Equatorial inspiration

Ecuador – a little microcosm of the Andean countries; with mountains, forests and wildlife, all within easy reach. But since you can effectively get all this in neighbouring countries, why must one go to Ecuador? Well, for me, the answer is very easily answered by one thing place along – THE GALAPAGOS.

There is no place like it on earth!

I had first heard about them at school whilst studying Darwin and have really wanted to visit every since. Now I wish that I could do these Islands some justice, but it is hard to describe another planet. That is honestly what it is like – some Islands look like scenes out of Jurassic Park, or mars, or what the earth must have looked like when it was forming – all rocks, or Islands have one thing in common – each has its own unique and bizarre species.

It is not easy or cheap to get to the Islands. As with everything, I was rather last minute. During my South American jaunt I was resigned to the fact that Galapagos was something I would come back for, once I had some real money to splash out on a 6000 dollar holiday. But as I approached Ecuador, I began hearing of lots of inventive ways of making the Galapagos happen. Once I had arrived in Quito, all hopes were dashed. All boats (for a cruise is really the only way to see the Islands) were booked months if not a year in advance, and there were no last minute cancellations for when I was there. Not surprising when you consider that there is a no refund policy. So, I was either to give up or to take a chance and just fly out to the Islands, in the hope of getting a place on a boat, despite the odds.
Course I decided to fly out there, but the risk was an expensive one. The flights are at least 400 dollars, because the Islands are a good two hours away by plane from Quito, and there are only two companies that offer this route. Plus, and most unexpected of all, is the fact that as soon as you land in the wooden make shift airport of San Cristobel (the airport on the main Island of Santa Cruz was being repaired over several months, you are charged 100 dollars on the spot, for stepping onto the National Park. The Galapagos are one big natural reserve, of which 97% is under some form of conservation project and only 3% is habitable. Saying that, the Galapagos has a population problem!

I do not think that before my flight I had even thought about there being people in the Galapagos, let alone there being a population problem! But when the aeroplane landed and I took a taxi to the harbour…to my surprise, there was a big populated town, and all the things that come with it…sanitation problems, pollution, noise, children, schools…need I go on! This is not the Galapagos I was expecting! I hoped that the other Islands were not like this, but then I took a boat to the main Island, where the population was even bigger! I do not want to sound unfair, someone needs to manage the Islands after all, but like most people, I was just expecting wildlife. The reality is that most Galapaganeus have escaped from somewhere. There is a significant German population who left Germany during the war, and are now on their third generation, and many Ecuadoreans, who come for the money, because of the boom in tourism. The wages are definitely higher than mainland Ecuador, for many people, but then the cost of living is so very much higher, because almost everything has to be imported, and migrants forget this fact. Once at the Islands, those that do not know English or least a second language, then find that the main way to survive is through fishing. Like everything else in the Galapagos, this is lucrative, especially when fishing for sea cucumbers (they are sea creatures that look like cucumbers with many little rounded spikes, big, fat, squeegee and squirmy), and fetch a really high price in the far East. Now the problem is that as the population of the Galapagos has expanded, so the resources have been stretched, and the wildlife has come into real danger. The fish are being depleted fast, and yet illegal fishing continues because this is the only way that many families are able to feed their families. Other people come to capture, and export exotic wildlife – again illegal and endangering. The Ecuadorian military come and stay for target practice, with little regard for the environment and then there are the never ending trail of tourist boats, and all the services that are needed for them. This is a tough one – for the government, the tourist trade and the conversationalists (the front runner of which is the Charles Darwin Foundation). What can you do? People have been here for generations, and if you ignore this fact and their needs, then you will find frustrated youth, as is the case, for no one invests in their education or future prospects. On average, upon leaving high school a 16 year old Galapagiean is two years behind the mainland Ecuadorian educational system, and they do not have the basic language requirements for jobs in tourism and replaced by yet more migrants from the mainland. Other industries can not really flourish because of the restrictions in space and resources – 97% of the Islands must remain untouched, and just as well. So what is the solution? Well, the authorities decided 6 years ago, that if you were not a permanent resident of the Islands, then you had to leave after the expiry of your visa, and today they are backing this decision up more forcefully, for I saw them take a truck around the streets, and literally hurl all the expired temporary residents that they had weened out, into the truck – and on to a four day cargo boat back to the mainland. You now can not get a one way to the Galapagos, and if you disappear during your stay, you can guarantee, that everyone in this very tight knit community where everyone knows everyone – will know about it.

Ok, so that is enough about the population. Now the real Galapagos, which after saying all that, is actually being preserved wonderfully! The Charles Darwin Foundation, National Park authorities and others are doing a great job of keeping the reserve as they found it. One of their biggest successes are their eradication programs. Almost every pest has been dealt with in order to preserve the Galapagos…pigs, rats, goats, have been hot of literally. Even harder animals, like ants – have been painstakingly trapped with miles of peanut butter covered sticks, hour after hour, every metre apart. And if a lady bird has to be bought over from Australia in order to eat the cottony cushion scale, so be it. There are three Islands that you can not step foot on. Although this may not sound like much fun – diving, snorkelling, swimming, or canoeing around them then remains exceptional. The clearest of waters, the sea life, the caves, craters, colours of the rocks and the vegetation is like none other in the world. Most of the other Islands have no inhabitants, and you can explore them through day trips from your boat. Each Island almost has it own set of species.

Flightless cormorants - flightless because once they were blown off route to the Galapagos, they found that they did not need their wings anymore, all the food they could every want was in the waters, and so they began diving for survival instead.

Marine Iguanas – which are so well camouflaged into their surroundings that you do not even notice them in your bath – even thought they are lying on top of one another for body heat, with their head at a perfect angel to the sun, in order to absorb as much heat as possible, that is until they do a large, grotesque sneeze!

There are also land and lava iguanas, which stop to look at you straight in the eye.
Sea life is out of the world. As you sail from Island to Island you see dolphins surfing the waves that your boat creates, hammer headed sharks in whole schools, and then the captian saw something in the distance. He had spotted it from the ship, because just its spout of water reached about 30 feet, and although it was at least a kilometre away, you could hear that spout miles away. It was the Blue Whale, and as it got closer we could see it clearly dive back into the water – and its endless back! It was huge, at least 100 feet – without exaggeration. Imagine an animal that ff it were just to open its mouth an entire double decker bus could slip in without even noticing. The largest animal on earth!

Blue footed boobies – these are the funniest looking birds ever! They have bright blue or purple feet, and are beautiful! They have the funniest habits, with dances and their own dance and monogamous habits. They also have a red counter part, called the red footed boobie, funnily enough!

I learnt a lot about birds during this trip, simply through observation. How flamingos do a dance that looks just like flamenco, with their wings spread wide and a spin following their tail. This is where the word and dance flamenco comes from!

You also realise that we glamorise nature and consequently get a reality check. For example, nazca boobies, like hyacinth macaws are really peculiar, they generally produce two eggs, but knowing that when they hatch they will feed only the stronger one, because two are not manageable. Nazca boobies also have a loyalty to lifelong monogamy, and take it in turns to look after the nest whilst the partner goes looking for food for them both. Women on the trip were very eager to point this out as an example to men! Meanwhile men would laugh at the efforts of the frigate birds, which blow up a red sac under their chin, into a big heart shaped balloon. They then sit like that for days during the mating season, hoping to attract a willing female!

Saw the warrior nature of mockingbirds, which literally will come and investigate everything in their territory, whether you are human or not, and if you do not come bearing food, then frankly you are not welcome. This is one thing that really startled me when I first arrived. The animals really make it clear that these are their islands, and they never run away in fear of you. The mutual respect makes for fantastic relationship opportunities; least I thought so until I came across the Sea Lions, who have other ideas.

Sea lions are everywhere, and look like the most lovable creatures, with their silky black coats and long sensitive whiskers…until you hear them snort at you that is, or waddle towards you, thinking that you may be their mother and a source of food. They have no shame, it does not matter how old they become, they think they can always go to their mother and suck for milk, no matter how much the mother protests. I have seen real fights between a thin mother and hungry children, and at the other extreme I saw a child, suckling its mother, who was suckling the Grandmother! They are not only aggressive when they are hungry, but also when they want to play. The only incident I have ever had in the sea or oceans happened at the Galapagos, when I was snorkelling off an Island, and as I turn around to see what moved behind me I see the teeth of a giant sea lion heading directly for my face! I could not believe it, and do not ever think I have swam so fast. I thought I had got away, and confused the sea lion by splashing lots, but no. The sea lion was again in front of me – with all teeth bared, and went straight for me. What? Can this really be happening? Is this not only in films? With a sea lion of all creatures? I could not believe my eyes, and it was not until the sea lion raced after me, making contact whenever it could, that I really got the message. The shore was too far so I made a bee line for people I knew from my boat. Bill was out snorkelling with his son, and as soon as he saw my white face heading right for me, he knew I was in trouble. 'Oh My God Daniel there is a sea lion chasing Mandeep. Come here quick Mandeep!' I did not need an invitation on this occasion, I was already there. The next thing I heard was 'Daniel that sea lion attracts, its just bit me!' Ok, that was it. A group of people were not enough to scare this sea lion, s/he was having a field day! All of us raced back to shore, with the sea lion at our feet or by our sides when it could. As we ran on to the shore, people on the beach were staring at them, with a 'What's wrong with them?' look. Thankfully, giving credibility to our fear, the sea lion did not stop in the water, it got out and flapped all the way up to the beach, with its mouth open wide still hungry for blood.

Apart from the animals, Galapagos is a world on to its own for many other reasons too. Like the fact that people tend to go missing, never to be found again. This happens a little but more often then I would like to mention. But whether you are diving, swimming or simply going for a walk, make sure there is someone with you, because the Islands do not belong to people, remember. The Islands have a very rich history of pirates, legends and scientific discovery, so they are great to explore and learn from even today, and many traditions remain. For example, on one Island is post office bay, where there is a post box that has been running since the pirates. As you come through the Islands, you leave your mail in the post box, and depending on the address you pick someone else's mail up – and hand deliver. The idea is that there are people coming from all over the world to the Galapagos, so frequently, that someone is bound to be coming from wherever you wish the postcard to arrive.

Ok, as you can tell, I could go on and on and on…but instead I will just create a picture with this poem type thing, below, in the hope that you all are inspired to jump on a boat and cruise around the islands. I promise you – no matter what the cost, every penny is worth it.

Golden Rays shining, Turtles grazing under water, Old Giant Tortoises lonely, Storm Petrols diving, Albatrosses feeding, Dolphins laughing, Frigates trying, Blue Footed Boobies incubating, Mockingbirds investigating, Sea lions demanding, Blue Whales spouting, Islands hiding, Cacti ruling, Colours surprising, Nazca boobies caring, Flamingos dancing, Red footed boobies parading, Cushion Cottony Scale dying, Australian Lady Birds thriving, Iguanas changing, Hawks watching, Owls howling, Hammer Headed Sharks speeding, and so much more as you stand there in the midst of it, invisible.

Vietnam

Vietnam is different to other places. It strikes an emotional cord with almost everyone, whether they have visited or not, but this is magnified umpteen times by a visit. Regarding the war I can imagine it being a little like visiting Iraq in the future. Everyone would have something to say…either about its history, how they felt during the war, or the situation of the country today. But Vietnam is also emotionally striking in terms of its beauty – scenic beauty, cultural beauty, and human beauty.

I'll start with the beauty first because it is so immediately impressive, the rest you have to dig around a little deeper for. Vietnam is worth a visit just for its nature. It has covered with lush paddy fields, of a variety of greens, from head to toe. Worked on by people dressed in all vibrant colours you can imagine, topped off with the classic conical hat. And, no this is not just a performance for the tourists – this is the dress all the time and everywhere. The whole country walks around in these enormous conical hats, and most women also cover their faces with a mask that runs from ear to ear. Colour of skin, as everywhere in Asia, is important component of beauty, and the Vietnamese go to extreme lengths to preserve their original cream satin. The agriculture is split amongst the diversity of minorities, and they are most varied and striking in the mountains, like their environment. In the lower planes, Vietnam is blessed with idyllic coastal scenes. Plus in the north there is Ha Long bay, misty waters housing big dragons according to mythology, and the mountainous Islands jutting out of the waters sure give this impression, whilst in the south you can get lost in the myriad of rivers that make up the Mekong delta.

The minority culture, as in any country, is the most interesting. They have classic ways of dealing with everyday problems that would be good for us to draw from in our day and age. For example, what to do when the parents of the girl that you are besotted about do not like you, and will not allow you to take their daughters hand in marriage? Well, traditionally, and even today, one of two routes are chosen. You either elope with the girl – but this is only acceptable for a three day period at the most. If within these three days the girl refuses to eat anything from you, that is her way of making it clear that she rejects you (I guess to listen to what she is saying is not enough, given what complex creatures the female species is), if she cant cope with the hunger and eats something, then it is clear that she is comfortable with the idea of sharing every meal with you hence forth for the rest of her life, too. The second option is to make her pregnant (I assume with consent), the classic cross cultural route for men and women to ensure that there is a life long bond and commitment between two people.

Vietnamese culture is unique and interesting in many other respects too. The country is not so big but the difference in language, dress and traditions is vast. What speaks volumes is that minority groups today make more of an effort to learn English than Vietnamese, in order to make money from tourists, and to spread understanding about their specific tribe.

At first you would be excused, like I hope I was, for being desotted by the beauty of the women here. It is really hard to stop staring, because not only does the way their slick hair frame their deep soulful coal like eyes and full lips memorise, but the way in which the traditional long dress flatters their body, it is as if the women are slender leaves gently floating in the wind over a lotus lake. It may seem like I am romantising the women (me? never!) but really, their dress, that fits their top after and then falls straight over their bottom half in one continuous piece of silk and colour, makes them the most elegant creatures on this planet. The language, music and dance are all equally as harmonious and elegant.

So the country is beautiful, in many ways, it is also dynamic – in that the population is young, and energetic, and they work, work, work - to get ahead. This is why they are one of the fastest growing Asian tigers with annual growth commonly over 9%.

All of the above the government is keen to promote, so although Vietnam is a little more relaxed than they used to be about the north – south route that visitors take during their trip, still everything is highly regulated. It is difficult to go off the very well beaten track, so not only are the same places visited by everyone, but almost everyone is limited to the same tour companies or organisers. This is the same for anything regarding the war too. You can visit the Cu Chi tunnels for example, which is an intricate labyrinth underground where the Vietnamese would hide, during the war. This was not just for the lucky few. The tunnel system was vast, stretching from Ho Chi Minh City (the capital in the south) as far as the Cambodian border – over 250 km of tunnels. They are several stories deep and have living quarters, kitchens, trap doors, weapon factories, field hospitals and command centres. Saying this, they were a measure of desperation, and really the only way to save your life, for you would have to be desperate to go into a clay oven – which is what it was like underground. I am not claustrophobic but even I could not handle the confined space and was ready to run out within minutes. Only it is not possible; the tunnels are tiny – you have to scrunch up in a ball, and shuffle along on your arse with your knees next to your face, and once a tunnel start it seems to go on and on, and there is level after level, further into the depths of the soil. It was really interesting how this system worked to save so many lives. Firstly, the doors into the underground system were really were camouflaged and covered, and tiny, so that only Vietnamese hips could squeeze through, not American (no offence intended). When American police dogs were sent to search the area the Vietnamese would place America clothing near the doors so that the dog would walk on by! If an American was searching the area, there were trap doors awaiting with large and very sharp nails pointing up to catch the body. It was possible to live underground for there was provision for everything. The smoke coming from any cooking in the kitchen would be spread through ventilation tunnels underground, and these tunnels were so long and wide that any release of smoke would be too faint to notice. Course, all of this did not prevent massive nuclear bombs being dropped and destroying massive sections of the country as was the case when Agent Orange hit the soil.

I do not know if you have heard much about Agent Orange, but when I think of nuclear bombs (which I do often;) I think of Hiroshima first. But in fact the affects of Agent Orange have been horrific and are being felt in Vietnam even today. One thing definitely worth doing if you are fortunate enough to have time in Vietnam, is to go to the war museum in HCMC. This is one of the most disturbing museums that I have ever been to, but well worth it, for it is one of the few places where you can hear about the war from another perspective than that of mass media. The photographs are great, plentiful and very telling – making you want to serve your life as a war correspondent, because that is all we really have today for a glimpse of what was experienced by this nation for so many years. Our education must go beyond the war to then look at what has happened since which has actually been more crippling to Vietnam than the war – economic sanctions. Ever since the war, until only very recently ie. The Clinton Administration, Vietnam has suffered economic sanctions comparable to Cuba. Neither the USA nor any allies was allowed to deal with Vietnam, for trade or otherwise, until Vietnam returned the 'Missing In Action'. This means that the Americans believed that Vietnam had many US soldiers hidden in the country…who were in action and then went missing. Despite Vietnam's continuous and loud insistence that this was not the case, and sending the showing the body parts of the lives that were lost in Vietnam, America insisted that economic sanctions be enforced until these people were returned. Well there were no people, and all these years on, Clinton deemed the sanctions as unnecessary punishment, and they have been lifted. But in the interim Vietnam has been seriously disadvantaged in the world market and this has had serious consequences on people's everyday prospects.

Back to the museum. I had visited the museum with an American friend of mine, Jean. I had told her that some American members of my family, namely my grand father, told me that he would still never consider coming to Vietnam given the guilt he felt on what the nation had suffered. Jean looked me straight in the eye and said this was silly. She did not feel guilty for something that her ancestors did, and only a few power hungry ancestors at that, and besides, it was now history. That day we experienced something that changed the both of us, and our view on this forever. We went to an orphanage.

This might seem like a strange thing to do, but in Vietnam there are almost government more orphanages than schools. As a tourist, you will never come across them, or even hear of them, because they are hidden intentionally by the government, for they do not portray the imagine of Vietnam that they would like. But the fact of the matter is that almost one in every four children is born with Spinabifida in Vietnam. Agent Orange did not only kill, but has contaminated food for the next 400 years in Vietnam, at least. This food, when eaten your entire life, is affecting the future generations, because so many children grown with deformities in the mother's womb. Spinabifida is the principle disorder and means that the child never grows properly. Their bones are never fully formed, especially the spine, and so most can not carry their own weight, or stand straight, let alone walk. The relationship between Agent Orange and the obscene numbers of spinabifida children has been proven my American doctors and lawyers despite vested interests, because they are undeniable. When a Vietnamese mother gives birth to such a child her choices are few.

There are no social benefits, monetary or otherwise to help look after a spinabifita child. It is a life long job and to work after birth would be impossible. If there are other children in the family, which there often is, then their quality of life drops dramatically too, and the bottom line is that it is unaffordable in terms of time or care, for most mothers/ families. So those families that are not able to cope either drown the new born, if they have they can bring themselves to do this, or drop them on the door step of an orphanage. For this reason there are thousands of orphanages all over Vietnam, government run with about thirty or more cots and two or three nurses. The children never see day light. Their life is their cot, and as they reach their teens they are transferred on to a bed. They are well fed, and looked after, but to give attention, love and the human touch to each in accordance to what a child needs (let alone a spinabifida child whose life is confined to a bed) is impossible. I will be honest. I could not visit a government orphanage. I am ashamed to say this, but I could barely handle the pictures and the journey that I was taken on in the museum, I really thought that I could not handle this in real life, and so I decided to give and share in a private orphanage instead. There are not many private orphanages (by private I do not mean that parents have to may for their child to be looked after, but just that they are not government orphanages), but there was one that I had heard about that I was excited to visit. The model of this orphanage was unique, in that it was an Old People's Home and an orphanage in one. This is brilliant because there are Old People's Homes are unheard of in Vietnam, thought there is a need amongst the poorer family's as anywhere in the world. It is not uncommon to see old people sleeping on the streets of HCMC or Hanoi. There was one old lady that I would pass everyday in HCMC, who owned nothing but a stove, and she would cook soup for passer-by's in the day, in order to earn enough to eat her-self, and then sleep on her cardboard mat under the same single white sheet at night. I hate to say it but the first time I saw her I thought that she was dead, until I saw her at day and night, and day, always in the same position, same clothes, same hair style, same expression on her face. You get the idea. So this orphanage is great, because the old people are fed and have something to live for – giving love to the orphans, and the orphans are infinitely happier than in government orphanages, for they are taken out of the cot, played with and loved all day.

Even visiting this orphanage, with is paradise actually, was hard, hard, hard. The child I spent the most time with was 15, rarely handled because she was so fragile, and cried had tears in her eyes when she was touched. Hung is her name and her entire body is hardly bigger than my arm. At a first glance she seemed to be just bones and a pair of dark, soulful eyes. As we got to know one another and she left comfortable enough to respond to me, I was glad. But for the longest time it was just painful.

I could talk more about this experience and Vietnam, but in all honesty I don't think the black on this white page does any justice to what people here have experienced, and what you experience with them. I am glad that this young, dynamic nation is so focused on the future, on working hard and is so ready to embrace the opportunities in the world, now that the sanctions have been lifted. I found that not to be emotionally or otherwise affected by Vietnam is difficult. People are engaging and want to engage, but at the same time there is a lot that one can only imagine about their history. These imagines are important in understanding people's reactions here to everyday things, to foreigners, and to their own future.

To be lost here – is great!

The Islamic Republic

The Islamic Republic of Iran

Ever since I can remember I have wanted to go to Iran, yet contrary to popular belief this desire did not begin when my visa application was rejected by the authorities in Tehran, but rather with childhood stories from the Sikh Holy Scriptures. Our Guru’s travelled Iran, some of our scriptures have come from Persian Sufi Saints, and many of our Shabads (hymns) are in Farsi or include lots of Farsi. It felt as though we were brothers, and all the Iranians I have had the fortune to meet became very good friends. An Iranian brother I always carry with me, I had met ten years ago whilst studying in Australia. I had always hoped to visit Iran with Nima, and then when I was living right next door in the UAE, and eager to go, I learned that it was not so easy for him to visit either.

In many ways the Persian Gulf seems like the exact opposite of the Arab Gulf, and this difference is witnessed as soon as you try to visit the countries. The UAE is easy to visit, because you do not need a visa and everyone is welcome (admittedly things are a little different with Saudi), but once in the country the local population are actually rather closed. Acquaintances are easy, but friendships, such that you are always in touch, at each other’s houses, and in each others lives is a little more difficult. However, in Iran’s case, it is the Government that closes the country making visits difficult, whereas the local population is easily one of the most open, friendly and hospitable ever experienced in the world. The country is not only closed to foreigners, but even to Iranians living abroad. The aforementioned Nima, who lives in Vancouver, cannot go to his home country, because like all young Iranian men he is obliged to serve in the Iranian military for two years, and if he were to go back to Iran he would either have to stay to serve or pay a lot of money to buy himself out. My visa application was rejected – because I hold a British Passport. Stood at the Iranian Visa office, in the UAE, with my head covered, looking all subdued, I was told I will get what I deserve which is what the British give the Iranian applicants. I didn’t say a word, though puzzled because there is a thriving Iranian community in the UK. So, I just applied again, as an engineer this time, under the supervision of an Iranian friend’s construction company. This worked.

Why is it so difficult? Does the Iranian Government not want visitors? Does the Iranian Government not want non residential Iranians to visit? Does the Iranian Government not want young, idealistic, educated, young men to come back? You got it. No. I learned, slowly, slowly, that though Iran is a world away from the images we are fed through the media, the Government would rather keep up appearances, and do whatever they want in their own country, without frequent outside scrutiny. ‘They can say whatever they make believe’ type attitude, hence we in the media, use the same old B-rolls of outdated footage, again and again, about the same, stuck, nuclear weapons story. Accurate information is not easy to obtain, and so the stories continue.

So I had no idea what to expect upon entry in Tehran, all I was told before hand was to buy a long coat and to take a few scarves, and that I would wear these items all the time when in public, and in potential view of the police. Despite having searched the Abu Dhabi malls until 10.30pm the night before and being all covered in the longest coat I could find, within half an hour of being in Tehran, I was ‘warned’ by the police because my above knee coat was too short. Sunday evening, entering one of a beautiful feature filled gardens called Bagh Mouseh Honar-e Iran (Iranian Art Museum Garden), was my first interaction with Iranian police, and thereafter I never wore that ‘short’ coat again. The warning was sincere and strong, and suddenly I understood why the girls didn’t wear knee high boots when asked not to, and why the youth don’t play card games, and why no one speaks about the regime in public.

I could talk about my experience in Iran endlessly, because it was so rich and varied in culture, language and its people, but in order to keep this letter a digestible length I will just share a few stories.

The Islamic Republic of Iran may sound like a strict title for a country and faith, but actually this is the only formal Shi’a country in the world, and I witnessed more ‘spirituality’ than formal religion. Although Mullahs (the Islamic Clergy) rule the country and are everywhere (I attended a public gathering in Yazd at which Mullahs were preaching to the city about rights and wrongs), the average Iranian did not seem to be following orthodox rules. Few prayed five times a day, even fewer visited working Mosques, and you can have a glass of Shiraz in Shiraz. Yet, this is not to say that people are not in his remembrance - constantly, but just not in the way that the Mullah’s would like. I understood why when I was invited into the Mosque of Mirrors in Shiraz. Unlike the other Mosques I visited, which were so stunningly beautiful but not operational, this mosque was magnificent and in use. It was small and as I began to take off my shoes a little man out of no where threw a sheet over me. I am serious, a bed-sheet. It wasn’t a purdha, burka or abbaya and shayla, I am familiar with those, but a bed sheet, without holes for the arms or head; you were just meant to wrap your whole body up and hold it. Now I understood what all those women, walking around Iran covered with a big, fat, black sheet felt like. It is just as unmanageable as it looks – hard to walk, turn your head or move properly. This ‘chaadar’ looked as though it had been washed a million times, and so whilst I was in the Mosque another kind gentleman came up to cover me with a newer one. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and quickly took my leave.

More spiritual encounters occurred away from the beautiful mosques and in peoples’ homes. I was invited to a Sufi worship in Kurdistan with some friends, where people were praising, worshiping and connecting with Allah through music, song and dance. Women and men were in separate rooms/ halls and the same music and the same energy it seemed flowed through them both. In no time at all, both sets were in rhythmical trances – without consciousness they seemed to have entered another realm. At times it was moving and at other times incomprehensible and even shocking, but the hospitality always remained the same – people were loving and looked after all their guests as if each were an image of God his/ herself.

Generally homes are the only place people can be themselves and practice in the way they want to. Saying that, there are all forms of active mosques, churches and temples, and even Gurdwaras from the Guru’s time, standing tall and alive. I found spiritual practice, thoughts and talk to be a commonality amongst all. Perhaps this is because the authorities are so far removed from such practice that people hold it close. Or perhaps because the country and traditions are full of spiritual philosophy, Ostad Elahi’s memorial for example, is visited continuously for an exchange of love and wisdom. Or as I was told, connection is the purpose of life since Zoroastrian times in the C5th. Rather than Eid, Iranians all still celebrate the Zoroastrian New Year at the beginning of spring called Norooz. Believing in active participation in life through idea of good thoughts, good words, good deeds – Zoroastrianism has perhaps had more direct influence on mankind than any other faith.

Either way, I felt at peace, and seeing the Sikh spiritual sign everywhere – even on the Iranian flag, helped. Persian’s say that they use the Sikh Khanda because it spells Allah, but perhaps this is just a continuation of all the other things that they have used/ borrowed/ taken from India. During a mind boggling tour of the National Jewellery Museum I was told smugly that 90% of the treasury’s wealth was taken from Punjab in repeated battles, and most recently and gleefully by Nadir Shah in 17th century. I was then given a guided tour of the Koh-i-noor which was apparently gifted by the Sikh Army, to the Iranian Royals – I had a hard time imagining the scene. The Sikh Symbol here, known as the Khanda, looks just like Iran’s Symbol with a squiggle on top (see above;)

Still, I guess the fact that I could understand about every fourth Farsi word, that I look Persian, and can connect with my brothers and sisters so easily counts for something:)

Forgiveness was made easier by the overwhelming taro goodness that was shown to me. Perhaps it is because the country has been kept closed that there is a real keen interest in foreigners, to the extent that one day, whilst randomly walking through a small Kurd town called Sanchez we were stopped by a lady who had clearly ran out of her kitchen (her apron was still steaming!) and insisted that we join her for dinner! On another occasion, after admiring a sculpture of Mastoore Ardalan the most admired Kurdish historical lady I asked if the piece were for sale, not that I could carry it home. When the world-class sculptor finally stepped into the workshop to be asked, he said no, and then promptly walked over to me to gift me the piece instead! Seriously!

Material matters are easy in Iran, in comparison to marriage! I was surrounded , , matters are not so easy when it comes to proposing to a lady or visa versa.
The historical and modern beauty in Iran is so overwhelming that your eyes begin to hurt from an overload of the magnificent impressions on your eyeballs every few moments. I would suggest taking your time in exploring one of the oldest continuous major civilisations in the world, with remains from over 4000BC. Once a world Superpower, Greater Iran included the modern nations of Afghanistan, Pakistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan and parts of Turkey and Iraq, and this is history remains close through the sites, stories and arts. Visiting the memorials of the poets such as Hafez and Sa’di in Shiraz, the gardens, rivers and palaces in Esfahan, the temples and Gods at Pasargad, and Kingdoms at Persepolis, and then travelling from Kurdistan to Baluchestan, seeing all the variety in between – I just cannot do justice to it all in words.
There are many reasons not to visit, and the Government can give you more. Persians themselves are tired and another revolution or even gradual change in the political regime will take time. The Mullah’s have a tight grip of the country and other Iranian’s are still leaving in droves. Opportunities if you are not connected are scarce, corruption is rife, and freedom is severely limited. Whilst I was there our neighbour immigrated with his parents, and his betrayed goodbye was gratified on his bedroom wall - ‘G’bye forever oh unfaithful nation’.

Yet, all I can say is that if you haven’t already, it is worth a visit, and then another. Behind closed doors, there is perhaps more action, philosophising, art, creativity and business than ever before. The birth of a new generation has bought hope back to the souls of the inhabitants of this nation of historical survivors.

India

Dearest,

I know that it has been a long time in the coming of my India 2 and I have lots to tell so I am afraid that you shall receive a big fat dose all at once.

But first, in case I am not able to send another such dose in the next week you know that I wish you the most wonderful New Year. I would say x-mas too normally, but since I am in the middle of nowhere it doesn't really exist for me this year.

The few lined version...here is the explanation.

I have been roaming around Punjab and was about to send an update. Before sitting before a PC for hrs I thought I would take the opportunity to visit the northern most state of India. The foot hills of the Himalayas become very cold very quickly and I had heard of a rather remarkable school tucked away in the hills. I called the principle and he after his warmest welcome I went up. I have been there ever since. This is my second week now out of civilization as we know it and hrs away from any internet site. I am very sorry for those for who were worrying, I have been trying to arrange a ride out to Chandigarh or another big city to use the net for days now....but rides are scare.

I have decided to spend a month freezing by butt for the challenge, and because it is actually a very inspiring place. Out in the middle of nowhere this boarding school of over 1000 students is one of the best in India and I am here working learning classical music, to read and write Punjabi, and generally get my hands dirty with things that I haven't had the opportunity to to date;)

Now the promised fat dose...

Another India
Pooja and I had been told not to shorten this trip for the sake of trying to cram in other countries for apparently India equals a thousand countries in its ginormous self.

But I do not think that this hit home until we ventured out to a different state in our second week. Just the train station when we arrived Amritsar said volumes. The air smelt of cow dung, men were dressed in village toties (a cloth wrapped around the waist to cover their legs) and carried huge bundles upon their heads and everything seemed to be dusty. Not expecting the hoards of taxi whallas that crowded around we were thankfully rescued by Pooj's small cousin who had come with her father in search of two western relatives that they were informed of only the day before.

Family
We were swiftly taken by their car to the house and there warmly and tightly embraced by every one of the seven family members, an embrace that lasted for the entire week!

There is no holding back in Indian hospitality we learnt and were immediately adopted as daughters. This meant that every need was catered for and in return the upmost respect was given. So when I informed of my plans to stay at the Golden Temple, the center temple for the Sikh faith, I was to respect the fact that they rather I didn't do so during the manic diwali season. You all know how well I respond to sensibility that comes with a 'no', so some cultural adjustment had to take place...but I could never have imagined the the extent to which this was to happen over the next few weeks!

The conversations that took place in that household over the following week I think say a lot about the differences there is between western and India culture. They ranged from, the lack of respect we show to our elders in the west, to the father's theory that all Indians that are living in the west shall have an identity crisis within two to three generations and they shall sit in a very uncomfortable position, not feeling a sense of belonging to either nation. Amritsar has experienced a very traumatic 15 years, due the Sikh's demand of their own homeland, which was crushed in brutally militant way by the Indian Government. As a Sikh living in a Hindu household in Amritsar I was amazed at the difference in their accounts of the Indian history, in comparison to the Sikhs in the same place. A difficult thing to comprehend co! nsidering that all children are taught the same history in school, showing it is our own experiences that colours or version of history rather than literature.

The amount of laughter that went on in this family was so heartening and both Pooj and I went away judging family size in terms of fun with personalities rather than in terms of expense and responsibility. Each family member had their own unique position in the home's dynamics, all were equally appreciated, loved and laughed at...'taking the piss' was a phrase that would be uttered many a times by me!

Festivals
I thought that I would be naming this Diwali, but little did I know that Indians like to create a party for everything, just as long as fireworks can be involved. A good indicator of the change in the India that I met 8 years ago and the one that I am seeing today, I think is the improvement that I am seeing in fireworks. Diwali was indeed lit with a bang! But not the dangerous blow your fingers along with it type of Bang, in Amritsar at least the displays that had been organized were truly spectacular. Course extremely colourful, flabouyant and covering every assortment of rockets, whizzing things, fountains...I was watching this particular from inside the grounds of the Golden Temple, and the fireworks were arranged such t! hat they seem to come from the sky above you to become sparkles in your eyes. The sky was lit, and the child's part was the cover the walkways, any ledge, and the side of all stairs with divas (small clay decorative cradle with a thick wick that sits in a little oil so that it is forever lit), these were also placed as floating candles on the lake of holy water in the middle of which the Golden Temple sits.

Food and family was everywhere. Everyone had come together to share their joy and festive mood. The place was buzzing day and night, as everyone was out to visit friends and family with gifts (the family we were staying with got an over load of fruit bowls?!), going out to pick up the array of sweets and special foods that had been made with particular love in the run up, everyone went all out in how they were to treat all those around them. It was made sure that the family had the gift of a sari ready even for the doorman's wife! I felt the buzz as I was whizzed around and in between all the aroromous, dazzling, and chaotically happy alleys with my singing autos (electric rickshaw) whalla.

Hindu's and sikh's would then have a huge family meal, light fireworks, and perform a prayer or Puja in the house, before going out again at night to the sound of more entertaining friends and music, the smell of more luxurious food, and the sight of the family getting dressed up again. I thought diwali was yesterday, was that the eve I stupidly asked. They roared with laughter, no today is a different day, you are not dreaming, today we are going to celebrate our brother/sisters, it is Tika.

Ok, so this is when the sister thanks God for her beloved brother and affectionately fills the parting of hair on his forehead with a red powder and feeds him with a juicy sweet cake. He in return shows his gratitude for her by giving her a gift. This time jumpers (pull overs for the Americans out there) were all the rage, and course, and when dealing with a distant cousin sister good ole money went down well.

A few days later the place was bought to a stand still with firweworks again, for it was Maharaja Ranjit Singh's bicentinery. Who is this guy? An infamous Indian emperor who ruled Amritsar, and then Punjab and then all surrounding areas including the Afghanistan (the only foreign ruler to have ever gained legitimate rule of the Country - ever!). But apart from being great at battles, despite only having one eye, he was most respected for the fact that ruled with single vision too. He is the only ruler who has been able to make the Punjabi's feel Punjabi before Hindu, Sikh or Muslim. A devout and humble Sikh himself, and responsible for the gold that covers the Golden Temple today and the fact that many Hindu families decided that their first born shall be raised in the Sikhism, he was a admirably secular ruler. Thankfully for the Indians he was known to have a sense of humour too, and so could laugh at the lady who came to him during his morning walk and smacked him over the head with a heavy iron pan. That evening she was taken to court and he asked her "WHY???"

"I had heard that whatever you touch turns to gold she said directly."

He chuckled to a guardsman beside him and she left the court that evening with a heavy gold pan in her hands. Anyway, so in remembrance of him and Amritsar went bezerk yet again, and this time the Indian President came down to join them...so the masses of security made things even more fun. In processions that were held I think the number of police exceeded the public, and they would always have something to say to you, but never anything of value!

The shows were worth it though, with 15 men standing on one riding motorcycle, to camels that were dressed up fit for a king, and brave horse tricks and swordsmanship...in one display the fighter was blinded folded and still sliced a banana out of the mouth of his opponent with one heavy duty sword!

In all Amritsar was continual entertainment and a lot of fun, and after my Ghatka classes had finished (the Sikh Martial art that is based on empowerment through the skilful handling of a sword - though I was taught with a wooden baton like stick) I went to visit my mothers closest friend in Ludhiana. Now to cut a long story short after being mothered the whole weekend, and I did not mind the great home cooked food prepared with love I then went to the Garden State of Chandigarh. This is seen as the cleanest place in India. It is true, the streets are wide and leafy, there is no chaotic traffic, or huge crowds that leave litter in their wake, or people living on top of one another. But compared to the rest of India this highly organized state seem! ed dead. It sat somewhere uncomfortably between the first world and the third world and was a place for the retired. As you can probably tell I didn't like the endless suburbs and primness of the place...and so was glad that there was yet another celebration in swing. Gurpur is a national holiday
(Nov 30th) in celebration of the birth of the Guru that found the Sikh religion... that something made the people jump out on to even these empty streets and dance.

Pilgrimage
By now it is evident that the Indians love to worship and Pilgrimage sites scatter India. But course they are always in hard to reach areas in order to test the level of your faith. I decided to visit a 'site of pilgrimage' that was an hour away from Amritsar, by taxi. How is it a pilgrimage I hear you ask...

Wait for this test of devotion...

You do not have to climb huge mountains, or travels across 5 rivers, but rather simply walk down 84 steps to the holy water at a bottom of the well. Ok, now try doing this in the freezing cold temperatures, because it is a tunnel for the cold November air, to bathe in the holy but cold water, and then to read a prayer (which takes approx 15mins) whilst standing in the pool. Now come the test. You move up one sep out of the pool and read the same prayer and then go back down to bathe. Climb up two and read the prayer then go to wash yourself again, then climb up to the third step...repeat the action...

You get the picture. Completion is likely to be (approx) 38 hrs later climbing slowly up all eighty four steps. Why 84? In Sikh Holy Scriptures it is written that a soul will transmigrate through 8, 400, 000 lives and as you wash at after praying at each step you wash yourself of 100 000 transmigrations. The aim of this pilgrimage thus, for one who performs with the purest heart and intention is to wash away all the transmigrations that are awaiting your soul.

To get a realist picture of those that performed this pilgrimage...think of going down to bathe in the cold pool for the 50th time, at 3am, when temperatures are 12 degree Celsius and course the clothes that you change into are of course wet by now. This after a gruelling day when day visitors walk past and stare at your madness, but you would rather that then push yourself in the wee hours of the morning without the body heat and smiles of the crowds.

One for challenge Anneka I think!

I'm an English Man...

...deep) in New York

Of course, I had the intention of writing to you weekly from NYC – but the
nature of the place is such that when you are not doing anything and you
think that it is the perfect opportunity to catch up with e-mails – an
alternative always comes along.

However, I realised from your responses to my last e-mail that the one thing
that I had forgotten to mention is why I was in New York in the first place.

Answer: To partake in an internship at the United Nations Secretariat,
working for UN Radio. For those interested my programs are all on the web
and I can send you a link and the dates if you wish.

Now the shenanigans that I have witnessed at the UN in that last month,
plus, would be entertainment in itself. But I do not think that I can send
out an e-mail about such things. But if I were to say a few words I would
choose to highlight the following:
· Since Iraq the UN has been thinking long and hard about its role in the
world. re: how exactly it is acting as a peacemaker and development agent.
This I believe shall result in a drastic shake up of the system, for the
better.
· Secondly, only after working here have I learned how true is the phrase
‘America has no allies, only interests’. These are interesting times …
· Thirdly, Nicole Kidman and Sean Penn are starring in Interpreter, which is
a film based at the United Nations (filmed in the evenings and weekends) and
for me it represents the underground politics that are pervasive.
In sum, I have been learning lots, being exposed to the best and worst sides
of human nature, the extremities of politics and the juxtaposition of hope
with interests and reality.

Now, there are a few small highlights that I would love to share, so when
you have a moment, on the bus, train or at the gym…print this out and enjoy
the read.

WIERDO’S
One day in April my li’l brother wrote me an e-mail, in which he wrote, ‘so
dear didi (sister) – what A-list parties have you been to recently in the
big NYC?’ When I read this I thought – bless, my little sixteen year old brother has
such a romantic notion of New York…cute but so naïve.

That night, after attending a Beethoven recital at Carnegie Hall (the
inspiration of some friends at work) I thought I would join another friend
at a house party, since the people I was with were going to call it a night.
It was rather far out and the whole way there, I kept wondering if it was
really worth it – I was alone, it was nearly one am, and it was raining. I
got to the given address and there were two drag queens dressed to the nines
outside the apartment block. Hummm…this was going to be another quirky New
York party I thought to myself.

But I did not imagine the type of quirky that I was to encounter. I took
the lift to the 40 floor and the doors opened out to an amazing penthouse
sweet, which was all windows. You could see the whole of Manhattan from the
outside, and inside there were the most bizarre looking people dancing. I
felt as thought I was in a time wrap and walking into the future at the same
time – lots of tall, skinny people with some feathered, some nude and some
in shiny materials, to name but a few.

As I walked through the crowd looking for my friend I learned that it was an
Icelandic fashioned designers 30th birthday party, and all her weird and
wonderful friends had come to surround her. Who was the cook – none other
than a chocolate wizard, the designers were pony, and the DJ – was none
other than Bjork. We danced the night away surrounded by weird everything.

But I realised that weirdos are not only at weird Icelandic parties, they
are teeming all over the place. On your way to or from work someone dressed
as a preacher, prince or parrot very well might greet you with a ‘morning
baby doll’ – they all seem to have a southern drawl too!

One definition of weird could be – one who looks or does something out of
the norm, and this can sometimes even be endearing. Imagine sitting in a
Starbucks, head down, editing some minidisks. Three hours later and your
head is still down apart from the occasional toilet break or phone call. I
am on my fifth disk, thinking that I will never be done, loosing my
concentration, when a note is slipped upon my table.

It said: We know that you are studying, and we really did not want to
interrupt or intrude, but we wanted to invite your for dinner at our
favourite Indian restaurant. I looked up and there were three faces smiling
at me – one of the boys said ‘Leaving in 15 minutes, but would wait if you would care to join.’ And so it was, before I knew it I was out with a Turkish girl, Pakistani Boy and Indian Boy. The evening was interesting to say the least!

ROLLER - COSTER
I hope that I am getting across that it is not all good / bad in New York.
Being here is a combination of the two, but having always the extreme of
each. So, I would say that my journey here so far has been like a
Roller-Costa ride. Likened to the transport that are the cities arteries.
The Taxis, are run by Indian or Pakistani Mafia and so need I say more;)

The Subway is a whole another story – there is a subway God somewhere who
loves to play subway jokes. What am I doing in Harlem again? You ask this
question to yourself regularly. Trust me, you are not there because you
wanted to go to Harlem, nor because you are stupid…but because trains here
just switch from the track that they normally travel on. So if you think
you are waiting on the platform for a train to take you in one direction,
you might find that another train that will take you somewhere very
different has sneaked onto that platform. Please do not ask me why. I am
constantly late here – more than the usual Mandeep lateness, because
whatever address you are travelling to you can guarantee that it will
consist of going across the city, which the trains do not do. Or that the
train you are on is express and so you miss your stop and ten after that.
Or that you were meant to be in the first three carriages of this particular
train if you wanted the doors to open at the next stop. The subway
seriously is a continual source of humour in my life.

Whilst crossing the road on any occasion you will notice how much anger in
the city – I really wonder where it can all come from. Almost everyday I
hear fowl language from either the pedestrian or the driver – a great day to
start the day. No wonder people come into work a little agitated!

One day I could not have been more anti New York. Fed up of being pushed
out of the way on the streets, fed up of the weirdos always looking, fed up
of the never ending claustrophobic towers that team over head and suffocate
you. It is dirty, rat infested, lonely, uncaring, and complete rubbish for
the mentally ill, who slip through the feeble social security net and wonder
hungry through the city. So as I got on to yet another over stuffed, late,
and smelly tube my only recluse was my diary. I put my head down and
scribbled away, and only ten minutes later did I realise that the girl next
to me was doing the same. I learned that we had an equally bad day – but
this is not such a big deal. Two and a half weeks later when I was on
another subway, writing about an excellent day – as I looked up I saw the
same girl again, doing the same thing. Now considering the population of
New York - that was incredible!

RELIGION
There have been some interesting religious events. For example, the Fifth
of April was Passover, perhaps on of the highlights of my trip so far. I sat around a
family table surrounded by my friends’ Jewish family and friends, and I,
being the only Jew there, felt so privileged to be getting such an insight.
Passover is a festival that resembles the journey of Jews from Egypt to
Israel, away from persecution. Before you eat a delicious but very odd meal
of many courses, including nut paste and crackers (!) you say prayers which
are accompanied by symbolic gestures. For example, at one part of the meal
everyone around the table dipped parsley into salty water and ate it – in
memory of the tears that were shed. ‘The other’ was mentioned on numerous
occasions in the prayers – ‘the other’ being the non-Jew persecutor, and
suddenly I did not feel so relaxed! But seriously, it was an amazing
insight into a culture that I feel that few non-Jews actually know very much
about.

Holi – for those of you that went to India with me via my e-mails will
remember the festival of colour that I described. The one in which the
whole of India becomes berserk and throws colours at one another. Well,
imagine I am on my way to the Statue of Liberty, for which you have to take
a ferry, when I come across a park with a hoard of white t-shirted college
students in it, of Indian decent. They were getting ready, physically and
psychologically, for Holi, New York Stylee. This means that you are
assigned a number – and since you are split into two teams there shall be
two people who are twenty nine say. Then you wait for you number to be
randomly called out, at which point you try to run to the pot of colour, to
get it before your counterpart, and splash the coloured powder all over
them. American over frantic organisation can only last so long, until the
whole game becomes a big free for all and everyone goes wild. By the end of
my time in the park I was red, yellow, green, purple, blue, orange,
pink…coloured all over, including my face, had some white flour sprinkled
over me for good measure. And then some real bright spark threw a glass of
water at me so that it would all become a gooey paste. The interesting
thing for me was realising that no one else in New York knew why you were
walking around like a colourful clown, and people, at the sight of you would
go wild – wild with their smiles, curiosity and humour.

This Sunday I went to a non-denominational Christian Church and I was blown
away by the energy. The singing and dancing was contagious, the community
of people spread their love throughout and the speakers were inspiring re:
Ravi Zacharias – check him out!

Saying that, religion has not been all that easy to swallow, either. Last
week there was a Pro Choice march in Washington. Apparently the largest in
the history of the Untied States. What surprised me however, was the
powerful way in which the millions of pro-life supporters got their message
across. In cities across the United States, pro life supporters simply
stand with larger than life billboards before them, that have the most
shocking pictures of bloody and deformed foetus’. I include this into
religion because in this case religion is used in support of the pro-life
argument.

SOME TRAVEL
Boston – we were tourists, and found the city to be wonderful, but Harvard
campus was letdown to be honest.

Philadelphia – went to build a children’s playground in the roughest part of
the city. Even our black taxi driver would rather have not driven through
to get us to the school.

Croatia's complexities

But by far, the most memorable trip of the year was to Croatia with Gavin. The country is made up of over 1000 islands – some are just forest, others are a string of beaches, others are like teardrops that have fallen from the sky, and one of my favourites was a national park with all of the above and a hotel! Croatia is a must in every respect, the history of the country is fast disappearing in some places, and there is rapid progression. But other areas are like deserted ghost towns where the remains of bombings have not been cleared up – a visual reminder of the serb-croat-bosnian conflict that has been etched in some minds here, forever. We were given a ride by a Muslim Serb who had run away to Croatia and joined the army. Though he could not speak a word of English, and our Croatian is certainly limited, he was able to convey some of the many complexities of the conflict through the intricate lines of divided loyalty which continue to separate people, states, and futures.

The EU was now being resented for the demands in place, and locals seem not to want their leaders to join. There were some places with incredible religious and regional harmony, and in other towns were literally divided in two by a town or bridge. I also visited Sarajevo which is a fine example of this.

Dubrovnik is like something out of a fairy tale, with cobbled meandering streets surrounding tiny fountains, the large town hall and a massive cathedral – all enclosed by a grand and guarding city wall.

Though Croatia is popular with Europeans, in some ways it also feels like the best kept secret, but in fact we realised it is the way that the tourists are kept that is the secret. The tourist industry is not the usual string of hotels running down the coast, but rather you are encouraged to stay with locals. This is, of course, also helped by the 1000s of islands one can escape to, in addition to the long and diverse mainland, which is covered with modest, classy, private holiday homes. Honestly, if you are looking for somewhere to retire to, Croatia should be high up there – with great food, hospitality and sense of friendship. Living with locals is great because not only do you get a sense of all three first hand, it feels as though your memories are richer somehow, thoroughly recommended.

Colombia is cool

I am finally writing from South America. I do not think I realised the thoughts that could be going through your head, until I experienced the London attacks from a distant. Not hearing from people after phone calls and emails was scary, so I apologise for being distant, and will be in touch a lot more often.

I have made it to Colombia. Yes, yes, it is all true; there are guerrilla, drug cartels, and hot women. But these are only a part of the story, the real danger, I feel, and I have been here for nearly a month now, are the paramilitary.

Despite the above I have really fallen for Colombia. It is truly inspiring, and the first Latin American country in which I have felt at home. For me this has been a Latin American version of New York, there is always lots happening, things move fast, and people are informed and connected. Bogota is brilliant. About the size of London, and similarly it takes about an hour to get anywhere, but instead of being a collection of villages, it is a simple split between the North and South. The further South you go, you are no longer on paved roads but driving through dirt tracks, serious ghettos, and few people have a place to call their own. Up north you live in your own apartment with marble floor and gold taps. This inequality means that few people have houses in the middle, because they are so vulnerable. You simply will be robbed. So people live in highly protected luxury apartments. You can tell this simply by the view of Bogota as you first fly or drive in. At day you can see the so called misery belts (or shanty towns) in the South, shacks piled on top of each other on the sides of the mountains that surround the lake that Bogota once used to be, and in the North there are apartments surrounded by trees. At night, you see lights far apart from each other like stars in the North, and crammed together to make the yellow brick road in the South.

Why is the division more extreme than other Latin American Countries?
Well, there are many reasons, but one principle reason is that the really rich are very well connected, and life in Bogota is so very much easier and sweeter with connections. In some cases, some of these connections are with the narcotics industry, for this money is pervasive. Meanwhile, the poorest of the poor are the refugees who are given literally hours to leave their homes if they are in the way of the guerrilla cocaine channels.

Taking a second to look at the more commonly portrayed image of Colombia; The vision that was once associated with the 'communist' work of the Farc – the main gorilla movement, has long gone, and now they are seen as simple terrorists. But it is not easy to contain them or bring peace, when the paramilitary and police can be so easily bribed to work with them. This is why I would say that the police and paramilitary are even more dangerous, because in a time of warfare, you may make the mistake of turning to them for protection. The situation that I am describing exists primarily in the rural areas, so moving around the country, can be dangerous if your route is not common. However, Colombia has changed greatly in the last few years, shown by the dramatic changes in Bogota, and safe opening up of the rest of the country.

For a visitor the country is safe, and because there are not many tourists perhaps, people are exceptionally friendly. I have found Colombians to be immensely warm and big hearted, and they go out of their way to prove to you that Colombia is not hell on earth, but rather paradise. And to be honest, it is stunning! Travelling up into the country from the south, there are snow capped mountains in the background, with a lush rolling hills in the foreground, the eastern half of the country is pure Amazon, the northern coast is Caribbean, and hidden in the national parks are scenes straight out of the Beach – for those who have watched the film. There are deserts, forests and muddy swaps and the extent of this diversity means that there are many very distinct cultures. The climates and variety in environments also means that they have an immense variety of fruits, that I have never heard of or tasted before, and every time you sit down for a mean there will be a new taste on your plate. In addition, food is great, really varied and always delicious – though they have a real fetish of mixing sweet with sour. Music, dance, dress…everything is rich in its depth and quality.

Colombians have a great deal to be proud of and they know it. What makes me feel so happy here are the people. They are so much fun! Really inventive, though some perhaps might say that they can be a little too clever for their own good. The streets reflect what I mean. Everything goes. You do not need to have taken lessons to drive, you just need to buy a licence, and it shows. The rules are not to use an indicator; you are the king of the road, and red simply means speed up so that you are not in the way of whatever on coming traffic there may be. I kid you not, I know, I was involved in a small accident, and see the remnants of one almost everyday. On top of this chaos are the buses. Imagine what it is like if every third vehicle in Bogota is a bus, with bus drivers who are kind enough to stop whenever some one puts their hand out? Apart from the cars behind having to be quick, but passengers too, doing a running jump in or out of these 'never quite stopping' buses. Then inside the buses there is almost 'Colombian Rumba' (party). For almost every bus plays hot salsa, has flashing coloured lights and there are entertainers, on top of which sellers passing through. You can buy anything on a bus; from a razor, notebook or bulb, to a radio/alarm clock, and beyond.
Most of these things are made in China, but if you ask for something, then word quickly goes around the sellers, and whatever you want is yours. What is also interesting is the way that the sellers get you to buy what you do not need. If perfume, for example, is the product, then the vendor will give everyone their own individual bottle – of what they imagine you would like. So for a while, you think it is yours, the box is in your hands, you open it, and perhaps try the scent on, such that by the time the vendor comes back around to you on the bus, you are more likely to give them a little money to keep the product, than return the product. An easy sale.

Speaking of things easy, beauty is becoming easy. There is a real obsession with looks here. You go to clubs and parties to look and be seen – dancing, drinking, being merry comes second in many occasions. It is the same even when you go to the gym. I went this morning, and barely anyone broke out in a sweat. It is just not the done thing!
If you sweat, you would upset your make-up, and your tight clothes will begin to show sweat patches. Yes, there are J-Lo look-alikes everywhere. You know the type. Big earnings, slick straight hair, a tight pink or grey tracksuit type outfit, and perfect skin. In the strive for perfection, there is a phenomenal boom in plastic surgery of every kind. These things just aren't a priority in countries like Bolivia, I guess that is why it has taken me by surprise. Having a beauty queen, not only for the region or country but for every product under the sun…coffee, guava, or trucks, makes you realise that beauty is really something more than important here. It is celebrated every day for occasion, product or reason. You understand the reasoning, when you see that a ladies life can be turned upside down in terms of fortune, and everything is at your finger tips if you are one of the most beautiful. Rich men here, more than in any other place that I have been to, fall at the feet of the beauties.

Saying that, the women are not bitchy, far from it, some of the most incredibly warm people that I have ever had the fortune to meet, have been Colombian. Experiencing almost every part of the city and every level of society here, from the female shoe cleaner to the country's first lady, there has been nothing but charm.

Colombia is very different to the neighbouring countries of Ecuador, Peru or Bolivia. Here there is a high level of consciousness about almost everything…from Sundays being a cycle day and so many roads are blocked, to having one of the most prominent (and for most, the first) stand up comedies in the world (Andreas Lopez is like the Ali G of
Latin America) to the study of conflict and peace – one of the most developed themes in literature. So, why is it that there are so few people visiting Colombian?

Well, it is working hard to shed its image of being a place of warfare and danger. There are parts to be avoided, but these are few and far between. The rich Colombians perhaps have a little paranoia, and security in homes, cars and work is tight, but perhaps rightly so because even I, who has nothing apart from a audio recorder, found that it was missing, even though I thought it was attached to my body!

When I told a friend about what had happened he assured me I was not alone, 'I guarantee 100% have experienced theft, at some point'. Not sure that made me feel as good as he intended. So, the idea is to become even smarter than your average Colombian. Not easy.

Have lots more to say about Colombia, but will stop now. I did not want to show only the good, or only the bad, so I hope that this is a fair selection of some impressions. More than any other country in Latin America, I feel that Colombia is one place that could do with accurate accounts, and not fiction for it is changing fast, and this is hardly known. (For anyone who has recently seen the opening scenes of the film Mr and Mrs Smith – which are meant to be based in Bogota, but are not even shot here! The film shows warfare, mafia and bombings – and is highly offensive to Colombia, and is generally being ignored here.)

'guay in Paraguay and Uruguay

From initial impressions Paraguay and Uruguay could not be any different.
My stay in each was very brief but essentially the two neighbouring countries
are like good cop, bad cop standing side by side.

I think that one little story from each that were experienced as soon as I crossed the border will tell you everything.

Getting to Paraguay is easy via Brazil. There is simply one bridge that acts as a border between the two countries, at the Iguazul falls, so I decided to take advantage of the proximity and go and visit.

The taxi driver who drove me to this bridge, (but was not willing to cross it - due to a lack of a passport among other reasons) told me to guard all my belongings with my life, and that it was preferable that if anything was important to me, not to take it with me at all.

Ok, I heard him, but you do have to take a little money, your passport, camera (which was permanently attached to my body anyway by this stage of the trip), and the clothes on my back at least. As I begin to cross the bridge, upon which there are few cars, but lots and lots of motorbikes (the perfered form of transport in Paraguay) I wonder how different a nation can be, given
they have similar if not the same climate, soil, language, religion, and by and large ancestry.

Whilst crossing the bridge, which was not so long, there was a gust of wind and my cap fell off and went into the road. The stream of motorbikes was such that you would be crazy to jump out into the road, but I had followed the cap with my eyes and could see where it had landed. Another motorbike driver also saw the landing, and picked the cap up. I cheered – how kind! I applauded the driver and when he looked over I waved at him with one hand and signalled that it was mine with the other. I had a massive "I'm so grateful" smile on my head, and immediately began to think of ways to thank him – what to say, or what to give. He looked me in the eye, smiled back, and then whilst still watching me he put the cap on his own head and sped on his way, leaving me in his gust of smoke in the background.

I could not believe it. The taxi drivers words wrung in my ears. He was right. Be careful with everything. Unless it is plastered on to you, like your eyebrows, it can be stolen and most probably will be.

The whole town in fact is run upon this philosophy. You could buy any electrical item that you may ever have dreamt of, at just a fraction of the price. You never need to pay more than a quarter of market value for anything – the latest cameras, laptops, palm pilots, camcorders, memory cards, play stations, you name it, they were all there. I felt a little sick because only recently had I had all luggage stolen from my locked hotel room in Argentina. This town was bordering both Brazil and Argentina, so trafficking international stolen goods would not be much of a problem. Only I could not help but search for my own goods, half praying that life would not be so obviously corrupt and sell my own belongings back to me after theft, whilst another part of me was willing and grateful for an opportunity to get my stuff back, and for such a bargain price.
The microphone that had gone with the rest of my belongings was the most valuable item – not in terms of valuable, but in terms of its utility. It was desperately needed and I had investigated and no where in South America could I find a top quality voice recording microphone. In the end I had to have one sent out to me, only for it to be held in customs of various countries on route. So back to Paraguay – it felt dodgy in every respect. The passport control were too busy communicating with the girlfriend of one of the internal officers, so those waiting at the desk to get our passport stamped, were just shooed away. On exit there was no one even manning the passport immigration counter. So just as it did not matter than I was not given a stamp upon entry, exit was just as relaxed and careless.

The men and women also seemed to be careless in a way. Perhaps it was because I was coming from Brazil , but I found the women to really not care about how they looked, as long as lots of flesh was showing. The clothing was generally bad quality and limited, with visible stocking and bras to be the common theme. In this town at least the men were similarly presentable. All clothing was a fake brand, not well copied, and old looking. The people I saw were either street vendors or shoppers and everyone was out to get a deal – me included. I only bought two things, and in each instance I was scared of being 'done'. First I bought a memory card. The only electronic item that my conscience would allow me to buy - for some unknown reason, it did not seem to be an item that was serious in being someone else's property (!). But though you are only meant to pay a fourth of market value, as soon as I came to buy, I realised that rules are different for foreigners, and since it is thought you have money, it is also thought that you should be made to pay more. So bargaining began and all vendors stick together so it is rather difficult – I say this as an someone trained in India, so that's saying something. The second item I bought was sunglasses, perhaps good fakes or stolen (less likely in this case) from a stall. I did not have change and so I had to give a hundred dollar bill, and then as I stood by the stall waiting for the vendor to get change it dawned on me that I was not going to see him again. The sunglasses were two dollars and I had stupidly given a hundred dollars. Nothing on the stall was even worth a dollar, so the vendor could safely leave his merchandise under the watchful eye of his neighbours and disappear until I was tired of waiting for him. After all, what was I going to do? Take off with everything on his stall, and be beaten up by neighbouring vendors? Or tell the police, and again be beaten up (either by the police them selves – it is very common or neighbouring vendors)? Or would I just wait, and wait, and wait, and miss transport out of this city. Nothing was a straight forward as one would have liked.

I left Paraguay with very little change in my pocket – only small coins that would be my souvenir of the country, a memory card and sun glasses. I avoided the skin coloured plastic breast plates on sale everywhere, and passport control again seemed too busy and avoided me. So thankfully with my camera still safely hidden under my armpit, I crossed the border back over to Brazil (capless).
The strange thing is that almost a week after my very shady experiences in Paraguay, I did not have any souvenirs or trace of having visited the country. So there was no stamp on my passport, it would have been silly to take out my camera and any point (an open invitation for the thieves on the streets and in the shops), and my wallet had been pick-pocketed a few days later from my jean pocket on a sub way in Chile – so my souvenir coins had disappeared too. The sunglasses were accidentally lost in a train before I had even worn them, and the memory card was stolen along with the rest of my luggage from my hotel room in Argentina (doh!) So admittedly a little bad luck followed but I thought it interesting that nothing from Paraguay remained in my possession, as you would expect if you buy stolen goods perhaps, (just a thought with respect to karma;).

Uruguay on the other hand was the complete and utter opposite. A country of similar size and importance in South America, and yet it was so pretty, organised and respectful. It was a pleasure to visit through and through, and again only a border town was experienced. But unlike Paraguay, really good food was readily available, it had a strong artistic culture and there was a lot of splendid local art available in terms of paintings, jewellery, beautiful decorative gifts for people and their homes. This town, which is just a ferry ride from Buenos Aires, San Christobal (or something similar) was full of character and charm. From the moment I arrived, on a cold, wet and dark mid week evening, I felt as though I was being looked after. My guide book had suggested a small hotel. But by knocking on the door of the address, I learned that it had since closed down. 'Don't worry, just call me aduelo (grandfather) and I will ensure that you are fine dear grand child' said the owner of the house, 'follow me'. Naively perhaps, I followed, and he lead me to a neighbour's house which had big grand wooden doors and turned out to be the most quaint little guest house that used to house royalty during the days of Portuguese colonisation. With portraits and pictures greeting you at every corner, a grand dinning hall and seating under windows, next open fires, and in uniquely styled reading rooms. My bathroom was the size of a good sized swimming pool with a washing tap, equipment and room for almost each and every part of your body, a huge stand alone bath like in the adverts of Cadbury's Chocolate Flake (apologies to those who do not know why I am getting excited here), and a variety of scented soaps. It was hard to say no, and hereafter it was as though one was being pampered all the way in Uruguay. This is a little like how one can feel in the grander parts of Buenos Aires, which are affordable and so very classy. I could go on about Uruguay, but you get the picture.

My experience of Argentina and Chile was equally as contradictory. Argentina has so much on offer in its beautiful country and it is done with real style. Tango is perhaps one cultural offering that sums up Argentina. There is a rich history that today's experiences are built on; whether this be cuisine, architecture, recreation or culture.

For example, even a place that is normally avoided, such as a cemetery is like a work of pleasurable work of art in Buenos Aires, with each grave in fact being a whole chamber for the family underground. But it is not morbid, but rather a very well maintained, often lit up, scented and decorated chamber with a particular style of tomb. So one family might choose a minimalist, Armani style tomb, while another may create a baroque, roman, or oriental themed vault and so the family's stamp continues.

This brings us back to tango and passion, because Argentina seems to be all about throwing passion into xyz. Tango actually comes from a long history of mafia and was originally a form of displaying your prowess man against man. Today it is the same challenge of energies, but in the form of one of the most highly charged dances that exists between a man and a woman. It is empowered, trusting, and intimate. Great to participate in, watch or be surrounded by, and there is ample opportunity for all in Argentina .

There is also the opportunity for everything and anything else. In the same country you can find the largest glaciers, the wildest and most awesome range of forest colours, entire colonies of species on tear drop islands, ranches and country mansions, tiny huts next to rivers and waterfalls, huge vineyard estates, tropical beaches, hidden lakes in the most challenging of mountain ranges. With the pleasure being in the fact that people have a real pride in their particular region or speciality, and their maintenance of the country shows this. Travel is easy, and to feel welcomed, at ease, and very lucky is even easier. There is a lot to share, because people are so receptive and aware, as well as being beautiful in many other respects too.

I know it seems as though I fall in love with every place I visit, but really, it is hard not to be happy in Argentina. Chile however, is my chance to say something different, if you like variety. My personal experience is that life was a lot more bland and almost boring in Chile, and this is again reflected in the cuisine, architecture and national pastimes. Of course there are many unique and wonderful places to escape to, my personal favourite being Atacama Desert for the way in which it is one of the best windows to our solar system. The way in which one can see observe the sky in this mountainous desert with almost continuous clear skies is unparalleled anywhere else in the world. The largest telescopic array in the world (made up of 36 separate telescopes) is currently being set up near San Pedro, and will provide our best insight into how stars are formed, how they die and all in between, looking further, wider and deeper than we ever have before.

The Atacama Desert, to my surprise, is one place where you can become lost in many wondrous adventures, for there are so many differences in what sand can produce and at the height of the Andes some of the most impressive dune valleys in the world have taken shape. It is a little like visiting the Taj Mahal in different places, for the sand is like white marble in some places, almost dusky pink in others, and deep brown in others. The texture of the formations produced by years of wind erosion combined with the tricks of sunlight creates some out of this world sights that are beyond imagination.

I suppose I should not be so down on Chile therefore, and I am sorry if I have offended any Chileans. But to my defence (!) the rest of South America sort of feels the same. Chile does not have good relations with its neighbours for many reasons. And when leaving Chile for Peru I experienced first hand why this might be. Chile's national airline had an ad campaign trying to put people off Peru, so that one would stay longer in Chile! At this point I knew it was time to leave!

South Africa - ca - ca

My only real first hand glimpse / experience of South Africa before a visit, was through those South African's that I had the fortune to meet – so primarily it was the accent. This is one thing that remained consistent throughout the trip and always gave a sense of comfort, ease and well being. There is something so friendly about the accent, that it almost doesn't matter what is being said, you feel good. I had this feeling from the moment I arrived at Heathrow Airport, and the women at the check out were just as excited as me about my visit (so long as I am not planning to go to Johannesburg, they warned).

So my first stop was cape town, and I am so pleased for the advice, for it became one of the best experiences ever. There is everything that you can image on offer in and around Cape town. The views from Table Mountain or the Water Front where the breeze from across cape town comes up to tingle your neck, to the bottom of the cape where you can feel the warmth of the Indian Ocean caress your toes. Activities, from riding along the beach at sunset along the Cape, to paragliding, bungee jumping, sky diving, swimming with dolphins, surfing at Llandudno, driving along Chapman's Peak Drive , or dancing in tulips. Scenes such as the mass of penguins on Islands off the bay tip, to the colours of Rainbow coloured painted facades of Bo-Kaap or the shades that run across the sky at Camps Bay. Music is varied, rich and proud, from the grandeur of Jazz dazzling in the bars of Cape Town, to the contagious beat of African drums along the streets. Food is wholesome, organic and favoursome. The fresh fruits at breakfast entice the appetite, such that you are eager for the sea fish at lunch and the BBQed meats at dinner. Each restaurant was a very different eating experience, from Licester Hall, to the Havana on the rail tracks, and designer deli's. The sun makes everything glisten, and the sea gives every faces a shine.

Beyond Cape Town a car is a good idea. There is Garden Route to be explored – which runs along the coast line. You can discover some of the best seafood in the world, some of the most secluded and spectacular bays, and one of the real gems of the route is Kysn…where there is the most idyllic lagoon that stretches out before the beach. This makes for a peaceful retreat in private hidden chalets that blend into the Milk Wood trees that they lie under. Further in, there are ostrich farms, historic towns, and rugged wilderness with its own unique flora and fauna to be found inland. All on your path to the not-to-be-missed vineyards at Franshook. This is a scene out of heaven. Vineyards are Dieu Donne; it can only be a gift from God to have a Jacuzzi amongst the flowers, which lies next to a lawn where you can dry off and picnic, before you run into the vineyards to quench thirst! The cabins hidden within the vineyards were exclusive and discrete, and food on offer in the small French restaurants gently scattered over town were exquisite. Further a field in South Africa one can go on Safari, experience the lost Kingdoms of Swaziland and Lesotho, or even visit the Las Vegas of Africa. Either way, time in South Africa is very worthwhile…

One of my most poignant experiences was that of colour. Like never before I was constantly aware of my own colour and that of others. In England I have been bought up Churchdown, a village lying in between Gloucester and Cheltenham. There were very few people of colour in either town let alone in the village, and so at my white school, in amongst my white friends, having white fun, I did not realise that I was any different. I wasn't any different, and apart from some odd instances (such as a little boy tripping me up at school, hurting me a little more than he meant to, in order to see whether the colour of my blood was any different), I was never made to feel any different. In South Africa however, to feel a sense of belonging, difference is all one can see. The whites belong with the whites, the black with the blacks, the coloureds with the coloureds (who are a mix of the black and white), and the Asians with the Asians. I did not expect it to be like this, particularly after apartheid, but it seems that people feel most comfortable with their own, in their own place, own schools, own hang out joins, own environment. It will take a generation at least for things to change and some rather drastic and painful measures are now being put in place.

Under apartheid blacks were not able to leave their town. You needed a special card, giving you permission to travel, without which you were destined to your little town. Blacks were not able to be in the streets after 10pm. Which meant there was no night life, no going out dancing, no late drinking with friends, particularly because blacks were not allowed to drink either! There were black schools, black hospitals, black streets, black everything…so blacks n' whites remain totally separate in every sphere, each with their own pre-designated resources.

Even today the quality of education that blacks received in relation to whites is poor, and at times I found it difficult to understand the ir English. But none-the-less, in order to address this complete imbalance, there are now quotas in place so that blacks are given the jobs that were otherwise restricted. Though in some ways this is a disservice to the country, because the person who gets the job might not necessarily be the one most qualified for it, in a generation or so, some rightful balance will emerge. False opportunities must be created right now, in order to off-set the false restrictions that have been in place for so many years.

The white population of South Africa are experiencing a hard time now. For those with their own business things are somewhat stable, and as long as they fulfil their quota of black and coloured employees, things work well. But young white graduates are finding it difficult to find the type of job that they have been qualified for. If you have a young white South African sportsperson, you might find it difficult to get national funding in comparison to your black counterpart. Approximately 60-80 white doctors leave South Africa every month. So you can imagine at the frustration that the whites are currently experiencing and the resulting drain or loss in society.
The coloured community are interesting, because what is life like if you are neither white nor black in South Africa. Answer: Sometimes good and sometimes bad. They sometimes benefit from the quota system and are sometimes hindered. In general, they were treated preferentially to the blacks during apartheid, but less after apartheid. With everything they always lie somewhere in the middle, and naturally they are resenting the blacks now.

With the Indians it is a little different. Most of the Indians are not directly from India , but have lived in Malaysia or Singapore before had and come to South Africa via trade links. Rather than see themselves as a pawn of apartheid, like the other colour groups, they almost see themselves as being outside of the system. That does not mean that they did not fight against apartheid, many did and were highly involved, but they were not affected to the same degree as the coloureds. Education was very important in the community, which was often apart and separate from the black, white and coloured areas. This meant that when it came to jobs they were preferred and so never suffered as much as the coloureds. So they do not seem themselves as coloured, or white, or black…though they are just as segregated as each of the other groups, even today. Do something as simple as going to a shopping mall, and you will experience how everyone still sit, walk, and eat in their own colour groups. This is comfort they tell me. One day soon, for the up and coming generation there will be assimilation, but not quite yet…

The Whites own some of the world's most spectacular real estate, which is a sharp contrast to the townships (shanty sprawls that surround the towns) that have emerged to house the blacks. It is suggested that one does not even try driving into a township for a fear of what might happen, though I think it is for fear of what you might see, so of course I do. The townships are made up of little more than one bedroom pre-fabricated huts. There maybe a kitchen first, which is often acting as a local shop too, selling home brewed beer, snacks, or other food/drink. The main living space, if available, is often quite public, but this is unlike the bedrooms which are a private and creative space. Wallpaper is expensive, so different cuttings of newspapers/ magazines may be used, and everything is used, creatively reworked, or multi functional. Outside, there is also a constant presence of music, and beer shacks flourish. There is very little employment available in the townships, and it definitely feels like they are the communities surrounding every town, that the government has often. Nothing is proper – not the infrastructure such as the streets, not the schools, not even wiring for the public telephone centres. In every case, people have had to be inventive, and create whatever they need. The only public service that is pervasive is the police. If the education, medicine, and social services were as present, because then maybe police would not need to crawl. It is not a pleasant place to be for anyone. There is a very real sense of these communities being forgotten and left to rot, and as a result there is lots of frustration, which I saw unleashed on a vulnerable victim before my own eyes. For example, the violence that I saw between a group of boys, of no more than 15 years old, was more bloody than I have ever seen in real life, and all because one boy looked at the girlfriend of a different boy, in a way that apparently deserved him being knocked out. There was a lot of anger in the air on all sides, even from those that did not even know who the two boys were – got involved. Teenagers hang around in threatening gangs, mothers are struggling with little ones and very basic resources, and fathers – I saw very few. I met the local shamen, who in this case was too drunk to be a guide or aid, but even he was not out of reach of the only thing in common between the town and townships – telecom, coco cola, and beer advertising! Red and Black booths that advertise and sell all three to youths who are happy to get drunk and then are easily drawn into spending silly amounts of money on long distant phone calls, chat-lines and games.

My own experience of assimilation (or rather the lack of it) actually came some minutes before I visited the township. I was on my way with some black friends (I do not normally mention colour, but we are in South Africa – I hope I haven't offended) to visit the township for a story, when I asked for the nearest internet café in order to check my brief. At the time I was driving through the black part of the town (which is where the well employed blacks live, others live on white farmlands, and the remainder in townships), and my friends told me that there was no such service on offer, and that no one would have the internet in their home. This is one example of inequality right there – in the black areas of town, there is no access to one of the most valuable tools of our time – the internet. So my friends suggest that I drive over to the white area, where almost every house has internet, and so there is no need for internet cafes. 'Worry not', says my mate, 'I have a white friend who is the doctor of the local area, and he has been ever so kind to me on numerous occasions, I am sure if we stop by his home, we can briefly use his PC, ' and so off we go.

As we go close to the white area the difference in living is marked. The streets are maintained by the local authority, the local shops sell flowers, foreign brands, and traditional country pottery – there are no such luxuries available on the black side of town. The houses become bigger and bigger, and are protected by high walls, barbed wire, and numerous guard dogs. At the doctors home, which is fortified by a high brick wall which was a good feet higher than my head, I did find a button and speaker which was placed at eye level. I pressed the button and immediately a screen came on which showed me my own image, peering into a very discreet and well placed camera. A ladies voice boomed out of a speaker next to the screen. It was the doctor's wife I was told. 'Hello? Can I help you?' she asked. She could see me clearly, but I could not see her. This screening system was not very mutually interactive;-) 'Hello, yes, I hope so.' I said, in my politest manner, which sometimes can be polite in fact, thanks;-) 'Is Dr Breamar in Please?' She responds with a sharp no. 'Ah, well the reason I ask is because Robert here, who is a good friend of Dr Breamar, tells me that we may have hope of checking something very quickly upon the internet here. We have driven right across town looking for an internet café, with no success.'
'Oh, I see', she replies. 'It would be different if my husband were here, but it is only I and the servants at home, and so it becomes a little difficult'.
'Ah,' (here's me naively thinking that this has nothing to do with big 'ole scary me), 'Only I would come in, if that is your concern.'
'I know that', she says, in a very manner of fact kind of way. 'But you see, our study is right at the back of the house' (this was a huge three story place), 'which means that you would have to walk through the whole house, and I just wouldn't feel comfortable in you doing that'.

Wow. Never before have I been so mistrusted right off. That was a clear sign saying clear off, because the possibility that you might steal something is too great for you to be near me. I couldn't believe the insult and put it down to one very rude and distrusting person, indeed.

My friend felt as bad as I did, and suggested that we go to a neighbouring local business of renting out cottages, and houses, which he knew had internet, and were much used to foreign people. As we drove up to the house, which was only one street along, and stepped out of the car. I knew immediately that this was not going to go well. At least four guard dogs were at my feet – for they had practically squeezed their whole face through the gate. I didn't even want to go as close as pressing the intercom button, and I know that this sounds extreme, but you really had to be there to feel the fear. The lady of the house could tell that someone was near (the point of the dogs I guess), and asked who it was. I again explained that I was from out of town and my predicament. This lady was umpteen times more welcoming than the last, it felt, as she happily opened the gate to allow the guard dogs to come out and attack me, if I hadn't immediately leapt into the car to drive down her driveway.

When I finally reach her place, which is down a winding narrow path along which all the guard dogs are competing to jump up to the car and scratch us through the windscreen window – I find that there is another intercom system at her door. I decide to ignore it, because the dogs were not permitting a lengthy conversation standing outside, and knock on her door. It wasn't worth waiting for her to open the door, so I sat in the car which was parked right in front of the door, until she emerged, else I could have been eaten alive – I promise you!

So when she finally does emerge, it is not even at the door. She only pops her face through the window to check me out! I found out that she was actually worse that the last lady. She had put me through terror, and my one leg was still suffering a spasm because of the reaction to the blood curdling dogs, only to pop her pretty little, fragile head out of her window on the second floor, take one look down at me, and tell me that regrettably the internet was not working at the moment. I looked at her, a little perplexed, and a little confused? So why exactly could she have not said this over the intercom system if this had been the case? 'So sorry', she said as she smiled a little too happily and watched me struggle to reverse back up her narrow winding, so as not to disturb the hoard of doors that had now collected at her doorstep.

Now my friend was almost embarrassed, though he did not have to be, and explained that he did not think that I would get the same treatment as him, being a coloured foreigner. To just be treated like this for one day really knocks o nes' sense of self esteem and belief in the world, promise and mankind. How does he handle this everyday?

The answer is that you did not have a choice. Either you dealt with it and did your best within the given parameters of injustice and inequality, or you were imprisoned. Those who spoke out, and there were many political figures and others who did, including Mr Nelson Mandela, were imprisoned. Whilst we walked across Robben Island, which is where all the most notorious prisoners were kept and asked to move x rock to y location, and then the y rock to the x location, for no reason I was told that even my friend and I would have been arrested. Actually, my friend, being a slightly darker complexion to me would have been arrested for having the audacity to walk around with me. That is how defining colour was in apartheid. Though my friend and I are actually both of the same ethnic origin, we do look quite different, and therefore, during apartheid, no questions asked, we would have been submitted to very different treatments.

So I asked other Indians, who were living in South Africa, under apartheid, whether they had experienced a similar thing to my friend and I. I spoke to a real mix of Asians, who appeared to be very comfortable with their history. One man very generously told me that he was a product of a rape. His grandmother had migrated from India for employment reasons, moved through Malaysia , Singapore, and then across to South Africa. It was here that she experienced a form of slavery, and was treated at her master's disposal. So how was he treated? Like a coloured, but he would act black, because he did not want to be associated with the whites. Other Indians however, would utilise the power of education so that they would be in such high demand to perform in technical jobs, that they could not they could not then be part of the black or white system. But ultimately, the actual shade of your colour determines how you are treated day by day, as soon as you step outside of your own front door. Your experience may not be the same as your brother or sister, depending upon the depth of colour of your brown skin.

Quickly one realises how everything is now in shades of grey in South Africa. Things can not be black and white any longer, because the whole original system has been flipped upside down. So now life in South Africa depends upon your individual experience of the varying degrees of the grey rainbow that still pervades the psyche on the street.