers entertain themselves differently ….talking, listening to ipods, reading, watching downloaded movies, sleeping, window gazing, scrabble, chess. On a personal level, I’ve spent hours and hours looking out the bus windows and reflecting on the fact that I’m actually doing this trip.

I frequently think back to last January 2010 and being in my room in Athlone for what seemed like weeks, seated at the desk, and in the middle of completing a raft of assignments for Maynooth as well as simultaneously preparing lesson plans for classes. I remember feeling quite despondent and downcast and the question kept going around in my head ‘Is this it?? I questioned myself as to what I thought would give me something to look forward to and what would motivate me to get through the remaining five months of the academic year. Unlike practically all of the students on the PGDE course, I knew without doubt that it wasn’t the prospect of a full time permanent job in September. (not that there was any prospect of that!). Having heard about the Oz Bus almost four years ago, and having periodically kept an eye on their website, the idea of signing up for their trip in September came into my head. That afternoon I phoned the UK based company and made the first enquiries about their dates and rates. From that moment on, I had a goal and it was exactly what I needed to give me the impetus to stay motivated. And now I find myself standing in front of the Taj Mahal or visiting The Golden Temple (or indeed The Rat Temple!) or experiencing sunrise whilst boating down the Ganges, and I still almost can’t believe that I’m fortunate enough to be here. Thank god I was pissed off last January or I could well be experiencing the Monday morning blues or the Sunday night depression (a far more painful condition). I know its all ahead of me but hopefully I’ll be more settled and more ready for it when the time comes to get back to reality again.

Speaking of the Ganges, we did that trip a few days ago and it was amazing. We were in the boat by about 6.00 a.m. and as the sun came up, the river side was filled with several hundred Hindus, young and old, bathing in the dirtiest water that you’ve ever seen. One of the group had told us the evening before that she read that two years ago an English man swam in the Ganges and was dead twenty four hours later. Let me tell you, that nugget of information was enough for me to keep well back from the side of the boat. As most of you probably know, the custom in this part of the world is when there is a death, the body is burned and the ashes thrown into the Ganges. It was absolutely amazing to see the ‘Ganges crematorium’ which was about ten metres of open space by the river where the burnings take place. I (and all of the group) almost died of shock when our boat decided to moor in the middle of those ten metres as opposed to any of the other thousands of miles of riverbank. Out we had to get, walk up the steps, where there was one body still smoldering and walk around another body which was just waiting to be burned. It was wrapped in the custom orange blanket and had a necklace of orange flowers placed around its head. The family members were standing on the step ready to set the match and say goodbye to their loved one. There were dogs and cows all feasting on … bones I suppose, and I really felt that it was all so surreal.
At the top of the steps, once I got past the body, an Indian trader told me it was only 100 rupees to get some pictures of the dead bodies and was inviting me into the back part of the building where they must have been lined up. It was sort of like ‘take your pick (or pic) …. literally’. Before I had time to answer him (or clobber him with my camera), three dogs started fighting right beside me …. probably over a femur or a skull! That took me out of my little bubble very quickly. They were going at each other hammer and tongs and to save myself, I almost leaped into the stretcher of another family who were carrying their own much loved orange clad body. My thinking simply was ‘sure whoever’s on that stretcher is already dead and won’t feel dog bites …. whereas I will!’. I think I’m also very conscious of the fact that I skimped on taking the rabies injection before I set off on my travels (it was VERY costly) but I’m convinced that I’m destined to die of rabies because I was so mean and tight. I remember one night in Vienna, I had being having the same conversation with one of the women about injections we’d got for the trip and what we had and didn’t have. (I’m also terrified I’ll get Japanese Encephalitis …. scrimped there too!). I had walked outside to phone Mom and Dad and just as I had hung up, a woman and her dog walked out the apartment door behind me. I had my back to her and didn’t see her come out but she must have shut the door on his paw because he let out the highest pitched howling yelp …… directly behind me. I swear to god, I almost leaped out of my skin …. and in the same move, up the drainpipe of the building in front of me. When I eventually turned around, I was already foaming at the mouth from my self-diagnosed rabies (which I was sure I had contracted …. maybe even from the bark as opposed to the bite ) and the smallest little Chihuahua had his paw in the air and it too was foaming at the mouth … from the pain of the door on his foot. So now that you see where I’m coming from, you can’t begrudge me a space on the Ganges stretcher. No snarling and biting dogs can reach you when you’re five foot in the air. Anyway, the three dogs eventually compromised and settled for the less sought after cuts of meat and bone – fingers and toes I’d imagine. I crawled down from the stretcher, thanked the family who had provided the escape route and made my way through the backstreets to find the rest of the group. In truth, thinking about it afterwards, it was an amazing and incredible day and one that I really will never forget.

Anyway, I’d better finish up now and get out and about and see whatever town we’re in now. It’s actually a place called Pokhara which is located in Nepal and we arrived yesterday evening. Therefore, the next blog will have a Nepalese flavour. Can I apologise to those who are sending me emails – I absolutely love to hear from you but just don’t have a chance to reply individually. (that shouldn’t be any reason to stop you sending them though – I always get a chance to read them, just not to reply). We have very little time in a lot of places and sometimes, it is literally from bus into hotel and back onto bus again in the morning. The internet is so sporadic and in lots of the places, we have no access at all to phones or to wifi connections so you’ll really just have to make do with the few blogs. We have four days in Kathmandu at the end of the week, so I will fill you in then on what Nepal has to offer …. and for what its worth, in my few days here, I can guarantee you that it offers a lot. Until we chat again, look after yourselves. Debbie xxxx

(PS – I never realized so many people hated rats and that a few paragraphs on the small furry creatures would result in such a reaction ….. you wusses!).

Friday, October 8, 2010

Blog 4 – India (Amritsar, Sri Ganganagar, Bikaner, Jodhpur, Jaipur, Delhi)

Blog 4 – India (Amritsar, Sri Ganganagar, Bikaner, Jodhpur, Jaipur, Delhi)

Hello to you all from India. We took a flight from Tehran to Amritsar on the 29th of September and will be here until the 14th October when we arrive into Nepal. That gives us a lot of time to experience India and throughout that time, we’ll be staying in nine different cities throughout the country. Lots of the group have been to India before but this is my first time. We arrived into Amritsar airport at 2.00 a.m. and therefore saw very little between the airport and arriving at our hotel. However, when a few of us left the hotel the following morning to take a walk around the city and into visit The Golden Palace, it felt like I had entered a different world and the initial experience literally took my breath away. The rickshaws, the motorbikes, the bicycles, the cars, the crowds, the noise, the pollution, the smells, the dirt, the poverty, the emaciated animals, the stifling heat …. I could go on and on. For the duration of the walk to the Palace, I walked to the back of the group, completely dumbstruck. I couldn’t decide if I loved it or hated it. In fact for the first few days in India, I struggled with that exact question – is it the best place in the world I’ve ever been to or is the absolute worst? Going outside each hotel door means entering a world of chaos and commotion and it is probably that which I have found most difficult to get used to. One of the girls summed it up perfectly one evening recently when she returned back from an evening walk and when I asked her how she enjoyed it – she simply said ‘I crossed seven roads and I’ve almost got killed seven times’. I knew exactly how she felt as since we’ve arrived in India, I myself have found myself on the bonnet of a few rickshaws.

However, in the mayhem and madness of this country, we discovered that there is at least one oasis of calm. When we arrived in the city of Jodhpur, we were greeted by all of the family members of the family-run hotel. The children had made each of the passengers a garland of fresh flowers which they placed around our necks as a welcoming gift. From that very moment, we were aware that we were in a very special place. The accommodation consisted of fifteen individual huts – simple but spotlessly clean and delightful in their own unique way. They were built in a circular shape and the mid courtyard section, surrounded by trees, had hammocks, comfortable seating areas, single beds to lie out on and tables with white starched linen cloths. That first evening, we were all invited into the kitchen to assist in the cooking of our meal. (I made sure that I was tying my shoe when they were looking for volunteers …. I hope no one spotted that I was wearing flip flops!). However, at least a dozen of the group were chomping at the bit to stir and sieve and shake and they had a ball preparing the most scrumptious vegetarian Indian meal that I have ever tasted. It struck me during my time in Jodhpur that language truly is no barrier when genuine friendliness, goodwill, and good humour all feature in the equation.

The children in India have stolen my heart and each time when they shyly approach me, with their beautiful brown eyes, the widest of smiles and little grubby hand extended out to shake hands, I feel myself simply melting. It’s the most amazing of experiences and sometimes I think I could just burst with love for them. I’ve always felt that same for Makenna and Keelan, my two beautiful nieces, but this is the first time that I’ve experienced such strong feelings for little children that I’ve only just met. Perhaps it’s due to that fact that they have absolutely nothing, their clothes are always so dirty and ragged and I feel a powerful desire to just mind them. In Bikanar a few nights ago, a little four year old boy came down the street carrying what I’d imagine was his little baby brother on his hip. They joined the group of about a dozen children already up talking to us and shaking hands. The baby was approximately 18 months old and wore a dirty white vest, was barefooted and had no nappy. The sight of those two little boys almost took my breath away – a baby carrying a baby. But the more I looked at them, the more I realized that despite how impoverished and dirty they were, both had the most beautiful smiles that I had ever seen and looked like the happiest children on the planet. Whenever anyone made any gesture towards the baby, he’d giggle and snuggle into his brother’s shoulder and the boy would protectively place his hand over his brother’s little head. I remember Matt, one of the American passengers on the bus saying that when he worked in Africa in very poor villages, very often the villagers themselves never realized that they were poor until the white man came in and told them they were. So I keep trying to remember this when I see those little kids and hope that they don’t realize that children all over the world have so much more than them but I also know that I’m simply trying to put my own mind at ease. And in saying that, those little children look to be so happy, so well-behaved, so close to each other and so excited by the simplest of gestures like taking a photograph, shaking their hand, rubbing their head or doing absolutely anything that indicates that we notice them.

But unfortunately I’ve noticed that in Jaipur, a city that’s far wealthier and more tourist-oriented than any of the other cities we’ve been to such as Amritsar, Sri Ganganagar, Bikaner or Jodhpur, the children seem to be absolutely impoverished and destitute. I’ve seen so many women begging with the tiniest of babies in their arms. When I asked our Guide about them he said ‘in most cases those babies don’t belong to those women – they’re just professional beggars and should be ignored’. But thinking about it afterwards, (when I should have been listening to his history of the Fort or the Palace) whether they do or they don’t belong to the particular woman who is holding them, each child is someone’s baby. And isn’t there something very much wrong with our society when the most vulnerable of little babies and children can be kept out in scorching heat, in thick pollution, unbearable noise and honking of vehicles, rags on their backs and are absolutely helpless to do anything about their plight. And isn’t there something also very wrong with our society that we as adults can see those neglected and suffering babies and still continue to walk past them because they are not our babies and they are not our problem? I know there is no real answer and I know that I’m just sounding off but I just wonder about the quality of life of so many of those children that I’ve seen and whether they will ever make it adulthood and indeed, if they will ever experience their first day at school.

Anyway, that’s the end of nostalgia for this blog … you’ll be glad to hear. Three days ago, I did one of the silliest things I’ve ever done and have absolutely no one to blame but myself. One of the stops on the bus between Bikanar and Jodhpur was a trip to a Rat Palace. Now the Tour Guide divulged very little to us as she hadn’t been there before so we were a bit in the dark as to what it actually was. However, whenever the bus stops, it is a cardinal sin not to get out of it as it may be three or more hours before it stops again, so any opportunity to get off is gratefully accepted. We walked five minutes down the road in 40 degree heat and then we were instructed by a robed man to remove our shoes before we entered through the white gates. I paid the man 40 rupees to take and mind my flip flops (that could have been 40 pence, 400 pounds or 4000 pounds worth … I’m useless but all I know is that I paid for the privilege of walking barefoot on the filthy and roasting gravel). Anyway, I then was accosted by a man who pointed to my camera and said ‘you must pay money for taking photos’ so I opened up my money wallet and he helped himself to a bundle of notes and coins. And in I went not knowing if I was going to see a cuddly toys exhibition, a puppet show or at the very worst, some white fluffy caged mice running around a hamster wheel.

As I entered through the gates, I was busily chatting to Helen when all of a sudden, I spotted a huge brown rat asleep on the ground …. a mere two foot from my two feet. RIGHT THERE and then I knew it was not a puppet show! And then, I saw them;- thousands of rats running wild all over the place. There was a huge pan of milk on the ground and about fifty rats circling the pan and lapping it up, stopping every sixty seconds to give their whiskers a little wipe. Other rodents were having mid-afternoon siestas, others sauntering around the courtyard nonchalantly, other younger rats racing around like mad things! And the smell, oh my god, the smell! One of the locals sidled up to me and told me that the rat is an animal that is worshipped in India and I ‘had no cause of fear’ (and could I please not vomit on his turban when I was getting out of his arms!). He explained that many people travel great distances to pay their respects and offer gifts to the rats and it is important that one goes through the Temple itself to make their offering at the Rat altar.

Now, wouldn’t you think that right there and then I would have made my retreat and tip-toed backwards to the bus, but something took over me – in truth, it was the feeling of ‘I am a tourist who should embrace each new experience’. One of the Oz Bussers, Helen, must have been in the same delirious state because she looked at me and said ‘if you go in, I’ll go in’. The next thing, we were both in the lengthy Temple queue along with people bringing big platters of food to offer up as their gifts to the rats. Now, before I go any further, can I explain that we quickly realized that the queue was a one way single-file queue. It was too late and there was no going back – one narrow entrance, one narrow exit. We tentatively walked through the doorway and the walls (within touching distance of our hands) were COVERED in rats. It is also worth noting that they were the sickest looking rats I have ever seen. Some were bleeding, had eyes missing, had ears missing and had tails hanging off. Now rest assured, it’s not because I inspected them so closely that I know that information, but rather that their missing limbs and bits were scattered all over the floor! They were running back and over our feet and I swear to you, I thought that I was going to die there and then in the Rat Temple. All I kept thinking was ‘oh god you eejit, you feckin’ eejit, you stupid feckin’ eejit’. I looked down at my beautifully nail-varnished BUT bare feet as I stepped through tangles of rat fur, rat faeces, rat urine and rat itself and I wondered if Weil’s Disease was a painful death. Would I die slowly ‘Michael Joe and Mary, we monitored Debbie’s pain closely – she didn’t feel a thing at the end’ or would it be sudden ‘Michael Joe and Mary, it was so quick that she really didn’t know what was happening’.
Helen was walking directly in front of me (in floods of tears at this stage) and as opposed to comforting her, I sized her five foot one frame up and wondered if I could leapfrog her to get to the exit. I don’t think I have ever felt such a sense of absolute panic in my life – being confined in this tiny Temple with no way out. Meanwhile the locals ahead of us were making our escape EVEN SLOWER because of their bloody bowing, genuflecting and curtseying when they put their platters of cheddar cheese (or whatever) on the rat altar. I wondered whether the insurance company would pay out my death cheque to Mom and Dad if they discovered that I had contacted Weil’s Disease but I had contracted it by removing my shoes and entering a Temple which contained 20,000 rats. One would imagine that there would have to be some percentage deducted because of contributory negligence on my behalf.

At this stage, I was only half way through the Temple, and by now I was hyper-ventilating, heart was racing and sweating pouring down my body and I was seeking out anyone who could offer me a brown paper bag. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one particularly rough looking rat sprinting straight at my left foot and I swear to you, I did the whole set of Riverdance ….. IN THE AIR! Jean Butler on her best day ever never lifted her feet and legs as high as I did. I almost knocked Helen (who was still crying) unconscious with my knee in the back of her head and directly behind me, Rahul, who had travelled a great distance with his silver platter, witnessed his offerings of mozzarella and grapes being put to the sky …… with the sole of my foot … as I was coming down.
I decided there and then that I had to get out and couldn’t go any further. Although we were barricaded in each side by a four foot barrier, I spotted an open doorway over the other side of the barricade. I swear to god, I’d have been drafted in to perform in the Delhi Commonwealth Games if any scout had spotted my high jump vault …. without a pole. From a standing position, and with back arched, I flawlessly executed the move and landed the other side of the barrier. It would have been a perfect 10.0 if I had waited for the judges’ scores but I was in mid-sprint when I landed. I was the Oz Bus’s own Forrest Gump in my eagerness to exit the Rat Palace. I paid another 40 bits to get my flip flops back, paid another 40 bits because I still had the unopened camera case around my neck, paid 400 bits for cleansing wipes and sanitizer and made it back to the bus. Five minutes later, as I was in the process of removing the outer and inner epidermis and the malpighian layer of skin from my feet, when a red-eyed Helen came onto the bus and looked at me with ‘rat deserting sinking ship’ eyes. She slouched into her seat and three days later, is only starting to talk about the experience … in fact talk at all! We were both absolutely traumatized by it and I have no doubt but it’ll bubble to the surface for us both on some red velvet counseling couch at some time in the future.

Anyway, all good things come to an end and it is time to put an end to this epistle. I must apologise to all those who have emailed me and facebooked me regarding not being able to make a comment on the blog page. Despite my blaming the Blogger website for weeks, I think it was actually my fault – something to do with the settings – but I think I have it sorted now and you should be able to make your comments without it requiring a million passwords. My blog was actually set with a higher security setting than The White House website … probably no need, d’ya think?? Anyway, to-morrow we head to Agra for two days, during which time we’ll be seeing the Taj Mahal in all its splendour. Will write again over the next few days if I get a chance. Love to you all, Debbie x

Saturday, October 2, 2010

Blog 3 - Tabriz, Zanjan, Tehran and Esfahan (Iran)

Blog 3 –Tabriz, Zanjan, Tehran, Esfahan (Iran)

Greetings to you all! Despite my excuses that there would be no internet access whilst in Iran and I would therefore be unable to blog, I was wrong. Although there has been no mobile phone coverage of any description, we’ve been fortunate to have a WiFi connection in most hotels which has been an unexpected luxury. It is interesting however that all of the social networking internet sites are banned such as Facebook and Twitter (not that I ever Twit or Twat or Tweet).

Lots of the group have struggled since we entered Iran several days ago. In fact, I feel that the majority of the group has struggled in various ways which is quite disappointing considering Iran was to be the highlight of the trip for many of those Oz Bus travellers. Crossing over the border from Turkey into Iran was both intimidating and nerve-wracking. Now it didn’t help that all the females of the group were trussed up like turkeys in 35 degree weather - wearing constrictive headscarves which had to hide all signs of us having hair, a forehead or ears as well as wearing baggy clothing that had to conceal all evidence of bodily contours.

As I suspected, the short sleeves on my tunic DID cause a problem and on the morning of our ‘crossing over the border’, I was taken aside by the group leader Lana. I heard my name being called out and I walked over to her in my best ‘baboon walk’ with arms almost trailing off the ground to try to make the sleeves longer but my secret had been discovered …. and the game was up. Within minutes of the observation / discussion, a long sleeved dark grey t-shirt was produced out of Isabelle’s rucksack and I was told that I should wear it inside my tunic to hide my long-armed disability and more specifically, my forearms (as opposed to my four arms which I may as well have had such was the panic it had caused). So for seven days in 37 degree heat, I wore the long sleeved t-shirt inside my tunic and it almost had to be cut off my back on the day we flew to India.

We all had to wear the headscarves for the whole duration but there’s no doubt that I struggled with it more than others. In fact, one of the girls told me that it was like as if ‘my body had resisted and rejected the scarf’ right from the start. I swear to God that I’d have a beautifully wrapped head leaving the room in the morning and walk downstairs to breakfast. By the time I’d enter the dining room, I’d be walking into pillars and posts and walking INTO or OVER the buffet table. My beautiful lime green scarf would have fallen down over my eyes, nose and mouth and my tresses would be flowing in the wind behind me. I’d have to hurriedly and apologetically ‘fix myself’ without the luxury of a mirror and very often I’d find myself eating my breakfast as well as eating a good proportion of my scarf. Sometimes I’d be fortunate enough to find a ‘slit’ in the material around the mouth area and spoon my cornflakes in through that but most times I wasn’t so lucky and as the week progressed, with every meal that I’d consume, the scarf was accumulating more and more varieties of greens and gravies.

I swear to you that over the full week, I tried every concoction of a knot known to man but it invariably ended up like a Bedouin scarf, draped completely over my face. In fact, eventually the penny dropped and I finally realized the reason why I was the group eejit for the whole week. My fellow passengers were simply able to wear their scarves with poise and elegance because THEY WERE WEARING PROPER SCARVES. I discovered that what I was wearing was a FECKIN’ SARI which should have been around my waist and not my head. That’s what I get for not reading the small print when one receives a gift on the eve of departure to foreign lands. Sure when I inspected its fine silky material closely, it was glaringly obvious that no knot in the world could make it defy gravity and stay upright on a person’s head. It also hadn’t dawned on me that it was three metres long and three metres wide and that the average head did not require such a multitude of material. No wonder I almost smothered to death in Iran, I was a walking time bomb.
But the only upside of it all is that when we landed in Amritsar in India, there was great joy in ridding ourselves of the tunics and headscarves …….. but my scarf/sari was safely packed away for our four days in Koh Samui in November. Meanwhile, the tunic with the cut-off sleeves got pride of place in the ‘Fairy’ position and was gladly horsed onto the top of the bonfire.

I’ll divulge to you now that it wasn’t just the clothes that caused me problems. Prior to leaving Turkey, the group leader Lana, had gone through the drill with us several times stressing how busy it was going to be at the Turkish / Iranian border and the importance of the group sticking together and not allowing ourselves to be separated. She told us that after our several hours waiting to be processed, when the man who has all our passports says ‘Follow Me’, we’re to drop everything and RUN after him as he is our only chance of getting our passports stamped and getting into Iran. A life in the 50 metre buffer zone between Turkey and Iran just didn’t seem too attractive a proposition! Anyway, tensions were genuinely running high in the queuing area and we discovered very quickly that the Iranians are not backward in coming forward i.e. they’ve obviously never read the small print in ‘how queues work’.

There were 28 pale and frightened Oz Bussers standing in a long line of what must have been about one hundred and fifty loud and unruly Iranian nationals all going through the border security. We discovered that we had to press ourselves up against the person in front of us as the Iranians were trying to muscle into the queue and avoid going back to the end. After about thirty minutes, I was still holding my own, in 25th position, my nose jammed against the back of Vicki’s neck, when all of a sudden, this Iranian woman came at me from my blind side (which in truth could have been from any side as my headscarf was more effective than any horse blinker used in the Aintree Grand National). Anyway, having shouldered me across and over the crash barrier, she side-stepped in where my two feet should be …. and she was in! The group was separated and it had happened on my watch. Twenty four pairs of eyes glared back at me in disgust and three pairs of eyes bore into the back of my head. I held my breath and prayed that I wouldn’t hear the words ‘Follow Me’ being roared by the passport man with his megaphone. I tried to calm myself down by saying ‘its okay, it’s only one person between me and the rest of the group, what harm is that?’. Little did I realize that Fatemeh had other ideas and was planning her strategy with military-like precision! Either that or she must be the most polite and well-mannered woman ever born in Iran (well apart from almost dislocating my shoulder) for Fatemah absolutely INSISTED on allowing every brother, sister, mother, father, granny and granddad join the queue in front of her. She was smiling and grinning like an influential Cheshire cat as she beckoned long lost relations to make their way up and to maneuver themselves in front of her. Meanwhile my blood pressure was rising with every headscarf that came between me and my Oz Bus group that just couldn’t be separated. Eventually Vicki and the rest of the group were just a distance fleck in the horizon and there was such a gap between us that the remaining four members of the Oz Bus 20 group almost became Oz Bus 21. Since then I’ve not been allowed to stand in any position of authority and I’m chaperoned in case the Iranians boss me around. I’ve been told that my problem is that ‘I smile too much at them’ and I’m seen as the easy pushover. The only thing about that is I genuinely can’t imagine that any of them have seen my smile because I for one haven’t seen any of my own scarf-clad teeth in over a week. Unless of course my sari is see-through …..hmmm, I might have to re-consider its resurrection in Koh Samui!

Since we left Istanbul, there has been a considerable decrease in the standard of hygiene as well as in the standard of food available. Although aware that this was an inevitable occurrence, when confronted with it, it is still difficult to become accustomed to it.
A few days ago we traveled 450kms from Tehran to Esfahan and I fell asleep on the bus at some stage of the afternoon. I was awakened to the sound of the tour guide announcing that they were stopping for a quick toilet break. I opened one eye and observed a WC sign on a dilapidated-looking concrete shed located at the side of the motorway and decided that although I had four litres of water and two cans of fake Cola Lite inside of me, I could wait. Five minutes later, the females climbed back onto the bus, squealing and gagging and proclaiming that ‘it was the worst ever’ and that ‘there had to be something dead in there’. They had also observed a basket of money and an empty chair at the entrance to the toilets and concluded that the woman ‘manning’ the toilets had probably died in one of the cubicles. In fact she had probably died last April and such was the smell, had still not been discovered. Was I glad that I had stayed where I was? You bet!

But you know, in saying that, when I think back to the first time we stopped at a service station that didn’t have ‘proper’ toilets, I remember standing outside in the queue and listening to the piercing squeals of horror and disgust from seventeen women. Since then, we’ve become masters of the squat toilets now but god knows, it has taken a lot of failed attempts to perfect the art. I’ve discovered that prior to entering every flooded cubicle, you have to roll up your trouser legs (whilst not exposing too much of ones ankles), and then you have to do the sailors knot on your scarf in case any part of it trails down and lands into the Black Hole of Calcutta. Even if this means that you have to tie it so tight that your eyes bulge and you’re on the verge of unconsciousness, it has to be done as one has to leave the cubicle with that scarf on your head, even if there’s bits hanging off it. You then have to do a series of preliminary yoga moves and stretches so that when you eventually get yourself into squatting position, you yourself don’t fall into the Black Hole of Calcutta …. and that you’re able to make your way back up into an upright position. Then, you inhale deeply and as you make your descent, you ensure your mouth is firmly closed so that you don’t ingest the swarms of flies. Once in the required position, you must perform whilst balancing your toilet paper between your teeth and simultaneously holding the swinging door shut with a your index finger and you must pray to Allah that you’re not hit with a bout of stage fright. I’ve discovered that seventeen civilized and cultured women become seventeen braying donkeys when standing at a cubicle door of someone who has exceeded their two and a half minute time allocation. When you eventually emerge from the cubicle, in your 90% asphyxiated state, you have to break the 100 metre record to make it to the doorway for fresh air whilst simultaneously rolling down your trouser legs and covering those nasty and offensive ankles.

I know from reading this blog you have learnt SO MUCH about Iran – the customs, the culture, the religions, the Persian society etc. I bet you also never thought that a blog could contain so much information on ones toilet habits? For what it’s worth, nor did I – it’s amazing what happens when the keyboard takes on a life of its own.

To conclude on my Iranian experience, I found it to be quite an unusual place but culturally it was absolutely amazing. It's a country that I would definitely return to and if anything, it has heightened my interest in returning to the Middle East and seeing more of the countries in that region. The scenery, the customs, the culture and the wonderful people will always provide me great memories. Although so many Iranian people we met were friendly and interested in us, a couple of the group also experienced Iranians who politely (or not so politely) suggested to them that British and American troops shouldn’t have entered Iraq. Whenever anyone asked me where I was from, I made sure that I emphasized the IRE in Ireland ….and in case there was any misunderstanding, sang them a verse of ‘The Fields of Athenry’, played them a tune on my Harp, pulled out a pint of Guinness from under my scarf / sari, knit them a bawneen sweater on the spot and gave them a bunch of shamrocks wrapped up in a ‘Céad Míle Fáilte’ sticky label. It seemed to work …. War, what War???

Anyway, we have just made our way to India via airplane from Tehran so that‘s going to be our next installment (you’re in this to-gether with me, I’m not taking all the blame). Please keep in touch – it’s lovely to log on after a long day on the bus and see emails from you all (well, I’d imagine it is!). That’s a little dig …… a definite case of the pen being mightier than the sword!
Love to you all and chat soon. Debbie x